A Demon in Afghanistan. Adult. Ozymedius searches for Bin Laden. (standard:action, 3312 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 25 2020	Views/Reads: 1181/859	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
After a brief stint as a terrorist hostage in a previous story, Ozymedias the demon remembered all that talk of terrorism in the newspapers. Since it was winter in the US and being a demon from hell, he decided to go to the Mideast instead of Chicago.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“I don't know about that.  You're too young for my taste.” 

“How old are you, Ozy?  You only look about twenty, and I'm eighteen.” 

“About six hundred, and you're not eighteen neither,”  he told her,
making her laugh. 

“Six hundred?  Bullshit.”  She ordered a meal. 

“What're you doing in a bar.  You should be in school?” 

“What school?  The foreigners bombed it, killing most of the kids and
all the teachers.”  She sighed, looking as though she didn't really 
give a damn.  "They thought a 'terrorist' was sleeping two blocks away 
and didn't wanna miss.  Six bombers can do a lot of damage." 

Her food came, a bean and noodle mixture with chunks of lamb.  Fatima
gulped it down as if it were manna from heaven.  When he saw how fast 
she was eating, he ordered her another helping.  The girl slowed down 
on the second plate, telling him her story. 

“My family used to have a lot of money, for here that is.  Not rich, but
plenty.  Then the Americans came, may Allah damn them.  They bombed our 
home, destroying it and killing all but Papa and me.  He went to join 
the Al Qaeda to get revenge, leaving me to take care of myself.” 

“He left you, just like that?” 

“Well, sometimes he sends me a little money, enough to pay for my room
but not enough for food or nothing else.” 

“Does he know how you get your money for food?” 

“What does he care?  He wants his stupid revenge.  That's the way all
men are, stupid idiots.  Sorry, I didn't mean you.”  She gave him what 
she figured was a seductive smile, tongue flicking through an inch of 
orange and greenish lipstick.  Finishing the second meal, she patted 
her stomach and gave a loud belch to let him know she was satisfied.  
“Come on, I'll show you my room?” 

Ozy drank the rest of his drink and stood up, figuring that since her
father was a member of Bin Laden's group, she might help him contact 
them. 

“Lead the way, McDuff.” 

“What's a McDuff?  I'm a Fatima.”  She grabbed his hand in hers and led
him out of the bar. 

They walked down a series of streets, then of ever narrowing alleys --
many showing broken walls and bullet holes.  Finally, they came to a 
narrow space Ozy had to walk sideways through, hoping nobody would be 
coming the other way.  At least Fatima knew where to go. 

Ozy figured he would have a hard time finding his way out later.  The
girl, now fed, was in a good mood, running ahead and trying to get him 
to move faster.  She stopped at a thick wooden door, unlocking two 
locks with a key as large as her hand. 

Inside, they found themselves in a small but neat courtyard.  It had
doors set at intervals around three sides, and a little greenery in the 
middle, grass uncut and brownish from lack of moisture.  She led him to 
one of the doors. 

The inside door didn't need a key.  She opened it and went in.  Ozy
followed her into a fairly large room, a double-bed in one corner.  A 
heavily barred window on the opposite wall showed another blank wall 
outside.  Probably another alley, he figured. 

The interior was a typical kid's room, with toys, dolls, and other items
unique to a young girl.  The only thing out of place was a table by the 
bed holding liquor bottles and dirty glasses. 

A bright-red box of condoms sat next to the whiskey and vodka bottles --
certainly out of place for a girl of her years.  He noticed it was much 
cooler than outside. 

Fatima walked over to the bed.  Turning toward him, she gave him a
smile.  Narrowing her eyes in a seductive manner, she began to slowly 
undress. 

“Hey!  Hold it, youn ... Fatima.  I didn't come for that,”  Ozy yelped
at her. “I want to talk, and maybe get you to help me.  I can pay.” 

“What you want then, and how much you going to give me?”   She pouted,
putting her blouse back on over a slightly convex chest. 

“I'm looking for Osama Bin Laden, the head of Al Qaeda.  Do you know how
I can find him?”  Ozy asked.  “Maybe you know where your father's at, 
or he told you something that would help?” 

“For one thing, there isn't any such thing.  Al Qaeda is what the United
States, may Allah damn them, calls the 'camp.'   I don't know how the 
US got that name.  They aren't terrorists.  In fact the Quoran says, 
'the killing of one innocent person is equivalent to the massacre of 
the entire human race.'  That's what my father made me memorize.” 

“I don't want to kill him, only talk to him and hear his side.  It's
part of my job.” 

“Oh, you one'a them infidel reporters?”  she asked, interested. 

“You could say that.  Something like that.”  he answered.  Actually Ozy
was simply curious, wondering if Osama was really another demon, as the 
American press implied.  As with the guy upstairs, Satan sometimes 
worked in mysterious ways. 

“I'd have to ask someone, maybe my uncle.  He might know.  It'll cost
you, and I don't mean in afghani, only Pakistani rupees or dollars.  
The afghani is almost worthless.  Only last night, a customer wanted to 
pay me 1,000 of them, and I told him to go to hell.”  She appeared to 
be angry at the memory. 

“I have dollars, all I need.” 

“Okay.  You give me five ... ten now, and you can stay tonight.  I'll
see if I can find him tomorrow?” 

“Here.  Keep it.  You can eat for awhile.”  He gave her $50.  Finally,
he might get an answer, he thought.  Ozy was telling the truth.  He 
only wanted to know what was going on.  Talking to Osama would help a 
lot. 

Several days later, her father himself showed up.  It was well after
midnight and Ozy was sleeping on the floor, when a sandaled foot 
prodded him in the side.  The father wasted no time on propriety or 
small talk. 

Ozymedias, Ozy's full name, looked up into the barrel of a Takarov model
30 Russian pistol. 

“What you want with Osama?”  the father, a slim weak-looking man with a
beard, asked Ozy from a standing position.  “He doesn't want to be 
found by reporters.” 

“Only to talk to him.”  Ozy gave his best smile, still evil-looking
since it was the only kind he knew -- devils don't often give sweet 
smiles.  “I'm not out to hurt him, only to talk.”  Ozy reached up, a 
$100 bill in his hand.  “How about I promise on my mother's grave not 
to harm him?  Who knows, he might even want to talk to me?”  Another 
two bills spouted next to the first. 

The man's eyes followed Ozy's hand as another bill hesitated, waving
back and forth, then sort of snapped into position among the others. 

"How you do that?  You a magician?" 

"They're getting tired of waiting.  You better hurry before they go." 
The last bill to appear waved frantically and snapped out of existence. 


“Well, I can ask someone. He might want to talk to you?”  He reached for
the money but couldn't remove it from Ozy's hand.  The bills, as though 
with a mind of their own, crawled back to hide in Ozy's fist. 

“When I see him, you get the money.” 

“You going to stay with my daughter?” 

“Yes. I'll be waiting, for a while anyway.” 

Glaring at Ozy, the man nodded.  After sitting on the bed with the girl,
whispering to her for a few minutes, he nodded again at Ozy and left. 

Late the next night, Ozy was lying in bed listening to Fatima tell of
her prior life -- before the American bombing started -- when someone 
knocked on the door.  When the girl opened it, three rough-looking men 
entered, carrying rifles. 

“You the demon reporter?”  one of them asked while the others spread out
over the room. 

How can they do it?  Ozy wondered.  He could take on any shape he wanted
but people in this country seemed to see right through his disguises. 

“Yes. I'm a demon from hell.  How can you tell?”  Ozy asked, curiously. 
They didn't answer his question. 

“Come with us.  We're here to take you to Osama.  Only Allah knows why,
but he says he wants to talk to you?” 

They searched Ozy for weapons and the four of them left Fatima and her
room.  First, he gave her the money for her father, plus extra for her. 
 Ozy honored his commitments, besides he could conjure up all the cash 
he needed. 

“In here.”  They all stepped into an old Volkswagen Beetle and left
town.  The car spit and sputtered its way through farmland, and then 
into a rough-looking desert.  With hardly a tree or shrub in sight, it 
looked pretty much like Ozy's home in hell.  Without the suffering 
souls, of course.  Nobody said anything during the long trip, the men 
simply looking out windows with guns ready for trouble, ignoring Ozy. 

Hours later, the rusty Beetle stopped in front of a common-looking
mud-brick building painted bright yellow and surrounded by bomb 
craters. Even before the car stopped, Ozy could see men hidden around 
the area. 

His escorts still didn't speak, hustling Ozy into the building.  Two
stayed by the door while the third showed the demon into another room.  
He saw a tired-looking man with a white beard sitting at a desk, 
shuffling through a stack of papers.  Two other armed men stood, one on 
either side of the door. 

“Here he is, sir.” 

“Mr. Ozy?  I'm Osama Bin Laden.  What can I do for you, sir.” 

He didn't offer to shake hands, Ozy noticed. 

“What's going on in this country, Mr. Bin Laden?”  Ozy asked.  The guy
didn't look like another devil, Ozy thought.  He had been more than 
half expecting one of his former co-workers from hell.  Ozy was certain 
he could have seen through any disguise. 

The two enjoyed a long conversation.  It turned out that Osama had a lot
of respect for the current US President, George W Bush.  He was only 
disappointed that the man was going to leave office soon. 

“Our organization has become larger and more powerful than ever since he
got into office,”  Osama proudly told Ozy. “We have to turn converts 
away because we have nowhere to place them.  Money is coming in from 
all over the world.”  Osama laughed, “Every time George drops a bomb 
that kills innocent people, we get more applications.” 

“So this George is the one who's causing all the terrorism?”  Ozy asked,
in wonder.  “It's not you?” 

“Us?  hell no.  We were only a small organization, among many others
like us.  Now we're the largest and wealthiest in the world -- all 
thanks to him.”  Osama smiled sweetly. “Even the Ba'athists and the 
Shiite's are getting together with the Sunni's -- against his policies. 
 All because of George.  He's the best thing that could ever have 
happened to us.” 

The conversation gave Ozy a new perspective.  All he had heard before
was the US version.  He had been getting suspicious, though, since 
seeing the way people in Afghanistan thought.  Now Osama had confirmed 
it.  He would have to find this guy, George, and have a talk with him.  
His boss might also be interested. 

“Where is George, anyway?”  He asked. 

“Oh, he's in Washington D.C..”  Osama laughed. 

Ozy figured he was done there.  He had found the source of the world's
terrorism.  First though, he wanted to find out how evil these people 
were.  He stood up and walked over to Bin Laden, extending an open 
hand. 

“Hey! Get back.”  The guards rushed over to stop Ozy, who shrugged his
shoulders, changing into his true form, a six-hundred-pound demon from 
hell itself. 

The three guards went flying against the walls.  Ozy grabbed Osama by
the neck, lifting him easily. 

A demonic hand went into the man's chest and pulled out a shimmering
object, Osama's soul.  Studying it, Ozy could see how evil the soul had 
become.  He dropped in to the ground, where it sank through the floor, 
going straight to hell.  Osama dropped, unconscious.  He would live, 
but be a babbling idiot the rest of his life, without a soul. 

Ozy found only one of the other three truly evil.  That man's soul
followed his leader's.  Ozy didn't know if the others might turn evil 
later, but they still had a chance of going to a better place. 

His work finished, Ozy forced the two still mobile guards to take him
back to town.  He was going to have a talk with George.  First though, 
he wanted to see little Fatima.  He didn't want to leave her in her 
present condition. 

Luckily, one of the guards knew how to find her apartment -- Ozymedias
would never have found it himself.  They were quite happy to drop him 
off, roaring away as soon as he left the vehicle.  On the way to town, 
he had told them of his status and warned them about losing their own 
souls.  Ozy had no fear from them.  He didn't think they would ever go 
near the 'camp' again. 

Fatima wasn't home, so Ozy poured himself a drink, idly shredding the
condoms into variously colored rubber confetti.  He conjured up more 
money in US $100 notes, and put them under the pillow on her bed.  It 
was after dark when he left, figuring she would probably be at the bar. 
He went out, locking the door.  Locks were no problem for a demon.  A 
wave of his hand and they snapped shut. 

Ozy must have wandered the streets for over an hour and a half  before
finding one he recognized.  From there, he made his way to the bar in 
which he had met the girl. 

To his surprise, he found her sitting with her father, who jumped up
when he saw Ozy.  The man tried to run past the demon, getting grabbed 
by the shoulder instead. 

“Let me go. You promised you wouldn't hurt Bin Laden.” 

“So, I lied.  I'm a demon.  I've been known to tell lies.”  Ozy held the
man by the shoulder, twisting him around to go back to the table with 
his daughter. 

“Are you going to kill us?”  the father asked, quivering.  Ozy reached
around, thrust a hand into the man's chest, and examined his soul.  
Putting it back, he shook his head. 

“No, I'm not going to kill you.  You're not evil, only after revenge for
being wronged.”  Ozy turned to Fatima, who was sitting bug-eyed after 
watching the soul examination. 

“Wh.... What was that thing you took from inside my Daddy?”  she asked. 

“Never mind, only business,”  Ozy told her.  “I left a few thousand US
dollars at your apartment.  Your father can quit the camp now.  I just 
wanted to say goodbye to you,”  he told the girl. 

Ozy turned to signal for refills.  The bartender surprised Ozy, though. 
He came over and sat down with them.  Magically, drinks appeared in 
front of all four.  The bartender's was crowned with bright-red flames, 
framing his face in a fiery light. 

“Master Satan!”  Ozy cried out, happily. “What are you doing here?  Was
something wrong with Osama's soul?” 

“No, it was evil enough, Ozy, my boy.  But I need him here on earth,
both him and your George work for me.  You have to call off your 
search.  Go on to Chicago if you want, but leave Washington alone.  
Just like in Hollywood, half the town works for me already.  You'd only 
screw things up there.”  Master Satan gulped down his drink, smiled, 
and disappeared in a burst of flames. 

“I quit, I quit. I definitely quit.”  The father jumped up.  Waving his
hands and leaving his devilish drink behind,  he ran past Ozy and out 
the door of the bar.  Fatima reached over and clasped Ozy's hand. 

“Thank you, Ozymedias.”  She walked out behind her father, weeping
quietly. 

The End.


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