I write to you from Heaven, where the most sacred Allah saw fit to send me after my martyrdom. After killing those degenerates in that Florida nightclub, I was confronted by the Infidel police and did as the most sacred Prophet Muhammad commanded: I fell to my knees and begged to the Infidel, “Oh Mr. Infidel – I mean Daddy – please don’t kill me! I will give you a most sacred blow-job!” Then I heard a loud bang and awoke here.
You may be wondering, Infidel, is it true that the shahid receives 72 virgins? It is absolutely true! However, my most holy imam failed to inform me that the virgins are all men. It must have been a mistranslation.
So the first thing that I heard in Paradise was loud disco music, and then muscular men in shorts fell from the sky. One looked at me and squealed, “Hi Omar! We’re your virgins! Now bend him over.”
The virgins proceeded to strap me over a barrel, and six of them thrust their throbbing penises in my anus, mouth, ears and nostrils. They switch off, six at a time, all day long.
One day, they tell me that if I’m a good shahid I may get the opportunity to penetrate the nostril of the most sacred Prophet Muhammad himself, as is also promised in the most sacred Q’u’r’a’n.
I was there, godammit. I saw it all. There are things in this world that will blister a man’s mind. They said that shit like this doesn’t happen in the Beehive State. “They leave that to the freaks in Frisco,” they said. The editors know that I’ve been squeamish since that incident with the trannies on Hollywood Boulevard, but instead of just leveling with me I get the same tired old reassurance that this time it’s just gonna be a standard assignment. It’s my fault. I should know better.
Either way I never go on the job without the Blackhawk and a flask of Old Crow. They’re both for self-defense, you see.
Provo bills itself as a friendly frontier twin, wholesome and family oriented. Recreational activities for the outdoorsman. If nearby Salt Lake City is a bit too cosmopolitan for your tastes, this might be your town. The editors had sent me to cover the annual Provo Street Fair, an event that had only been rumored to exist until an underground flyer made it into the hands of a reporter in Vegas. It was a cheap photocopied affair with what looked like a man in some sort of leather getup wearing a dog mask. The Vegas reporter rightfully had the scoop, but he refused to take the job. Needless to say, they gave it to me.
No one ever sends me to cover the local Little League game.