Jason Elam - Monday Night Jihad

“Yeah, but… again, don’t take this the wrong way-I can point out specific places in the Bible that would blow those idiot radicals out of the water. Seriously, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. But doesn’t the Koran actually support what these terrorists are doing?”

“According to the Islamists, it does. But I would also bet that your ‘idiot radicals’ would claim that they could back their positions with the Bible, too.”

They both picked a piece off the muffin, Riley feeling the uncomfortable squish of soft blueberry compacting itself under his fingernail. Khadi looked like she was trying to formulate a thought, so he quietly chewed.

“However,” she finally said, “if we’re totally being honest here… I will admit that there are some passages in the Koran that I don’t fully understand. Don’t get me wrong,” she quickly added, “it doesn’t make me cast doubts on my beliefs, only on my own comprehension. At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m lying awake at night.”

“Okay, that’s an interesting qualifier.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. Riley, I love my faith. I love my traditions. My family has been Muslim for generations-I love having that history. I just wish… I don’t know. I guess I wish I knew where I stood with Allah. I often have this fear of standing at the great judgment and being one good deed out of balance. You know what I mean? One ‘walking the old lady across the street’ or one ‘giving a homeless person a dollar’ short of tipping the scales in my favor and making it to heaven.”

Riley chuckled lightly. “Believe me, I know exactly what you mean. That’s why I don’t count on anything I do. If it was up to the way I live my life to get me into heaven, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I know the junk that’s in me. I live with my stupidity every day. That’s why instead of depending on what I do, I depend on what Jesus Christ has done. Because He died for me, I know I don’t need to worry anymore about being good enough.”

“It must be nice to really believe that. I wish I could… but once a Muslim, always a Muslim. Islam isn’t only what I believe; it’s who I am… You know, if it’s all right with you, Riley, I’m done with this conversation for now.”

“Fair enough. And thanks-for being honest and all.”

Suddenly a hand reached in again to take Riley’s mug. Riley seized the arm and, without looking up, said, “Skeeter, if you touch my coffee again I will see to it that you are immediately transferred to Secretary Moss’s personal security detail!”

The standoff lasted about ten seconds before Skeeter finally pulled his arm away and moved back to his seat. Riley called after him, “And while we’re on the subject, I’ve finally figured out how to go to the bathroom all by myself too-thank you very much!”

Unfortunately, Riley’s outburst came during a lull in the break room’s conversation. On the positive side, the ensuing round of applause was the largest he had received since the PFL.

“Citizens of America, the last time I spoke to you was following the incident carried out by Allah’s righteous servants in Denver, Colorado. At that time, although I introduced myself to you, I kept my face hidden. That was because my work was not yet done. Today, however, I show you who I truly am, because by the time you are watching this, I will have already gone to join my fellow martyrs.

“My name is Hakeem Qasim. Some of you may be saying, ‘But isn’t that Sal Ricci, the football player?’ I’m sorry to tell you that you are mistaken. There never was a Sal Ricci-only Hakeem. Sal Ricci was a part I played-a part that you, in your all-encompassing desire to be entertained, were all too eager to accept as truth.

“Why did I do it, you ask through your shock and tears? Because your government is in the habit of stealing land. Your presidents steal waqf land-land that belongs to Allah. Don’t you know that once something belongs to Allah it always belongs to Allah? You fly in with your jets, and you roll in with your tanks, and you think that you possess the land. And once you have it, you hold on to it tightly-at least until the price becomes too high. Then you hike up your skirts and run home. You are pitiful!

“Why did I do it? I did it because your presidents like to murder innocent people. They send in their missiles and leave parents without their children and children without their parents! So, you stole one family-my family-and I have stolen thousands of yours! Now, think of all the other children whose parents you have taken, and do the math! I am not alone!

“Now the truth is known-the Cheetah is out of the bag, you might say. Today I stand before you as living proof of what I said in my previous message. Nowhere are you safe. Trust no one. Remember, I was in your homes every Sunday. Even now, my image is on the walls of your children’s bedrooms. My number is on the back of the jersey you are wearing. My signature is on your prize football, in your autograph book, on your favorite hat. You invited a predator into your homes-and now you’ve been bitten!

“So as you lay your heads down on your soft pillows tonight, remember that I am only one man… and there are thousands more like me. My short chapter may be done, but the book is far from being written.”

Hakeem continued staring at the camera until the red light blinked off. The others in the room came forward to congratulate him on his message, but he waved them off and retreated to his bedroom.

He sat on the edge of his bed and held the brass coin that hung around his neck. Where he had expected to feel elation, he felt sorrow. Where he had expected to feel victory, he felt emptiness. And where he had expected to feel pride, he felt shame.

What will she think? What will little Aly think when she’s old enough to see this? Is this truly the price of honor? Is this truly what a benevolent and merciful God would require of me in order to restore my family’s name?

He continued rubbing the coin, but the smell of the metal soon became a stench in his nose. Yanking the chain from his neck, he threw the necklace against the wall.

His head dropped into his hands and he wept. He wept out of anger. He wept out of fear. He wept out of sadness. Most of all, he wept out of helplessness. He knew that no matter how he felt, he would still go through with his grand martyrdom. He had to. From the moment he had been purified, his fate had been sealed. Now he had made the video, and he was dead to the world.

Sunday, February 1

Four Seasons Los Angeles at Beverly Hills

Los Angeles, California

7:15 a.m. PST

Empty. Please let me be empty. But Jesse Emrick wasn’t empty, as evidenced by another internal surge that threw him over the edge of the toilet. He had awakened at 6:15 and had been either lying or kneeling on the beautifully laid tile floor for the past hour. He got himself into a crouch, leaned over the sink, and washed his mouth out, using his hand as a cup. Then he slid back down to the floor, feeling the coolness of the marble slab vanity against his cheek.

Emrick’s room wasn’t the only one reverberating with this sound. All up and down the fourth and fifth floors of the hotel, one could hear players kneeling at their porcelain altars, hurling out their own personal cries of penance, and ending their prayers with a flush of the toilet.

There had been no food poisoning, nor was there a stomach parasite running rampant through the ranks. One thing, and one thing only, was leading to this discordant chorus: nerves.

The incident that had ultimately led to Emrick’s personal bowl-side meditation had occurred just prior to Friday’s practice. Matt Tayse-number-two rusher in the league last season with 1,758 yards, All-Pro for the past four years, bright shining hope for a Liberty victory in the PFL Cup, Mr. Twinkle-Toes himself-had broken his ankle stepping off the bus. It was a fluke accident, a once-in-a-million mistake. It was like a great soldier preparing for the biggest battle of his life accidentally putting a bullet in his calf while cleaning his gun.