Terrorism is a BAD THING

Oh my God, I'm tired! I've been working so hard to get Criminal record - the novel - ready for publication this Friday; staying up half the night to get it ready! 

And I'm running out of time! But I'm determined to meet the deadline! 

Meanwhile, here's another bit of humour from my novel, Lynch...

It is generally agreed that terrorism is a bad thing.

Ask the average man in the street and he will tell you that terrorists are evil beings who should be hunted down and killed, turbans and all.

In fact pretty much the only people who don’t think terrorists are evil are terrorists themselves. And even then, some of them think they are a little bit evil. Like when they leave the toilet seat up. Or when they eat their masgoof using the wrong fork. Or when they blow up hundreds of innocent people.

Mustafa and Henry were both dedicated terrorists. On application forms they listed their hobbies as committing criminal acts intended or calculated to provoke a state of terror in the general public. Mustafa also put down badminton.

Despite Henry’s anglicised name (long story) he was every bit as dedicated a terrorist as Mustafa was; more so if anything. Growing up in a Muslim country with a name like Henry had been very difficult and he’d had to be twice as evil as the other junior terrorists to compete.

Terrorist school was a difficult place for a boy to grow to manhood. There were far more pressures on the children than there were in, for example, a godless American high school (spit of disgust). Of course there were similarities too, such as the need to carry loaded firearms, but it was mostly different.

Terrorism students not only had to succeed at their coursework (hijacking, gun-stripping, geography and looking suspicious with a rucksack); they also had to meet the difficult expectations of life as a terrorist: growing a beard, degrading women, coming up with reasons why westerners are evil and cultivating sinister-looking eyebrows. 

And suicide-bombing was a very difficult subject to teach. All the really successful bombers were no longer available to mark assignments and check that the exam board criteria were being met.

Mustafa and Henry had nonetheless made it through the system and were now living happily in England, enjoying the weather, planning acts of anarchy, trimming their facial hair and shopping round for the perfect rucksack.

Mustafa was the leader of their particular terrorist cell. He wasn’t as fanatical as Henry but he was a good public speaker and was able to carry on a conversation with an Englishman without slitting his throat and shouting “Death to the infidel!”

As leader of the band, it was his job to hand out the jobs to assistant terrorists. Sometimes this involved something straightforward, like blowing up a train full of children, and sometimes it was something more morally ambiguous like urinating in a politician’s flowerbed. In this particular instance it related to the nuclear destruction of a sizeable portion of the British Isles.

“Today I will be giving you a new mission,” said Mustafa, standing in the middle of his basement.

“Slay the infidels,” said Henry.

“Have you trimmed your beard in preparation?” asked Mustafa.

“For the glory of Allah, yes!”

“Have you cleansed your beard?”

“For the glory of Allah, yes!”

“Have you combed your eyebrows so that they look sinister?”

“For the glory of Allah, yes!”

“Good. Then we will proceed. This is a scale model of a nuclear bomb,” said Mustafa, pointing to the plastic mock-up he had built on the table in the centre of his basement. “We have discovered that this bomb will be transported on a plane tomorrow morning from this very city.”

“If it pleases Allah, I have a question,” said Henry.

“Yes?”

“Why would the infidels want to transport your pretend bomb on their plane?”

“I meant that they will transport a bomb that looks like this one.”

“But not this actual bomb?”

“No.”

“Right.”

Okay then—”

“Are you sure it won’t be this model?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. That’s a shame. I was just thinking it would be easier to steal if it was this model. Because we already have it.”

“Well it’s not,” said Mustafa.

“Okay. Sorry. By Allah.”

“A bomb SIMILAR to this will be transported tomorrow morning and we have discovered the exact time of shipping.”

“By the glory of Allah, is it at seven o’clock?”

“No.”

“In the name of the great one (Allah), is it at eight o’clock?”

“No.”

“For he whose name is so good that—”

“It’s at eleven o’clock!”

“Okay, right. Sorry.”

“Your job will be to steal this bomb Henry,” said Mustafa. “You will go to the airport and you will sneak onto the plane. You will kill the pilot and take his place. You will make sure nobody recognises your beard. You will fly the plane above the city. And you will drop it.”

“I will do my duty as Allah commands it. Will I get killed?”

“Probably yes.”

“Ah good! To serve Allah in death is the only true glory. And I get a thousand virgins in the afterlife to service my every need” (read shag me) “and to ensure my beard and eyebrows are neatly trimmed at all times.”

“The hated infidel westerners think their transportation is secret but with us knowing the exact time of travel we can arrive just at the right moment to strike.”

“By Allah’s deepest wishes, yes!”

“I only hope you don’t get stuck in traffic,” mused Mustafa.

“Curse the evil machines with their burning coals for eyes!”

Mustafa cleared his throat. He did think that sometimes Henry took this whole terrorist thing to a bit of an extreme.

“Before you can do this task,” he said, “I need to ensure you are able to carry out the task without setting off the bomb prematurely.”

“As Allah wishes.”

“Pick up the bomb and carry it to that second table,” said Mustafa, pointing. “But while doing so, you must not press the big red button on the top.”

“As Allah commands,” said Henry.

He picked up the bomb carefully, carried it four steps... then pressed the button.

“Stop!”

“Did you command me, oh voice of Allah?” said Henry.

“Yes. Go back. Do it again. I said DON’T press the button!”

Henry took the bomb back. This time when he carried it across he managed five steps before he pressed the button.

“Stop! That’s pathetic! You did it again,” shouted Mustafa, getting exasperated.

“A thousand apologies,” said Henry. “Shall I try it again?”

“No fuck it,” said Mustafa. “You’ll have to do. You’re the best I’ve got. All the other assistant terrorists pressed the button even quicker.” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you the problem. Everyone wants to get killed. It’s that whole thousand virgins thing. Everyone’s so desperate to get on to their eternal reward.”

“If Allah wishes it, may I ask a question?” said Henry.

“What?”

“Are you not as desperate to get your reward? Why is it you do not volunteer to kill yourself in the bright light of Allah’s nuclear ignited fart?”

Mustafa chuckled. “Well; I watched a documentary on BBC2 about that whole virgin thing and apparently the phrase was mistranslated. The correct meaning of the ancient scripture was that if you die in the service of Allah your reward will be to spend eternity with a thousand vegans.”

“Vegans?”

“Yes. What could be worse than having to spend eternity listening to them whinging on about how immoral it is to use OXO cubes or something while you’re trying to sit back and tuck into a good cheeseburger?”