Mohammad Atta enters the Pearly Gates

He had no idea of how much time had elapsed since he had crashed that plane into the World Trade Center. It might have been minutes; it might have been years. He had been floating in a musk-scented cloud of ecstasy for so long he had become disoriented. From time to time he would shout, “Allahu akbar,” and a renewed surge of elation would sweep over him. Oh, how well he had done Allah’s work! How well!

Then, suddenly, there was a break in the clouds, and, lo and behold, sweeping toward him at a great rate of speed were the pearly gates! “Allahu akbar!” They were so wondrous they took his breath away. Could this be it? Could this be Paradise?

Off to the right, a pestilential wind was howling across a barren landscape. Billowing clouds of black smoke could be seen in the distance. He could hear people screaming. Such despairing and excruciating cries of pain and anguish and terror, he had never heard before. Christians and Jews, he thought. If he had not been such a good Muslim he might have winced.

And then, there he was, standing right in front of the Pearly Gates—the entrance to Paradise. A man in a German Army uniform barred the way. His left eye was missing—shot away, no doubt, in one of the many Germanic wars. His right hand and his right forearm were missing, and all that remained of his left hand was a thumb and two fingers.

Ah, thought Mohammed—Reinhard Heydrich, assassinated by Check guerillas in 1942. But Heydrich was not a Muslim. Perhaps he was being rewarded for killing all those Jews during the War. It would be just like the ever-merciful Allah to make him the Gatekeeper to Paradise.

“I am Mohammed Atta,” announced Mohammed.

“We have been waiting for you,” said the Gatekeeper.

 Mohammed nodded in the direction of the billowing clouds of black smoke. “I had not thought Hell would be so close to Paradise,” he said.

“Yes,” said the Gatekeeper. “Please, follow me.”

“I have no baggage,” said Mohammed.

“You will be provided with all you will ever need.”

Ah, thought Mohammed as he followed behind the former Reichsfuhrer. Allah is good. Allah is great.

He was led into a magnificent courtyard, so full of the most wondrous bubbling fountains and aromatic flower beds that once again his breath was taken away. Almost before he knew it, he was inside a low-ceilinged chamber, seated on a divan so plush he seemed to be floating on air. Rubies and emeralds were everywhere—studding the walls and covering the floor. The smell of saffron and camphor came from everything he touched. He was getting an erection. Ah, yes, he was achieving the permanent state of all true believers! He was really—truly—in Paradise!

“Are you ready for the houris?” asked the Gatekeeper.

“Yes! Yes!” cried Mohammed.

The Gatekeeper clapped his hands and there—appearing instantaneously before Mohammed—was the most ugly, the most wretched, and the most disgusting old hag Mohammed had ever laid eyes on. This time his breath was truly taken away.

“Hi, cutie,” said the hag. “I’m Nightmare Alice.”

Mohammed gasped. He grew flaccid. “What is this?” he croaked. “Some kind of a joke?”

“Would you like to see another?” asked the Gatekeeper.

“Yes! Yes!” cried Mohammed.

Again the Gatekeeper clapped his hands. Nightmare Alice faded into the ether, and Mohammed drew a sigh of relief. Praise be to Allah, that was over! But it wasn’t—it was only the beginning. As he looked up, he saw another hag leering down at him. She was more ugly, more wretched, and more disgusting than the first.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “I’m Lena the Hyena.”

“Take her away! Take her away!” cried Mohammed.

The Gatekeeper tried again and again, but he could not find a houri to suit Mohammed’s taste. There was Gravel Gertie; there was Typhoid Mary; there was Roseanne Barr. By then Mohammed Atta would have settled for Susan Sarandon.

“Perhaps you prefer boys?” suggested the Gatekeeper.

“Yes! Yes! That’s it!” cried Mohammed. And it was. Allah knew best. Mohammed liked boys better than women.

The Gatekeeper clapped his hands. Mohammed sighed. Ah, that was more like it! Two extremely nubile youths had appeared at the far end of the chamber. They were garbed in the most magnificent green silks and brocades. They had their backs to Mohammed and they were dragging a cart loaded with mouth-watering delicacies toward the divan—condiments and pastries unknown to mere mortal man. When they reached Mohammed, he placed a hand on a nubile hip. Yes, he was a man again!

“What would you like, sir?” asked the youth.

“Anything,” said Mohammed. “Anything at all.”

“Oh, we have that,” said the youth.

“And what is your name, pray tell?” asked Mohammed.

The youth turned to face Mohammed Atta. In his hands he was holding the greasiest all-pork hamburger ever grilled at Mel’s Diner. “I’m Beavis,” he snarled through the lips of his horribly scrunched face.

“And I’m Butthead,” said the other youth.

Mohammed Atta was aghast. “What is this? What is this place?” he croaked. “Tell me, Heydrich—where am I?”

“Oh, I’m not Heydrich,” said the Gatekeeper. “I’m Claus von Stauffenberg—the man who tried to kill Hitler.”

“You mean…you mean…”

“Yes, you are not where you think you are…but you are where you deserve to be."

Alas! Alas! Paradise Lost!