Adam Ash

Your daily entertainment scout. Whatever is happening out there, you'll find the best writing about it in here.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006



“The deadline for my beheading is tomorrow. As you can see, these guys are beginning to lose patience. They worked me over a bit. They feel the dignity of their females and their faith is under an unfair attack. And now they have another demand besides wanting their females to wear headscarves or veils. They also want the Nevada Muslims to be given rubber gloves to wear as they sort through the nation’s garbage and litter that is being sent to Nevada for the Muslims to process. They feel they are being defiled if they don’t get rubber gloves. They are being made to touch the detritus of Christians, which to them is a major humiliation. They want rubber gloves. They don’t want their skins to touch our untouchable stuff that we don’t touch. They don’t want to feel like they’re the new untouchables. And they want veils and headscarves. Those are their demands. They’re very adamant about the veils and headscarves. They seem to draw the line at how their females are treated. Apparently it is an insult for them to walk around bareheaded, and to be seen by men like that. These guys are really upset by this. Now I know that it is the policy of the president and the Men of the Gospel not to negotiate with terrorists, but I ask you to reconsider. I have always done my duty in the United States Under God, which I prefer to call the United States Under Christ, and I ask you to make an exception in this case, because I believe I can be regarded as an exception. Think about it before you condemn me to death. I want to be your president. I can’t be your president if I’m dead. Think of this as your first vote for me. Get me out of here. These guys are serious. You can see they are.”

Joshua Grant tried to smile, but it was difficult, because his lips were so split. He looked worse than before, even though his eyes could open in thinned slits from the swelling. His face was a blue and black bruise, criss-crossed with cuts. Blood caked all over his head. He looked almost too bad for one to feel sorry for him, a man humiliated by violence into a heap of off-putting flesh one couldn’t bear to look at. He wasn’t pitiable anymore. He was distasteful. He was gross.

But he was right. The Brotherhood terrorists were being pretty serious. If they could do this, they could cut off his head, too.


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