People would be dying to know how I pulled it off. I could even get a book or movie deal. I would probably have to leave out the part about dressing up as a woman and fucking a few men. I could come up with a believable cover story later.
For now, I would have to think of an escape route. My photos were no good if I was trapped in the palace. There was no way to upload them to my email account either. Communications were strictly monitored by the palace guards.
Worse, I needed to get out of the city and into a neutral zone. It was crawling with Bashar’s men who were on high alert for intruders. Likewise, the conflict with rebels outside the city was spilling in. Day by day, the distant sound of gunfire was getting louder and louder. I just need to wait for an opportunity to show up.
I didn’t have to wait for very long.
Chapter 5
BOOM!
A loud explosion jolted me out of my brainstorming. The ceiling collapsed and missed landing on me by mere inches. Bashar, however, wasn’t as lucky. I saw blood trickle down from his bed. The warlord was dead.
Gunshots mingled with the sound of distant screams. Bashar’s guards were running across the halls like headless chickens. They didn’t have any better idea of what the hell was going on
However, I knew this was the perfect time to escape. As the battle raged on outside the palace, I sneaked through it. Ditching my veil and robes, I grabbed a blanket and used it for cover. My disguise as Farah had worked well so far but it could land me in trouble in the middle of a firefight.
The sound of men dying in the distance echoed through my head. Gunfire and screams pierced the air. I didn’t know the rest of the harem very well but I hoped they made it out of here okay.
Through a window, I managed to identify who was attacking the palace. A stream of men with swords and rifles entered. From their clothes and weapons, I knew they were a splinter Syrian rebel faction. They wanted to depose Bashar for his tyrannical rule. They must have taken advantage of the dust storm to infiltrate Bashar’s city.
When I went outside, I only saw death and destruction. When my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw that Bashar’s men had been executed. It was a ghastly sight but I needed to find a way to get out of here. Only death and ruin remained at the palace.
For better or for worse, the rebels found me first. Cornered with guns pointing at me, I went on my knees. The men yelled at me in Arabic. They also yelled at each other about what to do with me.
I prayed the men wouldn’t think I was working with Bashar. I held up my arms and said. “I’m American!”
That’s when a man in red robes descended from the stairs. He seemed to be some sort of rebel leader. These rebel soldiers served at his command. He spoke out in English. “Halt!”
“I’m American!” I repeated, still holding my arms up. After having left the harem and my disguise, I felt more vulnerable than ever before. “I was a prisoner of Bashar!”
The red-robed man came up to me and wiped my cheek. Embarrassingly enough, I still had a little bit of makeup on my face. “American?”
As luck would have it, this Syrian faction happened to be backed by good old Uncle Sam. Any enemy of Bashar was a friend of theirs. After the dust settled, they got me out of the city.
It was a hard march through the desert and into safety. After surveying the wreckage and talking to the rebels, I was able to piece together what had happened. Bashar had grown lax over the past few weeks and spent more time with his harem than with his lieutenants. This meant that his men were disorganized and vulnerable to attack. Indeed, the rebels took advantage of the dust storm to attack the city and seize the palace. It was a funny to think that someone like me had helped distract Bashar and brought upon his downfall.
However, the rebel leader was sad that they couldn’t find Bashar’s body in his wrecked palace. They wanted to make some effigy out of his corpse. That’s when I remembered that I had taken Bashar’s photo when he was reeling from the mind-blowing fuck I had given him. These photos were even more valuable now that the warlord was dead.
Furthermore, the rebels were kind enough to get me in contact with the United Nations and my newspaper. To my shock, my boss and coworkers had believed I was dead. After the United Nations camp had been evacuated, I had been nowhere to be found. Most of them thought I had been killed and buried in an unmarked grave by Bashar’s men.
A few days later, I came back to a hero’s welcome in America. Both the newspaper I worked for and other media outlets, gathered at the airport I arrived in. A press conference immediately followed. Everyone wanted to speak to me at once about my miraculous journey.
I wasn’t eager to tell them I had dressed up as a woman and infiltrated a warlord’s fortress by having sex with men. Instead, I told them that I had been detained by Bashar’s men when they saw me taking photos. They believed I was a spy and kept me locked up in the city. During the attack, I managed to escape and take a few photos of Bashar when he was unconscious. It seemed believable enough if less exciting than fucking my way into a harem! Nonetheless, people cheered my return.
Better yet, I had the only photos of Bashar in the world. My camera was worth its weight in gold. No one had been able to recover the warlord’s body after the attack. I knew my boss would give me a promotion or huge payout to have exclusive rights to those photos.
When my boss asked why it looked like Bashar looked like he had just had the time of his life in my photos, I told him that he had just finished smoking opium! With news of his death, the bounty for the tyrant’s photo had more than doubled. I guessed being a warlord was a lot like being an artist. You were worth more dead rather than alive.
My friend Steve was there as well. He gave this grandiose and pompous speech about how much of a hero I was. Steve said I represented the finest example of photojournalism. He extolled how my valiant efforts had given a face to a mad dictator. It was a load of bull but the man knew how to polish it. I knew my friend wanted a taste of fame as well but I didn’t mind.
My boss was also there. He joined in with Steve and made a serious of hyperbolic statements about me and the paper I worked for. The man was enjoying the attention more than I was.
Before the event was over, I must have shaken several hundred hands. I made a few ‘thank you’ comments and answered a few questions with the press. My boss would probably want a big exclusive interview about my experience. He wasn’t the only one interested in my story. Some publishing houses wanted to write a book about my time as Bashar’s prisoner. A few big shot producers from Hollywood gave me a few business cards as well.
When we managed to break free from the media frenzy, Steve asked. “What the hell happened there exactly, Frank?”
I chuckled. “It’s a long story, Steve.”
That’s when I realized I didn’t want to be Frank the photojournalist any longer. I may not have been in Syria anymore but I still wanted to be Farah the woman. It wasn’t as if my career could go any higher than what it was now. My place in the journalism industry had been made.
With the money, I decided to go into early retirement. The royalties from my sale of Bashar’s photos and my book deals meant I wouldn’t have to work ever again. I had more than enough money to buy a place nearly as nice as Bashar’s palace.
More importantly, I bought plenty of veils and dresses to stock up my new home!
Chapter 1
“Ms. McKay, I need to pass!” I pleaded. “I won’t just get kicked off the team. I’ll lose everything!”
I knew what she would say before she even said it. “You earn what you reap, Tommy.”
I buried my head in my hands before looking down at my grade. A D grade was the death knell for my academic experience in college. Sure, a borderline C- wasn’t something to be proud of. No one came to college to scrap by. However, I didn’t come here to college to study.
I came here to play gridiron football.
I was so close to landing a spot in a top NFL team. I was the best quar
terback at my college. Hell, I was the best damn quarterback in the entire conference. My arm was a cannon that could nail the trickiest pass. I was fast as any good sprinter. I could weave in between the most stalwart defense.
The NFL had certainly taken notice of me. Plenty of teams had come to my college to scout me out. Some of them even guaranteed me minutes. One of the teams offered me a starting position since their previous quarterback was injured. I knew I would have my pick when the teams came.
All I needed was to maintain a passing grade so I could stay on my college’s football team.
Which was easier said than with my class schedule. It wasn’t like I packed my semesters with difficult classes. In fact, it was the complete opposite. Like other student athletes, I picked easy classes I could coast through with my eyes closed.
I just needed to maintain a C- average to continue playing for the team. If I fell behind, then I would be placed on academic probation. If it continued, then I could lose my sports scholarship. My NFL dreams would go up in smoke!
Most of my classes went well enough. I could achieve a passing grade with minimal effort. I even got an A+ from an athletics elective class. However, I needed to attend a science class to pass. It part of the requirement for my sports scholarship.
After talking to my friends, I was pointed towards a behavioral science class headed by a young woman named Molly McKay. I kept hearing from my friends that she was a complete hottie. I liked having some eye-candy to stare at while I zoned out in class.
While I was told that Ms. McKay was strict, I wasn’t prepared for how demanding the class ended up being. We had homework every day. Pop quizzes happened once a week. This behavioral science class was more difficult than the rest of my other classes combined.
Ms. McKay ran her class with an iron fist. Anyone who tried to joke or act out would cower under her gaze. She was even stricter than my football coach. Believe me, that said a lot.
I thought about dropping out but I was well past the deadline. I settled for a pass or fail grade. Unfortunately, my grades would land me on the fail side of the coin. Most of the class had been smart enough to jump ship in the first two weeks. The only people left were guys like me who needed the elective to pass.
Something about Ms. McKay sent a shiver down my spine. Sure, she was pretty cute between her office outfits and glasses. However, that short skirt distracted you from her steely gaze. People would freeze up before her as if she were a Medusa from Greek mythology.
While my teammates said that Ms. McKay was a total babe, I wasn’t too certain. Sure, the woman was probably the most beautiful in the entire faculty. She also happened to be single. However, her strictness reminded me of a drill instructor. I guessed that was appealing to some men.
When my grades started slipping, I tried to get on the good side of the woman. Being the star athlete of the college had its perks. Most girls tended to fawn over you. However, Ms. McKay didn’t fall for my boyish charms. To her, I was just another jock trying to sweet talk his way out of a failing grade.
The shoe fell when I got an F on the last pop quiz. Practically ever answer I had given was wrong. Up until now, I was barely pulling a C- for the class. With this latest failure, I was lucky to have a D grade. I wasn’t going to flunk the class. I was also going to lose my college scholarship and my ticket to the NFL!
With most of the class having already left, I could wallow alone in self-pity. For the first time since I met her, Ms. McKay seemed to have pity in her eyes. She got up and sat next to me in an empty chair.
“I know this pop quiz didn’t go as well as you would have liked, Tommy,” she said, sounding all business like. “But you need to study for the final.”
“I’ll have to ace it if I want to pass the class!” I exclaimed. I may have not been some Einstein but I knew the math I needed to achieve a passing grade. Due to my poor performance on the pop quizzes, I would have to be perfect on Ms. McKay’s notorious finals. The smartest guy in class couldn’t pull it off. At least that guy didn’t have to worry about a failing the class. “There’s no way I can do that!”
She folded her arms. “Then buckle down and study, Tommy.”
The woman didn’t have the slightest bit of sympathy for me. Nonetheless, I knew I had to try to get her to cut me some slack. “Please Ms. McKay, isn’t there something I can do to boost up my grade?”
She chuckled. “Your coach might like seeing trophies in his cabinet but I care more about your grades. Focus on the student part of being a student athlete. Remember, you’re here to learn, not throw footballs.”
The team was dead without me. Our second string quarterback was out on an injury and our third string couldn’t pass the ball if his life depended on it. If my arm was a cannon, then his arm was a squirt gun. I had led the team to one of the best seasons in its history.
“This isn’t just about my NFL career!” I protested. “I could lose my sports scholarship if I don’t pass. Isn’t there something I could do to lift my grades? Like an extra credit project or report?”
There was no way the coach would let me play while I was on academic probation. The faculty was strict about students getting by with poor grades. Worse, I could get kicked out of college if I had two back-to-back failing semesters. No one would sign me on if I didn’t have college experience under my belt.
“It wouldn’t be fair to the other students, Tommy,” she sighed. “Everyone gets the same quizzes and tests.”
I groaned and rubbed my forehead. “Isn’t there anything?”
Suddenly, Ms. McKay became contemplative. I was expecting her to immediately shut me down. It wasn’t the first time I had asked for her to cut me some slack and got a stern look in return. Instead, the professor looked to be in deep thought.
In a way, she and I had a special relationship. Most of the class had either dropped out or did well enough to stay in. Ms. McKay didn’t work with them very much. On the other hand, she was more involved with my performance.
Or lack thereof.
She told I needed to apply myself. This was a mental hurdle I needed to get over. If I could read a play on the field, then I could pass a quiz in her class. The woman even applied some of the behavioral science we studied in class to my lack of success.
I’d like to think Ms. McKay had a soft spot for me. I wasn’t crazy to think she was attracted to me or anything. The professor just didn’t want to see me fail. I may not have been a model student but I did attend class on time. I wasn’t a troublemaker either.
“I might have something,” Ms. McKay said finally. My eyes brightened up at her words. “No promises, though. For now, study for the final, Tommy.”
I beamed a smile at her. “I’ll do my best, Ms. McKay!”
She nearly smiled back at me. “See that you do. The final is the most comprehensive test of the year, Tommy. It won’t be easy.”
“I’ll hit the books,” I said, walking out of class. There was a spring to my step. I even planned on studying harder for the finals. I needed to pass this class and get my life on track. “Let me know if anything comes up!”
Chapter 2
During the next class, I was anxious to hear if she had any news for me. I had heard from other students that Ms. McKay did a few research papers for the behavioral sciences. Various grants and foundations were interested in her work.
Typically, she had graduate students help her out with the research. Sometimes, the workload was too much and she asked undergraduate students to help her out. If she was looking to this class for fresh recruits, I probably wasn’t in the running. I wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer when it came to the sciences. Besides, I didn’t major in it.
I wondered what kind of work she had planned for me. It could be a report or project. However, I didn’t want to badger her about. These things took time and she was busy with teaching the rest of the class.
Thankfully, Ms. McKay came to me first. After dismissing class, she came to my desk and
asked. “Do you have a minute, Tommy?”
I stood up straight and said. “I always have time for you, Ms. McKay.”
Ever since last class, I was on my best behavior. I wasn’t a troublemaker to begin with but I want to stay in her good graces. The woman could end my NFL dreams with a single stroke of the grading pen.
After checking that we were alone, Ms. McKay continued. “I think there is an opportunity for you to improve your grade. It’ll bring you up enough that you only need a passing grade on the finals to pass the entire class.”
My eyes opened wide in disbelief as I pumped my fist. “Yes! I don’t know how to thank you!”
She lifted up a hand. “Calm down. I didn’t say this was going to be easy. You’re going to have to do a good job if you want that extra credit.”
With a smile still on my face, I nodded. “Of course. What’s it about, anyway?”
The Trans Ultra Collection Vol 2 Page 15
