Reply to: [redacted]
He whom God watches is rightly guided to companionship. She who seeks refuge in a comfortable, two-story, upper middle class home in Abbottabad shall reply to this Internet letter.
Wilt thou ignore Him who beseeches you to come? Years ago, on the first solicitation for a companion, the Western infidels replied, followed by the hypocrites. They came to ask for this Saudi elite’s interests, quirks, and that which makes a man unique. They came to demand that we speak on the phone, though I have no phone.
They came to attack my vulnerable heart. These acts of aggression humiliated our people and made us suffer. For my 54 years on this earth, our nation has suffered.
I ask God Almighty for her to see this note: 6’6, 72 kilo, brown hair, brown eyes, beard, olive skinned, Sheikh entrepreneur. White undershirt and tan robe, armed with a cane and Kalashnikov. Hero is the Prophet Muhammad.
Praise be to God.
From north to south, east to west, young, pious, girls will heed the call. The dutiful lady will live with three others in my compound, the base of my operation.
The United States, in its war against Islam and campaign to malign my righteousness, has said in the newspapers: “One is okay, like walking. Two is like riding a bicycle: it’s fast but a little unstable. Three is a tricycle, stable but slow. And when we come to four, ah! This is the ideal. Now you can pass everyone!”
Despite this, nobody cares.
The scenic locales of the Afghani White Mountains and Tora Bora will wait. This will come in time, for He has chosen that the path to Paradise has a pit stop in Abbottabad.
Upon consent, faithful mujahid Akbhar, the vanguard of my groceries, will ascend to her balcony in the twilight of the crescent moon, and together they will abscond. She will say farewell to those dearest, for, as noted, there will be no phones.
In the aftermath of this event, she will make stay in my first floor bedroom. She will have access to laptops but because of Bush, Public Infidel No. 1, Internet is an impossible luxury.
The master bedroom is on the second floor. We will lie on my cot and watch Al Jazeera and BBC World Service. She will serve me sweet tea.
We will waste the day journaling. She will feed me yogurt with honey and Coca-Cola. I and our nation have tasted this drink since the Western infidels infiltrated our society.
When the bottle runs dry, I will whisper in her ear, in my soft and raspy voice, that it is time to go to the store. Rashid, he of the Mitsubishi Pajero, will lead her to the local shop. There she will buy Pepsi and Nestle milk. Pay in cash. Only in cash.
She will not question his purchase of Avena syrup and family-size Vaseline.
I will pass the time in bed, bathed in a Snuggie, caressed by the sultry rhythms of Whitney Houston, and with a film of my choosing. The door will be locked.
She will walk within the 15-foot walls and razor wires of our yard, sniffing the sunflowers as the day is swallowed by the night. Someday, after her womb is blessed by Him, I will take my sons to the beach. The moon above, we will sleep under the stars.
To the United States, I tell it and its people this: I swear by Almighty God who raised the heavens without pillars that if this message is flagged as spam, I will never advertise on Craigslist again.
Green screen experience is preferred.