Ali Eteraz - Native Believer

“Your basic suburbanite Muslim society,” Ali smiled. “I call them Asymptotes. As close to white as possible, without touching the line.”

The basement was immense, carpeted in thick wool. Hunting guns from VO Vapen sat on shelves, along with ornamental daggers and embossed serving trays. The pool table had platinum leaves on its legs and was made of tulipwood and brushed aluminum, designed by Vincent Facquet. The wealth came from the first-generation parents who sat upstairs somewhere, reading news about the old country, oblivious to what transpired in their basement. The partygoers sat on beanbags or on each other’s laps, watching movies or strumming on guitars. Here and there were bongs and water pipes; groups of dolorous and nodding people kneeling near.

“I never thought that the guy who introduced me to Brother Hatim and Sister Saba would bring me to a place like this,” I said.

“But why? These are Muslims too. Just of a different sort.”

“So you have a foot in each world.”

“I do,” he said. “Because they both need each other. They just don’t know it, preferring instead to hide.”

“What are they hiding from?”

“Same thing that makes you and me hide,” he said. “From being distrusted. From being thought of as the enemy. From having false motives heaped on them. So they try to prove their harmlessness. The fundamentalists think they just need to show how pious and peaceful they are. These guys think they just need to show how naked and cool they are. Sucking cock is the best way to prove to the government you aren’t a radical.”

Ali’s voice increased in volume, became shapely, oratorical in inflection and emphasis. GCM ears perked up.

“It’s sad how we ended up here. Sad. Those towers went down and suddenly everyone started pinning their gripes on a thing called a Muslim. The word became synonymous with devil . With every goddamn evil thing America has fought. I’m surprised they didn’t compare Muslim to imaginary villains. Never mind, they did that too, like when they made the hordes of Mordor look like Muslims, or when that bastard Frank Miller made the pre-Islamic Persians look like Muslims. And the rest of the world fell in line with this new game. If you’re Indian, pissed off about Pakistan complaining about your occupation of Kashmir? Hey, just call them Muslims and get them declared a terrorist state. If you’re Israeli and you don’t want to release an inch of the West Bank to the Palestinians? Hey, just call them Muslims and you don’t have to move your tanks. If you’re Russian, struggling with a bunch of Chechens telling you to stop raping their women? Hey, just call them Muslim and blow them to bits. If you’re Chinese and struggling with a bunch of poor Uighur demanding some respect from the Han? Hey, just call them Muslim and jail all their leaders. If you’re European and you’ve got millions of illiterate Turks and Moroccans and Algerians and Libyans who you didn’t allow to become citizens for decades? Hey, just call them Muslim and declare them Fascist or lazy or criminal or all of the above. And if you’re American and you want to fly around the world and bomb the boogers out of countries that object to you taking their oil and resources? Hey, just call them Muslim and go to town.”

Ali Ansari had a beer in one hand, a joint in the other, and a crowd around him. He put his foot up on a keg.

“But I guess compared to all of those Muslims, we Muslims in America are lucky. They don’t bomb us. Yet. They don’t put us in prisons. Yet. All they want from us is to keep our mouths shut and not object to their name-calling. It’s only an internment of the soul. Our suffering is of a man who is drowning but cannot drown.”

The Gay Commie Muzzies had heard the speech before and they knew exactly how to reply: “Long live the empire! Long may we suck her!” Their slogan became a chant and their chant, accompanied by someone playing a snare drum in a military march, became a song. The drum then went silent and another member took up the guitar, playing the Marche Funèbre by Chopin.

I looked at Ali Ansari. He had moved off to a corner of the basement, near the bathroom. He winked at me with a cloth in his hand and gestured for me to follow him inside. He said he wanted to play a game with me. I trembled and followed. After his speech, I wanted nothing more than to please him.

The bathroom was dark, lit only by a flashing strobe light. The mirror had been scratched up and had black paint thrown over it. The window was boarded shut, though I could hear the screechy scraping of a windblown branch. The toilet had been duct-taped shut and resembled an iron throne. The unused duct tape sat on top of the seat.

The most obvious modification was the bathtub. There was a long, inclined wooden board over it. Ali Ansari grabbed the duct tape and handed it to me. With his mouth near my ear, in a whisper, he instructed me to tie up his wrists. I obeyed him without thinking, making three turns around. Next he had me duct-tape around his chest, pinning his shoulders to his sides. The first time around I was too limp with the tape and he pecked me on the cheek and told me to do it harder, stronger. I accepted his challenge and, with one arm around his torso and arms, wrapped him so hard that he needed to take multiple long breaths to adjust his breathing.

Once he was tied up he walked over to the wooden board and laid upon it. He put his feet on the elevated side. Between deep and steadying breaths he told me what needed to be done and how to do it. I told him I wouldn’t be able to do what he wanted. But he looked at me with pleading eyes. Said he needed it. It was his only drug. When I demurred further he told me that this was a prerequisite to joining the Gay Commie Muzzies. If I wanted to stay I had to perform. I had to serve.

I placed the cloth over his forehead and ears. I took a watering can sitting on the ground, filled it up, drenched the cloth, then lowered it until it covered his nose and mouth. Per his earlier instructions, I applied a little pressure to the cloth so it went into his mouth, and counted to fifteen. During those fifteen seconds I continued pouring water onto his head from the can. Around the tenth second Ansari’s feet started twitching. Around the fifteenth second a grotesque gurgling sound came from his throat and he started maniacally shaking his head and twisting his body, trying to remove the cloth, trying to make the water stop. I was unprepared for the violence of his movement and dropped the can. The cessation of the water allowed Ali Ansari to get his bearings and he wriggled out from under me, sitting upright, gasping, laughing, crying, wheezing, mewling. He opened his eyes big and blinked as if in a daze, then coughed. He pointed to a pair of scissors sitting on the windowsill and had me cut him loose.

When he was free he took a deep and steadying breath and put his head on my stomach, kissing it feverishly, telling me I was welcome, telling me we had shared something special, telling me that I would never again be alone. I held his head against my body. I wanted to fit him inside me, so he could live within me, so he could teach me how to survive a drowning.

* * *

No one had noticed our absence and when we came into the basement, we were quickly swallowed by a group about to start a video game marathon. There was something wrong with the console, however, and Ali had to wade behind the trolley to untangle the cords.

Tot took our separation to sidle up close to me. “Hey, bro, you want to hear about the Divine Cunt?”

“The what?”

“The Divine Cunt,” Ali called out. “Yes, Tot, tell him all about it.”

Tot adjusted his turban. “I want to talk to you about the relationship of the phallus to the vagina. You see, the purpose of the penis is to penetrate and the purpose of the vagina is to receive. Right? This seems straightforward. But what happens when we take this question into the realm of rape, into the realm of consent? My view is that it means that rape isn’t real, rape doesn’t exist. You see, since it’s the vagina’s inherent characteristic to get wet in order to receive the penis, it doesn’t matter whether consent has been established or not. The vagina will get wet even if it is entered in a state of aggression. In fact, it will get wetter the more insistently the cock enters it. Are you following?”