Hazanabad

a tribute to the hero, "Major" Hazan

Hazanabad

 

        The wheel in heaven continued to turn and the time had come for God’s blessed people, Allah’s faithful and obedient community. The summer months had been fruitful gathering up the masses of infidels; executing some, converting a few, and imprisoning the rest. Achmed was a privileged warrior of Islam, having the personal honor to claim for himself ten young girls to be instructed and inducted to his harem, and who took great pleasure in executing many of the evil soldiers of this beautiful conquered land in the holy field of battle. But now the sky was becoming colder and the leaves of the trees were changing for approach of the white of winter.

The evil empire of America had called this place the plains of Nebraska, but the great sheik who’d overthrown the wicked government by bringing the economy to its knees had deemed this place to be named after the Islam’s beloved doctor, “Hazanabad.” The blessed army psychiatrist and his efforts to kill the evil giant from within had become a religious hero for the holy Jihad, seated alongside the heroic cleric that usurped the legal system from far South of the American border long enough for a final attack to become successful. It was a glorious victory over the western infidels that all good Muslims will praise for eternity. For now it was up to Achmed, and other believers of the great will of God, to transform this great land into an obedient, benevolent paradise for all of Allah’s children forever.

Achmed was seated on a Harley Davidson motorcycle that had been confiscated from one of many of the wicked unbelievers from this area, watching the sun rise as his night patrol was finally coming to an end. He’d discovered three separate hiding camps in the dark of night, being able to see the lights from the fires that the few rebellious criminals who defied the iron rule of this new Islamic province. He went through four of the seven clips he carried for his AK47 rifle to kill all the evil infidels, and by the grace of God none had escaped his cleansing of the new society of America, this the up and coming state of ‘Hazanabad.’ He could see in his mind the afternoon sun rotting the corpses of the men, women, and children that had the audacity to reject the new, holy regime of the people of God and of Mecca, and he knew in his heart that every one of their souls were now being tormented in the bowels of hell. But that was not as important as meeting with his relief soldier to give a solid and honorable turnover of the watch over the newly conquered land, praise Allah.

Nasir arrived at the former rest area of I80 ninety miles west of Omaha where Achmed was waiting, riding a motorcycle and proudly brandishing the same model of AK47 that Achmed carried. Both men had served alongside each other during the long, bloody battle that crushed the American dream of unholy freedom and capitalism. They were long time brothers of a sleeper cell that originated in Chicago which was finally ordered to retrieve and explode one of thirteen nuclear bombs, all of which were detonated in the same hour in major cities all across America. During the short months before that great cleansing, Achmed and Nasir had shared the same house, the same covert terrorist team of followers, and the same bed in holy devotion to one another. After the final blow to the unbelievers was blasted and the time came to fight, both men uniformed themselves in black turbans and veils, completing the rampage of death in the name of Allah, Isis, and the late great Osama bin Laden. The stock pile of automatic weapons, grenade launchers, plastic explosives, and landmines were as easily accessed as the nuclear weapons were to conceal.

Both holy warriors of Allah embraced and lovingly kissed after Nasir parked his bike and removed his weapons. As the rising sun warmed the air of the deserted rest stop along the empty US highway, the two men renewed their sexual love and affection for each other in the green grass of the former state of Nebraska. There were many praises to be sent to God in addition to the great victory over the newly liberated land. Nasir had taken three young wives. All three had provided him with strong, healthy sons, despite how unpleasant it had been to tie the twelve, thirteen, and fourteen year old girls hand and feet to their beds in order to impregnate them. Achmed honored Nasir with extra special romantic efforts for going through the unpleasantness of enduring their pleas and weeping, their unholy nakedness, and the very act of copulating the young infidel women. But it had paid off and now there were three more young warriors to subject up to Islam and to the new government of bin Laden, praise Allah. Achmed’s climaxes were almost as pleasurable as Nasir’s nude body in the growing warmth of the glorious new day.

As the sun reached the zenith of noon both men lounged in the afterglow of their manly love, of itinerant pleasure. The details of the new province of Hazanabad and the location of infidel camps were turned over to Nasir over tea and a hookah. Lunch of beef and cheese was shared, and Achmed started his preparations to return to his new villa where his new harem was awaiting him. Majid, his young nephew who was to soon move to Wyoming was watching over the young women for him. Achmed was looking forward to introducing the young man to the homosexual pleasures of man. Plus there was the need to show him the necessities of procreation with women. He was a well versed youth in the holy Koran. Majid was also a valiant warrior of Jihad and he was soon to be rewarded with his own harem as Achmed was for past service, praise Allah.

After a final embrace with Nasir, Achmed climbed onto his Harley Davidson motorcycle and rode away to the south. For his services Achmed had been promised one of the hundreds of camels that were being shipped from Tehran, an immense honor. He had to arrange one of the now empty infidel homes to house the holy creature against the approach of winter. Nasir had bragged once how he’d gone to school with the man referred to as the great puppet, the former president who now lived in chains, in Chicago as a child. Achmed was confident that Majid would also honor Islam by referring to once serving with the great Achmed, whom would one day convert some of the finest mansions in America into the great camel stables of the Islamic world. But that was merely another dream yet to come true.

As the road passed beneath the wheels of the infidel motorcycle, Achmed thought about the building that was once a Catholic church that was now his official residence. Memories flashed through his mind of all the carnage, the death of hundreds of thousands of people by his own hand by either setting the nuclear bomb off in the enormous nest of infidels called Omaha, or the countless men, women, and children that he’d personally gunned down in the name of God. Such holy actions had resulted in a blessed land of love and honor in the holy name of Islam. A tear of nobleness slid down his cheek as the feeling of pride rose in his chest. But Achmed was still a man and he had more disgusting, ugly tasks at hand. There were ten young women that needed to be impregnated to provide Achmed sons to continue the holy Islamic dream of the new land that was once the wicked country called the United States of America. The youngest was nine and the oldest three of the women were twelve. As irritating it was going to be to hear the young women scream and weep, it was Achmed’s holy duty to prepare these infidel women to the life of a Muslim woman; her life of servitude. Ultimately, it was their holy duty as females to bear children, specifically males, to carry on the new regime of Islam. Praise Allah!

 

SR Urie

Reviews

[Sean Allen]

if, 100 years ago, someone had written a story about millions of people being cooked in ovens and regular people rising to their aid with bombs of inconceivable power, we would never have believed it. But four years ago I met one of the real children who lived in that story that became true. She had the same fears that the children in your story must have. A poem called "Black Silk" describes pretty much what she told me.

[Mark]

I have not til today indulged the pleasure of your work, an error I shall set about rectifying! I found this story so astonishly LIKELY, if the US continues on her present trend. When we decided that The Bottom Line was the best indicator of success, rather than that innate warmth you get when you know you have done a good thing, whether or not it earned you any profit, our fate was nigh-sealed; it was on that day that we traded God for Mammon. How America and Americans can have fallen for the bill of goods this Illini sold us is quite beyond me--may we be wiser in the next election than we were in the last!

[Dom Macchiaroli]

I see why you referred me to this. This is a good write S. I think the only thing that could separate us from this scenario is the two billion or so weapons currently in private hands in the US. I don't mean to be glib, but the fact that Americans are armed in great numbers is what separates us from the Europeans. Any power or group coming over here would have to contend with that fact in the end.

Well done my friend!

[deeps]

Wow! This had my attention as well as kept me intrigued,
Quite the write I must say, full of detail and vivid imagery.
I did find it cute in places as well. Very well written.