ne of the nastier Consulate duties. Yesterday I arrived in Fackalik,
a remote island in the archipelago, to collect the body of a
British citizen recently killed by a mob. Attacked for no apparent
reason. One minute he was walking through the square, perhaps
looking for a hotel, then he was crushed under a rain of sticks
and stones. Most odd. Although strictly Muslim, the region had
been quiet, relations with the foreign community were very good.
The corpse was unrecognizable, the only human reminders being
the empty rucksack, torn Levis, a shredded bloodstained shirt.
The logo still visible PRESIDENT BUSH IS A PRICK. Then I understood.
Most unfortunate, I whispered to Ali Pornfateer, the chief of
police, an old friend, A strange death. He nodded, Terrible,
terrible. How could the young man have known, I added, Unless
he knew the dialect? Indeed, agreed Ali, passing me a glass of
mint tea, The will of God. I lit a clove cigarette, inhaling
deeply, contemplating the parents. The address in Surrey. A quiet
couple, believe in God no doubt, the father near retirement.
I’m sorry to inform you.
In the sauna heat, I wait as they load the body into the jeep.
Smoking a cigarette, I stare at the Grand Mosque, the beautiful
calligraphy giving praise to God Almighty. The porters wave farewell
with the ritual chant, Prick yet mung. God is everywhere. Prick
yet mung, I reply, Prick yet fazeer, God is Great.
[END]
© 2004 Andrew McIntyre - Contributor's
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