|
|
|
|
 The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 45) It wasn’t King Kong versus Fay Wray, it was Mahmoud, the lumbering ox, versus Bernard Piffy; the Madrassas janitor against the ten-year-old invader of the teenybopper’s harem; the giant in size if not in intellect against the middle-aged brain in Opie Taylor's body but it might as well have been the ape against the damsel in distress. He was three times Piffy’s size and if he was constrained by any moral values other than those of Islam it was not evident. He would have his way with whoever was in the closet and by now his excitement was so great it mattered little whether it was Fatima or Bernard Piffy—or Fay Wray.
 The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 44) It was getting close to daylight when ten-year-old Bernard Piffy, the Ka'b created version of the famous private detective, led the donkey through the gates of the Osama bin Laden Madrassas. It was a fool’s errand. He would have had a better chance of breaking the Hunchback of Notre Dame out of the Bastille, a better chance of sneaking Beetle Bailey out of the Fort Leavenworth Disciplinary Barracks under the eyes of the Marine Corps Band than what he was attempting. Oh, he had a plan, all right. What he needed was more boots on the ground. A tri-fecta wouldn’t do it. He had a donkey, a dog and a Saudi Prince stuffed in a 50-gallon jar of what was supposed to contain cooking oil. And he expected to rescue Aisha—his darling little Aisha—from the clutches of the Islamic monster with this pathetic host. He must have been out of his mind to think his absurd plan would work. And the more he thought about it the more convinced he was it wouldn’t. Who had talked him into this incredible nonsense—George Costanza?
 The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 43) Puppy dog was not what one would call a lovable mutt. No one would mistake him for Old Yeller or Spuds MacKenzie. He had never pulled a baby from a burning log cabin like Rin Tin Tin or Lassie. He never chased simple inanimate objects around a room or a backyard at breakneck speed. In other words, he was not an ordinary dog. There wasn’t much to him—scarcely a handful and most of what there was were teeth. He couldn’t be cuddled; he was vicious, intolerant, sluggish—inert 99 percent of the time—and he had eaten half of Piffy’s shoes but he was still the best dang dog the kid had ever had and he would be damned it he would let some potbellied Saint with his head poking through his hair send the mutt to doggie heaven and it didn’t matter if he had Gabriel’s permission or the Almighty’s blessing.
 The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 42)
"Now look what you went and done!" cried Wheatley. She pulled away from St. Anthony. "You got the mutt going!"
 The Search for Yaser Abdel Said (Part 41) Wheatley W. Wheatley felt proud of herself—another mission had been successfully completed and the kid—an adult in the body of a ten-year-old—was on his way to the Osama bin Laden Madrassas to rescue the femme fatale of his dreams. Once there he would be on his own. They would gobble him up and spit him out but it would be his own fault for embarking on a fool’s errand. She had never heard of a ten-year-old trying anything so ridiculous. But she had done her part and was anxious to get back to her apartment so she could shed that damn burka and feel human again. One of these days she was going to get some fat Imam by the throat, dress him in one of these disgusting shelter halves and parade him up and down Whitehall so the street kids could hoot and holler and throw clods at him. Yeah, that’s what she would do…
|
||||||||
|
