LAST OF THE FILTH: THE MAN

                              LAST OF THE FILTH: THE MAN

         The phone rang as he was staring out of the window-calmly reviving a habit he had kicked when he was much younger; smoking pot. It rang again and it would again and again before he picked it; he wouldn’t: not until it rang for the fifth time; that would mean good news; which was all he wanted to hear then.
         This was not his house and the view outside the picture not one he was used to: he hated it, the whole of it and especially the grey fountain.
            It was grey outside, more grey than the fountain ever could be even if a layer of grayest of was applied onto it. A superstitious person would have attributed it to the going ons but he cared not; all he wanted was to win; he was very sure he was.
            This was Nigeria’s Lagos state house and the room, the office he had been given by the cowardly Nigeria President. He smiled.
         The phone rang the fifth time.
         Dropping the remaining stick of the holy weed onto the flowery carpet, he strode to the desk, picked up the receiver, placed its cool plastic material onto his right ear and listened. As he did listen, his face contorted a couple of times, contorted from shock, sadness, and joy then settled for a calm satisfied face. As he placed it onto its rest, he sighed, and then smiled; finally.
         The smoke was -on the spot he had dropped the burning drug- increasing. Since he didn’t want to seem ungrateful to the cowardly president, he walked over to the spot and stumped out– with his brown cowboy boot- the small fire that had started there. Had it been sometime back he’d have had to apologize but it wasn’t; it was now; now when he was ridding the world of a long painfully tolerated scourge, now when he was their savior; he wouldn’t have to. They loved him; he could do no wrong.
         Walking out of the palatial building flanked by two armed men, he headed towards the helicopter he had had to bring along to Africa; he hoped the ride wouldn’t be long.
         They were headed north of Lagos, north where the last of the ‘rebels’ had been caught; they had been caught for him. As the helicopter rose off the cement blocked exterior of the state house, he chuckled. He felt victorious; he broke into reserved laughter; it was his first victory and he loved it. The caller had said that they had asked them- the ‘rebels’- to convert but –as the caller said- they had refused and had even caused the deaths of two soldiers. They had even spat at them he had said; these he’d surely have fun with.
              During this and the other wars that he loved to blame on the lack of democracy rather than the real reason –himself – these would be the first people he would have actually killed-the rest having been slain for him by soldiers under orders given out by him, for the first time he’d actually know how it felt like to take a life; he was sure he’d love it.
         “That’s the spot,” The pilot announced swerving the aircraft towards the point towards which he had pointed; towards a huge circle made by soldiers and military vehicles with what seemed like some people in white dresses and turbans kneeling at the centre – a yellow steam roller some meters away from where they knelt.
         The circle wasn’t big enough for the huge craft to land on; the reason it was descending in front of a row of soldiers all in different uniforms. He jumped off the helicopter. After the ones who formed the circle cleared a path through which he was to pass, they all saluted, –even the ones who couldn’t see him – saluted him in the salute they had all agreed upon; right hand on left breast; he was a great leader: he deserved their respect for a great leader he truly was.
         After a salute and a casual hand shake, “they were found in a tunnel beneath the road which is still under construction.” The general told him as he led him towards the unevenly width path- lined with soldiers and jeeps which were mounted with machine guns- towards the road towards which he had pointed. “They are the last of the filth sir.” The general said at which the man he referred to as Sir- the man in the black leather jacket – smiled; he liked the word used.
         Looking at the five men and the young boy at the center of the circle, he smiled again; on remembering how easy it had been to convince the world’s leaders to help him get rid of this scourge, the scourge that had befallen the world; it had been very easy, too easy even; especially after the hanging of Saddam Hussein; the ousted Iraq leader. The Muslims had staged protests all around the world to add to that they had staged suicide bombings; a lot of people had died, which had to the rest of humanity being a show of how heartless they could be; they were to later learn they weren’t                                the only ones who could. The only places that had been spared were the Emirates and the Muslim Nations. The rest had all been bombed which had made the day the darkest of the century.
         If their bombings had failed to kill anyone- like the one in New York had, after the fool the bomb was strapped to forget to put his cover coat on-none of these world have happened; he was almost glad they hadn’t failed.
         A day after the bombings, a meeting of the world leaders had been called- excluding all from Islamic nations. Every leader was to attend personally; no representatives were to be allowed to get in.
         It was during a long spell of silence which had befallen the conference hall that he had made the suggestion; that they, the world leaders unite and rid the world of this illness, this illness that killed innocent people, this illness that had no regard for human life; he had simply proposed that they destroy the Muslims and Islam as a religion, completely. Sure they’d put in the history books that once such a religion -as Islam was- had existed but no more of it would be tolerated; not anymore. This had been music to the ears of the leaders- who were still in grief over the murders of their subjects. This suggestion had come at a time when they were angry, a time when they were angry with religion, angry with a god who ordered killings of his own; Islam, they were fed up with. It was then that death was declared upon all Muslims
         Every leader was to provide soldiers for the United Nations army; the reason behind the colorful uniforms.
          The deal was, one had to denounce Islam or die; those were the options a sixth of the world had to choose from. Most, especially women converted; after all wasn’t this religion an oppression to them the hijab wearers and those who weren’t ‘for’ it? These they had observed over the years though say anything about it they wouldn’t have; they were also tired.  Men, especially in Africa also converted after deciding that just like Christianity this was just another foreign religion; they weren’t going to die for something that their ancestors hadn’t known anything about.
          No one was being forced to join any religion like the Jihadists had; they were just being asked to ditch this disease; you could even ditch your belief in god, after all there weren’t any atheist suicide bombers, were there?
         Muslims who had thought it a smart move for the Jihadists to bomb the cities thought otherwise when the U.A.E pleaded for the preservation of neutrals- which they proclaimed to be. It wasn’t the pleading that made the murderous Muslims change their minds, it was the fact that the rest of the world would hear nothing of it; they argued that though the emirates hadn’t condoned the bombings, they hadn’t condemned them- not this ones and not the ones in the past. They had just watched in silence as humans -because of some stupid beliefs- slaughtered others. These had made it look like they secretly condoned them and further more despite being ‘neutrals’- whatever that meant – they were still Muslims, weren’t they? Some people even accused them of having financed the attacks. They would have to denounce the religion or die like the murderers they were and that was final.
         They would have wanted to stand and fight the United Nations army -which was too big for them anyway- but no one wanted their money anymore; no one would sell them the weapons with which to fight; not the Russians, the Japanese, the Chinese and definitely not the Americans; they were in it alone, completely alone; just as they had left the rest of the world to deal with the terrorist menace which they could have simply done away with by merely requesting it stops. On sight of the huge invading mixed nationality army most men and some women had despaired and committed suicide while most of the women had torn off their Hijabs before dancing in joy with some being shot dead by the deranged males.
          Those who had chosen to fight, in air on water and on land had been ruthlessly dealt with and so would these ‘the last of the filth’ who had already caused the deaths of two soldiers; an American and a South African.
         The silence –as he stared at the remaining six Muslims – was deafening: had the helicopter beyond the circle been started none would have been wiser; they simply wouldn’t have heard it.
         “So you wouldn’t convert?” He asked; the sneer on his face making the day to the six seem darker than it already was.
         “Allah will deal with you, you fool!” the man among the six- who looked Arabic –spat in a heavy West African accent.
         “He speaks a language similar to ours but could you please interpret?” The man in the leather jacket asked as he turned to the general. “Oh” He said in realization after the general repeated what the Muslim had said. Turning to the Muslims, “Have you stopped to think for a minute that he might not exist at all? I mean you’re the remaining of the group of murderers. Don’t you think he’d have showed up by now?” It sounded soothing, friendly even but that it wasn’t; he was mocking them, simply mocking them.
         The kneeling man didn’t reply, he just loudly recited – in Amharic- a verse –probably from the Koran- which seemed to encourage the other men;  the kid just looked at them as if not having heard what had been said.
         This angered the man in the cowboy boots.
         “Bring me the kid.” The man ordered getting infuriated further by the men’s defiant stares.
         “He’s deaf Sir.” The general explained after the kid-still hanging from the arms of the soldier who had brought him-stared blankly at the man in the black jacket after being asked a question by the same; he was about ten. “He’s also got something like polio.” That explained the locked knees; the reason the soldier had had to drag the kid over the brown earth. Was the man sympathetic?
         “Drop him,” The man ordered at which the soldier dropped the kid onto the brown earth- where he lay in an untidy heap –before returning to his position at the edge of the circle. “Maybe if you could walk you’d have been one of those dumb bombers.” He said these breathing heavily as he turned the kid over such that he lay on his back-his deformed knees raised. “Maybe, just maybe, I should straighten this up for you.” He was looking at the knees as he said these; he didn’t seem to be joking.
         Restraining the kid with his hands and feet he tried towards the ground to push the left knee; to straighten it. It was terrible, the sound of a deaf child, a child who had never heard a sound in his life screaming, screaming for mercy to a man who seemed to have gone deaf himself. The knee-with a loud crack that made the former brave men cry out in horror –finally did his will; it straightened. It would have been heart wrecking to the more humane soldiers but it wasn’t; it was murderers this was being done to and so they smiled; all of them.
         “Maybe if you could talk you’d be insulting me right now.” With that the screaming kid was –after being lifted high above the man’s head sent crashing to the ground where he lay and screamed no more.
         Fixing the collar of his checkered shirt, he sighed with satisfaction. Slipping his hands into his jacket’s pockets he turned to the terrorists
         “Last call for defectors,” He announced, staring at the men who were now clinging to each other as something clicked loudly inside his right pocket.
         A man in the middle of the five rose -evidence of he having wet himself clear by the huge patch of mud at the front of his white gown. The others –clinging to his gown –begged him to stick by them but that he would hear nothing of. He shook their hands off his gown and walked on; on away from them towards the man; closer and closer to the man. The man smiled at him; it looked warm- the smile did- it looked friendly; it wasn’t.
         After a bang joined the sounds of begging men the former Muslim-with his brain spilled on the now screaming Muslims-fell back and laid there his eyes staring at the grey clouds. He just stared and no, he saw not Allah; maybe He didn’t like them as much as they had thought he did.
         “I hate traitors.” The man revealed returning his gun-as he did- to its hiding place. “You also wanted to defect?” He asked the man to his extreme left who had his leg before him, ready to support his weight as he got up. Instead of an answer, something at the man’s back sputtered- right before he leaned heavily on his friends causing them to lose their balance as his eyelids fluttered incessantly.
           As he turned to smile at the general, something caught his eyes; the yellow steamroller. Walking towards it –taking off his jacket as he did- he imagined how much fun he’d have had- had the Nigerian president been as stubborn as those men were; too bad he hadn’t.
         After neatly placing the jacket over the black seat, he ordered that the kid be put in front of the steam roller as he felt at the keys he had- a second earlier – been surprised to find there. The kid came to just as the vehicle was started but even his crawling was much slower for the slow wheels. He was further slowed down by the pain in his left knee; the knee that the man had straightened out for him. Soon the heavy things would catch up with him; they would surely.
         As the kid’s screams heightened -as the wheels went up his legs- he thought how easy it had been to convince people that those were people the world needed cleansing from; not that he now minded their demise just the wonder at how people filled with hate could be led into anything. The Muslims had with the bombings, their stupid oppressive laws and Jihads made themselves the target of everyone’s hate. By that they had signed their death warrants; it really wasn’t his doing-their death that is-the world had just been waiting for somebody to make the suggestion: he had been that someone.
         If ever he found a way to convince the world to get rid of this other group he so hated before the end of his term the following year, he’d probably start with his secretary of state. That woman!
          Spotting a mattock some meters away, he smiled as he wondered which one of the four men he’d use it on. If ever he found a way to get this other group eliminated, from that woman he’d then move on to the man who in his book ‘the book of rules’ had called him an oil sucker and so on. That would mean that the man whose name rhymed with bummer wouldn’t even get to run for president. Maybe he would save the mattock for him-the writer that is-yes that he would; specially saved for him; that he surely would.