“Oh, Tariq’ll turn you into a prom queen, if we let him.”
—Raza Jabarti
When McMahon came to, he was again belly-down on his rack. Glancing around the room, he saw a chain saw resting on a wooden chair over in the corner.
A wave of horror swept through him.
God no, not a chain saw!
Looking over his shoulder, he saw Raza was still in the short red dress and rowelled riding boots. She was rubbing some kind of medicated ointment on his butt, which he could now see. He was sorry he could. To his eternal horror, it was a dense labyrinth of crimson welts. Every square inch of his body hurt hideously, especially his rear end, but the cooling balm felt like heaven.
He almost sobbed with relief.
And tried not to look at the chain saw.
“Feel better?” Raza asked, sounding strangely sympathetic. “Marika really let you have it, didn’t she? Was she retaliating for something you did to her in New York? What went on in that hotel room anyway? You didn’t take advantage of my friend, did you?”
“Never.”
“What did you two do then?”
“We blessed the Prophet, read his holy Koran and prayed for world peace.”
“You did not corrupt her pristine innocence, did you?” Raza asked, smiling.
“Not unless counting prayer beads and repeating Allah’s ninety-nine names over and over again constitutes corruption.”
“I’ll bet that’s all you did,” Raza said, clearly dubious but still smiling, still amused. She then returned to rubbing the soothing ointment into his tortured backside. “There, does that feel better, Mr. Danny ‘Allah Has Ninety-Nine Names’ McMahon?”
“I think I’m in love,” McMahon said in a half whisper.
“You may be feeling many things,” Raza said, “but love isn’t one of them.”
“A man stretched on a rack will say anything to get in our good graces,” Marika said, entering the room.
“If not love, what do you think he’s feeling?” Raza asked.
“Sadoerotic possession,” Marika said.
“Agreed,” Raza said. “Why should we believe anything you say, Mr. McMahon?”
“Because my word is backed by my full faith and credit,” McMahon explained, nodding sincerely.
“Marika, I think Mr. McMahon was making a joke,” Raza said. “Do you think Mr. McMahon is poking fun at us?”
“Yes,” Marika said, “and guess what? We have a few jokes too. Let’s see how he likes our brand of humor.”
The chain saw was sitting on a straight-back corner chair. Marika picked it up, pulled the cord, and it came to life, wailing like a scalded cat. Marika then took the chain saw to the wooden chair, cutting it up into dozens of detonating fragments. She walked up to McMahon and stuck the screaming blade between McMahon’s legs, less than a foot from his crotch, edging it closer, closer, her eyes locked on McMahon’s the whole time, utterly oblivious to the screeching, yowling blade now barely a quarter inch from his genitals.
“Why are you doing this?” McMahon shouted, hysterical with terror.
“Because you’re a narcissistic bastard,” Raza explained, “who hates everything he doesn’t understand, who’s utterly ignorant of our world.”
“Who’s out of touch with life,” Marika said.
“And who can’t accept the natural order of things,” Raza threw in.
“So we’re here to teach you a lesson, to shake you up, to wake you up,” Marika said, “and to show you the way things are.”
McMahon’s eyes had rolled back into his head until only the whites showed. He was mouthing mute prayers.
“But you won’t listen,” Raza said. “Instead you attack us and defame our faith, our culture, even though you know nothing about us.”
“Do you know anything about our world?” Marika asked. “Do you have any idea what it means to be an Arab … man?”
Joke with them, Rashid had said. Try to make them laugh … Don’t show fear.
“I heard it has something to do with schtupping goats?” McMahon asked in a trembling voice.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” Raza asked.
“Actually, yes.”
However, when he met her gaze, Raza wasn’t laughing. She was glaring at him, her eyes empty and expressionless, the unnerving stare of a malevolent Mona Lisa.
McMahon instinctively looked away. Unfortunately, he was looking at Tariq, who stood in the corner by the worktable. He had taken a break from torturing Rashid to spend some time in McMahon’s torture chamber. Once again Tariq was sharpening his scalpel.
Marika was standing near him, so McMahon asked her in a low voice:
“What’s Tariq’s problem?” McMahon asked.
“Tariq suffers from a psychopathic-paranoid-schizoid personality disorder,” Marika half whispered back, “compounded by visual and auditory hallucinations, aggravated by a severe necrophilic-castration complex.”
“Can you give it to me without the scientific jargon?” McMahon asked.
“He’s stone-fucking-crazy-violent-nuts,” Marika said.
“He also hates me,” McMahon said, nodding glumly.
“Oh, Tariq’ll turn you into a prom queen, if we let him,” Raza said.
“Suppose I did convert to Islam,” McMahon said, starting to panic. “Sincerely, with all my heart?”
“Do you know anything about our faith?” Marika asked, astonished. “Do you have any idea what makes one a good Muslim?”
Try to make them laugh, Rashid had told him the night before. Raza said she has your DVDs and thinks you’re funny.
“Eating fifty falafels?” McMahon asked.
“I say we turn him over to Tariq,” Marika said, “so his genes won’t be passed on to future generations.”
“Outstanding,” Raza said.
“Why are you doing this?” McMahon asked, his voice rising despite Rashid’s admonitions not to show fear or panic. “Why do you hate me? Why do you hate Americans so much?”
“Where do we start?” Raza said, suddenly serious.