Day IV
This is a continuing special report from the Intercontinental Radio News. At forty-one minutes before eleven o’clock, central time, an un-named official in Washington confirmed that terrorist Osama Bin Laden was entering his fourth day of interrogation at the Supermax facility in Colorado.
The following day the woman from the FBI arrived in an overcoat and was carrying a large black satchel. The team had selected her because of her training in Freudian psychiatric evaluation and interpretation. The lack of interest the prisoner had shown for the Swimsuit Edition indicated that he had redirected his sense of attraction to some other object. The team had to ascertain what his object of desire was. She knew all of the tricks. She traded the masculine wingtips for black stiletto pumps and nylon stockings. Under the raincoat, she was wearing a black-leather corset, pink and black panties with an embroidered rose in the center, and
garters. She also sported long black gloves and twirled a riding crop in her fingers. The wig with long black hair made her look like a shorter version of pin up star Bettie Page.
Nonetheless, Bin Laden looked bored.
“Your nakedness brings nausea to my body, thus Bin Laden will lower his gaze so as not to see such unholiness.”
Even though the research had suggested that Bin Laden would react violently to the sight of a half-naked
woman, the ploy didn’t produce the desired effect. For him, her body was so uninteresting that he would have preferred that she cover herself with a sheet completely. Now, she was slightly desperate. She ran through the list of known fetishes, and asked, “How you feel about feet, Osama?” She placed one of her feet
directly on the table so that he had to look at her.
“Bin Laden has seen betterr feet on milk cows! Remove this ugliness from Osama’s sight,” he replied.
She thought to herself, “Maybe he has a toe-thing, like that guy I met at West Point.” She slowly removed the
stiletto pumps to reveal glitter-painted toenails. She wiggled her toes under right before his eyes seductively. But again, it was to no avail.
“You have no dignity, devilish temptress! Bin Laden shall not be rreduced by decadent cultures, lap dances
and crude sex toys! He would die one thousand deaths in the Sahhharrra before succumbing to such temptation.”
Now, she was really desperate because she was running out of fetishes. She vaguely recalled that women throughout the Arab world have to cover their hair completely. To her, this was the classic example of “monte venus displacement.” In the reports about terrorist Richard Reid, the infamous “shoe bomber,” the interrogators determined that Reid had a traumatic experience when he was six years old. He opened the door to the bathroom while his mother was bathing, and for the first time saw her naked body. He was horrified that she didn’t have a penis and assumed that his father had castrated her. He feared for his own safety: what ever happened to her could easily happen to him. Over the years, however, he realized that his
mother didn’t fear his father and, because of this, he assumed that one of her other body parts had assumed all the power of the missing appendage. It was then he saw her feet: it was an ethereal experience, he felt as light as air, and all of his fears melted away. His mother’s feet were the pedestals that the world rested on, they were powerful, and he deeply believed that his feet were also powerful. Because of this, he loaded his tennis-shoes with explosives.
Bin Laden might fit into a similar pattern. As a young man, he discovered that Saudi Oil, the mother’s milk of the desert was not nourishing his own country: the Saudis had the breast but couldn’t suckle. Their oil had nourished industrialization around the world while his country remained impoverished. So, he took it on himself to strike out at the Twin Towers in New York City, the largest phallic symbol in the world as an act of revenge!
She began to stroke her long black hair gently and shared her interpretation. Bin Laden, however, had no such recollection of discovering his mother’s monte venus. In fact, Mrs. Bin Laden had been excessively modest and had carefully shielded him from the sight of her body parts as well as those of his sisters
or girl cousins. She also sent him to take care of the goat herds, far from the corrupting influences of the cities and the internet. In effect, Osama grew up without ever seeing a woman naked. The analyst from the FBI was at a loss. She had come close to hitting the nail on the head, but somehow her interpretation was off. She, too, was ready to throw in the towel.
As soon as she removed the wig, revealing short brown hair, however, Osama began to tremble. His jaw went
slack; his eyes bulged, and spittle formed at both sides of his mouth. He was overwhelmed, speechless and powerless to protect himself. The sight of her naturally colored light brown hair sent him reeling. He was in a state of panic, heaving breathing, rapid pulse, dizziness; it looked as if he were going to have a heart attack. She was unaware of what had stirred this reaction, but she knew that the team was starting to break the ice.
“You are a devil woman”—he raved. “You have hidden the true color of your hair from Bin Laden because you are the product of a misguided, moribund and monstrous culture!
“You really should eschew alliteration in your sentences and phrases.”
“I’ll keel you!”
Cross-posted at My Ongoing Struggle with Misanthropy: http://jimmygabacho.com/?p=506
