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EXCLUSIVE: Zawahiri Enters the After-Life
(Satire. Maybe.)
Ayman al-Zawahiri’s last memory was enjoying an early Kabul sunrise during the cool morning of another sunny summer day on the veranda at his “safe house.” He’d grown comfortable with a predictable routine in the tony, upscale Shirpur neighborhood. It was the home of a friend, Al Qaeda ally, and top aide to senior Taliban leader Sirajuddin Haqqani.
Suddenly, while enjoying his early morning tea, something hit, almost without warning. It happened suddenly. He vaguely remembered a second, maybe two, of a whirring sound. He didn’t remember much other than waking up in front of an elevator, with Qasem Soliemani, in full Iranian military regalia, looking over him as he lay prostrate on the rocky floor. Soleimani’s uniform looked freshly laundered and starched as if it were the official uniform of his new locale, wherever that was.
“Arise, my friend, and welcome to ‘paradise,’” he said, with air quotes while rolling his eyes. “The first thing you should know is there are no virgins here. Not one, and certainly not 72. So, manage your expectations.
“But you’ll have several old friends ready to greet you,” Soleimani added without smiling. We have a journey to make. I’m your roommate. You get the bottom bunk. Osama is next door, with al-Baghdadi. But we might switch. Mohammed Atta is on the other side of us, but he has no roommate. Nobody wants to room with Atta. He’s still mad about no virgins.”
“In that?” Zawahiri groggily asked, pointing to the elevator as he stumbled to his feet. “Where am I? Where are we going?”
“To a Very Warm Place,” Soleimani deadpanned. “Very. Warm. Do you understand why you are here?”
“Um, no. I was just enjoying tea on my friend’s veranda in Kabul when . . .”
“I know,” Soleimani sharply interrupted. “A missile hit your veranda. No explosion, but an American missile. Its blades ripped right through you and that veranda. You felt nothing. They might find pieces of your DNA, but no guarantee. The Taliban are covering up your presence there. The rest of your family and the house are safe, but that veranda is gone.”
Soleimani helped Zawahiri to his feet, grasping his right elbow as they walked slowly into the elevator. Zawahiri saw no buttons as the door closed, and they began their descent.
“Why are we doing down?” Zawahiri asked.
“You will receive many answers to all your questions, all in good time,” Soleimani answered. “Meanwhile, we have a long journey. We are near the bottom floor.”
“Bottom floor of what?” Zawahiri asked.
“How do I say this?” Soleimani asked himself, pondering his response. “The most successful among us; bin Laden, al-Baghdadi, you, me, so many of our friends and colleagues. And others who proceeded us, men of many languages and religions, occupy the very bottom. You will recognize them all.
“Trust me,” Soleimani whispered, leaning into the still-groggy Zawahiri. “All your questions will be answered. You should expect to be surprised.”
“Osama is here? With Baghdadi?” Zawahiri asked, wide-eyed.
“Indeed. And you might be switching bunks with Baghdadi. He and Osama quibble too much,” Soleimani deadpanned. “It seems Osama resents Baghdadi’s boasts that it took Trump to take him out, instead of Obama.”
“Wait,” Zawahiri began to come to his senses. “Did Biden take me out?”
Soleimani sighed. “Yes, you’re a Biden trophy, the first. Baghdadi and I are Trump trophies. That gives us a special bond. You and Osama have a different kind of bond. Some might say, embarrassment.”
“I don’t even know what that means!” Zawahiri almost yelled. “Americans killed me! The Great Satan! The only thing worse would be demise at the end of a Zionist missile,” Zawahiri screamed.
Soleimani rolled his eyes again and waved off Zawahiri. “It doesn’t matter. Ah, we have arrived,” he added, turning to the doors as the elevator suddenly stopped and slowly opened. A wave of hot, dry air blew into the elevator. As they exited, the doors closed quickly behind them.
Soleimani walked Zawahiri down a narrow hallway and stopped at a door, reaching for his key. He turned to Zawahiri as he slowly opened the door. “Welcome. This is your new home. It is a nice condo, all things considered. We’ll be here awhile. Our murderous ways have their consequences. You’re lucky to be with me on my floor since your body count is higher than mine. Perhaps it is that ‘austere religious scholar’ thing that Baghdadi keeps bragging about.
“Wait until you meet the guys on the bottom floor. One of them has a real attitude. But he shares our disdain of the Jews, so there’s that. How’s your German, by the way? Never mind, languages are universal here. The other guy speaks Chinese. And we have a couple of Russians here you’ll recognize. See the guy with the big mustache?
“Let’s get you settled. Then I’ll show you around and introduce you to a few guys. Wait until you see the reserved rooms of a few people who should be arriving shortly.”
And thus began Zawahiri’s new life. Stay tuned for future adventures.
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Babylon Bee quality Kelly.
It doesn’t seem particularly hellish so far, but I suspect “the truth” wouldn’t be allowed on Ricochet.
Also there’s more editing needed.
Chapter 2: The After-Life Enters Zawahiri.
But it is a dry heat…
Dang.
Oh no, better than that!
Highly creative! A pleasure and a diversion to read.
Oh, I laughed!
RX9. Otherwise known as “the flying Ginsu.”
A target from 2017: