by Tom Wheeler
“What do you want?” asked the rough man behind the counter, smelling of cigarettes.
“Not sure. Never tried the stuff. What do you recommend for a beginner?” asked Pierre as Dhilan turned his head toward two good ol’ boys leaning on the counter, looking sideways at the two men. Something told him this was a bad idea, not that he always listened to that small inner voice. Pierre looked over, too. One of their observers was an unshaven string bean with shoulder-length greasy black hair; the other, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, had short blond hair, hairy arms, and a block head that looked like he was a soldier who had been court-martialed.
“Never mind. Maybe we’ll come back later,” Dhilan interrupted. “Let’s go, Pierre,” he said, grabbing his arm.
“I was talking to the man! What’s the rush?” asked his friend as he continued looking around the store at the various stations.
“Come on,” said Dhilan. He had learned long ago that the best way to avoid trouble was to avoid even a hint it might be coming. He began walking somewhat anxiously out the same door they had entered. The bells indicated they had departed.
“What’s the matter?” asked Pierre as Dhilan continued to pull his arm.
“Did you see those two guys staring at us?” he asked as he looked at the various signs indicating the types of stores that were around them.
“Yeah, they just got dropped on their heads as babies,” said Pierre, chuckling. Dhilan let out a short laugh.
“Well, now they are old, brain dead, and likely packing. Better safe than sorry, as you said. Let’s just get something to eat,” said Dhilan, moving at a faster-than-normal pace away from the Circus store. “Oh look, the Golden Arches!” he said, spotting the recognizable sign down Sunset Boulevard.
“I thought you were on a diet.”
“I’ll get a salad.”
“Mm-hm,” said Pierre, patting him on the shoulder. “I figured that,” he added as they walked toward the restaurant.
“After you, my friend,” Dhilan said, holding the door for Pierre.
“Age before beauty,” said Pierre as Dhilan shook his head and entered. The two men approached the counter, their eyes fixed on the sign that listed all the delicious food offered.
72
McDonald’s - Our Kind of Place
“One insipid salad and a bottle of water?” Dilan ordered.
“Insipid?” the employee asked, frowning. Pierre leaned on the counter.
“A Big Mac,” Dhilan said, revising his order as Pierre chuckled.
“Told ya,” Pierre said. Dhilan pursed his lips.
“Yeah, well, I need some comfort food to take my mind off those blockheads. Besides, my choice is a lot safer than the choice you were going to make.”
“Meal or just the sandwich?” asked the attendant, whose physique indicated she too was a fast-food junkie.
“The meal. Why not?” he said. “I’ll start my diet tomorrow.” The large woman chuckled with Pierre as Dhilan scanned his iPhone.
“You know, we have plant-based hamburgers,” she said, looking at Dhilan.
“Not today, thanks,” he replied, smiling. “So, when are your chip scanners coming?” he asked as he put his phone in his back pocket.
“Installing them as we speak. Colorado is getting them first,” she answered. And you, sir, a salad?” she asked.
“Same as him,” said Pierre, smiling as he put his debit card into the device. “Old-fashioned, what can I say,” he said, smiling.
The attendant smiled back, handing them cups as they headed for the self-service beverage area.
“Seriously? Diet Coke?” Pierre mocked while filling his cup with regular Coke. Dhilan raised his eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead, as if he’d had enough of the jokes.
“Diet Coke messes with your metabolism; besides the fact it has chemicals that can kill you,” said Pierre.
Dhilan ignored the comment, added a lid and straw, and took a giant sip, then moaned in approval.
“136!” yelled the lady, dropping a tray onto the counter.
“That’s us,” said Dhilan, checking his number as he walked over, claiming the tray and leaving his receipt. Instinctively he grabbed a couple of the fries and stuffed them into his mouth as he carried the brown tray with their meal to one of the many small tables by the windows.
“Oh my God, these are so-o-o good,” Dhilan said as he pushed aside the newspaper sitting on the table, set down the tray, and snarfed a few more fries. They both sat down and began unwrapping their Big Macs. Dhilan’s salivary glands were now craving the huge burger as he grabbed it with both hands, took a giant bite, shoved more fries into his mouth, and moaned with satisfaction. Then he set down the burger, picked up the newspaper, and glanced through the headlines, chomping on the heavenly food.
“What can I say? I had a Big Mac attack,” Dhilan said with food still in his mouth as both of them were smiling.
“Anything good in the news?” asked Pierre, taking a giant sip from his drink as Dhilan had another bite of his sandwich.
“You tell me,” said Dhilan. He took a sip from his drink, then began reading out loud.
“Spinach Leaf Transformed into Heart Tissue Giving Life to Dying Patient.”
“Huh, interesting, but no. Next,” said Pierre before going in for another bite of his sandwich.
“United Nations Nearing Bankruptcy—Marína Crumpler to the Rescue.”
“Interesting,” said Pierre. “I wonder what she is up to?”
“You mean the woman who knows too much?” Dhilan said, smiling. “Maybe she just wants to help,” he added as Pierre flashed an odd look.
“US Debt Interest to Exceed Military Budget by 2025.”
“Please. Nobody cares anymore,” was Pierre’s reaction.
“Until the US dollar isn’t the reserve currency of the world,” said Dhilan. “And we’re broke. Then both Democrats and Republicans will realize the juice they drank from both of their parties was spiked.”
“Politicians have sold their souls to their parties—that’s indisputable since Crumpler. Next,” said Pierre, chomping on some fries and taking a swig of his Coke.
“New Pill Stimulates Creativity, Says Frontal Lobe Neurologist Dr. Steve Mescher.”
“Playing with the mind again. Don’t you work with Mescher? Area 51 or some other alien nation?”
“Funny,” said Dhilan, unable to talk about Mescher—at least not until their meeting.
“Right, you could tell me, but then you’d have to kill me,” Pierre replied, smiling. “Okay, next.”
“US ‘Muslim’ Congresswoman Calls for Sharia Law, Christians Outraged.”
“That one,” demanded Pierre. “Read that one. She’s always in the news.”
Dhilan picked up his sandwich and chomped another giant bite. “Ah yes, Squad 4.”
73
The Article - Sharia Law
Dhilan folded the newspaper in half, stuffed more fries in his mouth, and washed them down with his Diet Coke. Then he began reading.
For the first time since the election of three Muslims to Congress, the issue of Sharia Law has been broached. I met up with the first elected female Muslim, Rashida Ellison, at her office in the Capitol Building in Washington, conveniently located beside that of the newly elected Congresswoman Alexandra Martinez from New York’s 14th Congressional District, and just a few doors from the office of House Speaker Nancy D’Alesandro. I asked Rep. Ellison what she meant by her comments and how she thought her comments might be received.
Dhilan paused, moving the paper away from his face to peer across the table at Pierre. “You want me to read the entire column?”
“Yes!” answered Pierre, nodding as he drew a swig of his Coke.
“If you mean do I think Sharia law is appropriate for the United States of America, my answer is yes,
given our progressive agenda,” said Rep. Ellison, a Sunni Muslim, who holds a seat in Minnesota’s 5th Congressional District.
“Muslims want the same peace and prosperity as all people, the same chance to pursue life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness just as our Constitution says—the one I am called to defend. I believe Sharia law is the best doctrine for the United States to achieve that end,” she continued.
I asked her what she would say to those who say America is a “Christian nation.”
“First of all, the United States is not and never has been a Christian nation. Ask the average Donna or Jack on the streets, and he or she will tell you that America was as diverse when it was founded as it is today.”
“She’s right, you know?” said Pierre, interrupting. Dhilan looked over the edge of the paper at him.
“Are you the average Donna she was referring to?” Dhilan asked, smiling.
“Don’t be daft. People need to know the truth; go on.”
“Besides, from my interaction with the people of Minnesota, most are sick of the hypocrisy of those who claim to represent the religious right but whose actions remind them of the Pharisees of Emmanuel’s day. The people the prophet had his fingers pointed at and who he called ‘whitewashed tombs.’ ”
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Pierre, breaking in again. Dhilan put the paper down to take the last bite of his burger.
“Let me have that,” said Pierre, grabbing the paper and reading out loud.
“What about those who just don’t like Muslims?” I asked.
“Islamophobia comes with the territory,” Rep. Ellison said. “But that is just as discriminatory as the issue of black versus white. It is incomprehensible and should have no place in America. Everyone should be appalled that demented people are now targeting churches and mosques for their melee. But hate is hate, judgment is judgment. Emmanuel washed the feet of the disciples; my faith is about being a servant, like Emmanuel. It isn’t the austere form found by some radicals that make a mockery out of our faith and the Qur’an. It is simply a set of boundaries needed to keep people in some kind of order so we don’t go off the rails.”
“I told you, Dhilan! Loving Allah is the same in Islam as it is in Christianity.”
“Tell that to my family.”
“No, thanks,” said Pierre, setting down the paper.
“Or even Mason?”
“What would Mason say?” asked Pierre.
“He would say it misses the point, since the Grand Book is all about Emmanuel. Every human being, regardless of religion, race, or home planet,” he said, smiling at his reference to aliens, “needs to answer one question.”
“Which is?”
“Who do you say that Emmanuel was and is?”
“That’s it?” asked Pierre with a quizzical look.
“According to Mason, the answer to that question is what separates every religion from Christianity and every person from one another. He says the rest is static or rhetoric.”
“How so?” asked Pierre.
“How so, what?”
“How can Emmanuel be the difference?”
“He says if you don’t believe He is the Almighty One, equal to Allah, and died to take on the sins of the world, then that causes the separation between us and God,” said Dhilan as he stood up. “It means there has been no reconciliation or redemption for a person’s sins. So Allah, the Almighty One, judges that person, and since He is perfect . . .”
“So, all Muslims are going to hell?” interrupted Pierre as he crumpled his trash into a ball and threw it on the tray.
“According to Mason, Emmanuel paid the price for our sins. So, yes, if we don’t believe in Allah’s sacrifice for our sins, we get judged by a perfect God; although Mason has never said anything about me going to hell,” Dhilan answered, disposing of his trash and putting his tray on top of the cabinet as Pierre followed.
“That is ridiculous. I don’t see how he can believe that. Christians . . . ,” he said, shaking his head in disagreement.
Dhilan chuckled. “Muslims believe Christians are going to hell because they don’t believe in the Qur’an, so it’s silly to believe anyone could think we are going to hell because we don’t believe in the Grand Book?” he said sarcastically with a slight smile, getting a glare from his friend. “I’m not taking sides, Pierre, but in the midst of opinions is truth. As a scientist, I know most people talk about subjects they know nothing about.”
“Or switch sides when it suits their selfish interests,” said Pierre.
“Exactly! I choose to let people be, and trust that as long as I seek the truth with an open mind, the Almighty One will direct my path. Besides, having talked to Mason, I started researching Emmanuel. Did you know they never found His body?”
“Oh my God, Dhilan! You’re becoming a Christian?” Pierre exclaimed, giving Dhilan a look of astonishment.
“I study facts, just as we want our justice system to do. Where they lead, I follow. You should try it,” he said as the two headed out, Pierre shaking his head. “Most people who are against a religion have no idea what the facts are. They make their choices based on their opinions, which aren’t worth two cents.”
“I’ll give you that; feelings shouldn’t be our true north,” said Pierre.
The two men approached the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Sanburn, chatting about nothing.
Dhilan noticed the two men he had seen inside the pot shop speaking with a police officer on the other side of Sunset, which gave him some relief. He raised his eyebrows, thinking possibly he had misjudged the men. “I guess we all have some judgment in our systems,” he said.
“I suppose so,” said Pierre, looking at the men.
Moments later, Pierre and Dhilan turned right, heading toward the Jiffy Lube just down the street, enjoying a peaceful evening.
74
Chaos in California
October 7
Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA
“Hey! Rama!” came a voice out of nowhere a minute or two later. Both men turned to see a police officer running toward them with his hand on his holstered weapon, sending a chill up Dhilan’s spine. Dhilan looked the other direction down the road, wondering who the officer was talking to. Then he glanced at Pierre’s face, noticing his confused look verging on fear.
“You degenerates won’t make it to the Day of the Rope!” said the crazed officer as he slowed, apparently speaking to Dhilan and Pierre. “I’ll see to that,” were the last words he spoke before he unholstered his Glock and leveled it at the two men. He engaged the hammer as he met up with them. Pierre raised his hands in surrender as Dhilan recognized the two men from the shop running the other way.
“I’m sorry—what did you say?” Dhilan asked, knowing the slogan the officer had mentioned referred to white nationalism. Dhilan’s facial expression showed his disapproval and anger at the racist insult, the hair on his neck standing up, his heart pounding out of his chest.
“Dhilan!” said Pierre, looking at him. “Here, take my wallet,” he said, attempting to hand it to the man.
“He’s a police officer, for God’s sake! We haven’t done anything wrong, you half-wit! What do you want?” Dhilan asked as one shot exploded from the gun in a flash of light, hitting Pierre directly in the head. Time stood still as Dhilan watched his friend’s body fall to the ground. Instinctively he dove toward the officer, his eyes meeting the barrel of the gun.
A second bullet cracked.
Dhilan felt his body jerk just before he fell limp to the ground, feeling blood dampening his clothes as the silence turned into frantic voices. Moments later, his eyes closed.
75
Eva Cruise
October 7
Washington, D.C.
“Hi, I’m sorry, who are you waiting
for again?” asked Margaret Genovese, walking back into her DC office representing the 14th Congressional District of New York. A sign reading “Congresswoman Alexandra Martinez” hung on the wooden door.
“I believe I was told to see you,” replied Eva calmly, standing with her briefcase held with both hands over her abdomen. She glanced at her watch, which read 7:45 p.m.
“Oh? I knew the freshman congresswoman was popular; perhaps it’s rubbing off,” said Margaret, now standing at her desk and moving papers. She gestured for Eva to be seated in one of the two chairs facing her desk as she found a notepad.
“Well, it’s not every day that someone of the stature of Ms. Martinez gets to represent the great state of New York,” said Eva, speaking clearly and moving gently into the dark wooden chair.
“Or any state, for that matter,” said Margaret, smiling and sitting down, now looking up at Eva.
“Okay. What brings you in at 7:45 p.m., Ms. . . . ?” Margaret said, pausing as if she didn’t remember Eva’s last name.
“Cruise,” said Eva. “Eva Cruise.”
“How could I forget? Any relation to Senator Cruise?”
Eva chuckled.
“To Tom, actually,” she said as Margaret smiled with her.
“Much better.”
“I’m looking for a job,” said Eva as she crossed her legs. “I brought another copy of my résumé in case mine wasn’t handy on your desk,” she said politely, handing her a piece of paper.
