the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiiiiii

I make the impossible seem possible.

I am the greatest superhero ever to come out of the state of Maryland or even the D.C. metropolitan, tri-state.

A black, triple X t-shirt; dark grey sweat pants that magically hovering under my butt; roughed up Timberland boots missing a shoelace; a faded black bandana covering my long, curly, black hair; a black Ghostface-style jacket made from fake rabbit fur is far from normal superhero attire. Spandex and cape was the style for the last millennium. I am your unconventional hero, armed with only a 52 lethal assault array of chaotic force that lies in a small box, which rests in my pocket. Once taken out, the shock and awe powers will leave opponents in dismay as if they were hypnotized, followed by the underhanded words, “pick a card.” Word. A menacing and lethal combination of style and charisma, to my knowledge, is unattainable by the average American youth. I make it look easy. I give David Blaine and any other fake me out magician a run for their money. I am so damn good at times I amaze myself. It should be illegal that I possess a deck of cards in my hand.

Not only is my sleight hand quicker then the eye. Every movement is stealth like that of a cheetah possessing lightening quick reflexes. But, I also have the sleight of mouth. Every letter to every word unites to formulate a sentence which can cause many affect to the feeble human mind. Affects vary from anger to confusion, to anger again and sometimes confusion. Every now and then I do make people laugh or smile, most likely to quell my ever growing boredom.

♠

Silence is the best answer to the stupid. The fool has his answer on the tip of his tongue.
-Arab Proverb

With highly technological gadgets orbiting his environment like satellites, our new hero is filed with the stress of making a mere eight dollars an hour. From batteries to microphones to wearing a black collared polo shirt as his uniform, this child was on the route to survive college life. Stocking shelves, taking inventory and having to meet monthly sales quotas can take a toll on a young man. Plus, the added pressure of school and other social aspects encircled by the university life can add boulders to a growing man’s shoulder.

This hero was slightly over weight, unintelligent, and unattractive. He was in infatuated by a young girl who possessed a hypnotizing smile. He would walk her to class and wait ever so patiently for her; at times he would even attend her classes; even though his campus was 25 miles away. His relentless attempt of romancing went unnoticed. And before his very eyes, the young heroine was swept off her feet, falling madly in love with another man.

What can a man do when his heart is shattered? A million pieces, facing cardiac arrest, the hero has no choice but to live his life. A broken heart can never mend, and a broken heart can make a man do terrible things. This man started his journey back to single life in a terrible way, making only one mistake.

Cable connectors and wireless communication devices, our hero returns to his weekend job at Radio Shack in the local mall. Behind the register, as he assists the herd of battery consuming shoppers. When finally a customer arrives, 40 at age, old enough to be his mother, they start conversing in Urdu. She asked politely about his studies, and he replied stating he was a student at the University of Maryland. She then asked if he knew of her nephews, (the rule with Pakistani’s is that there are 2 degrees of separation.) He replied, yes, he knew of them. He could have stopped there and continued on to a lovely conversation about curry and samosas with the elder women or in Pakistani terms auntie. But he was now full of spite and jealousy, and as if the weight has taken its toll, he said one of them has been fooling around with a girl. This Aunt had no idea how to react, Pakistani culture is much different then the premarital sex or relationships that occur every other second in American society. The immodest sexual practice is new trend for humble Pakistani immigrants.

♠

Words. They are powerful things. Nations have fallen. Wars have been commenced. Lives have been slain. The power of words is the most unexplainable phenomenon in the universe other then my forever increasing cell phone bill.

People do not know when to shut-up. They keep talking and talking expecting nothing will happen with their inane ranting. Severe headaches and migraines can form, even small tumors known to cause cancer, with all this blah-blahing. Mental contusions can cause mental illusions, which therefore may proceed with a beating causing bleeding, bruising and contusions. It is spectacular how the human tongue works without thinking as if it has no correlation to the brain.

♠

During a dynamic debate that discombobulated the psych with my salafi advisor, my phone began to vibrate. I do not like ringers, nor would I pay a ridiculous amount for the latest ringers advertised. It’s another way the man has devised to swindle me out of my non-sufficient funds. Anywho, the phone vibrated, I never answer the phone immediately. Good things are worth the wait, and nothing is more gooder than me. Noting it was Hassan, my mentally dilapidated cousin, I tentatively ignored the call. In theory if it was important, he would call back.

He called back.

He asked where I was, what I was doing and who I was with before I could I even say hello. Noticing a great deal tension in his voice I instantaneously noted that something was wrong. He then stated someone was going to die tonight, and ordered me to meet him at his house as soon as possible.

My salafi advisor overheard our conversation and recommended that I stay away from trouble. I cogitated to the advice advised by my salafi advisor. If I were to heed his advice more often, I would not have a story to write. I wished him peace, and went along my merry way.

A long car ride between my salfai advisor’s house and my cousin’s house can unravel many thoughts that play in my mental theater. I am infatuated with those thespian mermaid twins that my imagination conjured, and Daffy Duck serving us cotton candy by waterfalls made of chocolate milkshakes like a Willy Wonka factory. Bugs Bunny making funny jokes with an Arab accent, I love my mind and the short entertaining theatricals it plays. But before my imagination could turn indecent and vile, I arrived at my cousin’s house. Darn.

Before entering the basement of his house, questions after questions flooded my brain. Why do I always wear sunglasses indoors? Is it permissible to tuck in one’s undershirt into their underwear? Most importantly, is it uncivilized to floss my teeth with my long hair? Oh, and why am at my cousins house; and who is he going to kill?

Upon entering I was greeted with cacophony and vivid group of people, reminding of an immigration office. There were at least fifteen people, maybe sixteen, possibly seventeen and eighteen, if I was included. Heavy hitters, rowdy rapscallions, treacherous thugs, who are careless when it comes to human emotions, human welfare and laws that preside over them, were still left in the dark on the reasoning of their attendance.

Who shall wreak the eternal slumber after the nightmare we bestow?

After calming the swarm of people, congregating in the crammed basement, Hassan addressed the crowd.

“we are gonna kill that son of a female dog.[censored]”

“who?’ Someone in the crowd rightfully inquired.

“azim.” Hassan answered. “that homo told my aunt eye was messing wit a girl. then my aunt told my mom and now i’m in trouble. she went 2 radio shack 4 batteries and all she got was his stories of me.”

An apology can never be a panacea for most sensitive issues. If Napoleon would have apologized to the native Haitians in Papa New Guinea, would a second world war have transpired? The answer is no. Plain and simple, using history as an example, apologies don’t work. If Michael Jackson just keeps on saying, “my bad” after all his Ninja Turtle themed slumber parties, would that be acceptable? NO. No weapons of mass destruction, so what? Gandhi was a pacifist, and look at India, now harboring Al-Qaeda terrorist. Say no to diplomacy say no to terrorism. Say yes to Paris Hilton.

What was my role in this debacle? After all, I am good for instigating a quarrel. Now to sound braggadocios but I can rouse up a conflict between Martin Luther King and Mother Theresa on who can pacify the conflicts in my life. Accordingly, the hoodlums gave me the phone after connecting it to our new victim; and told me to do what I do best.

“meow.”

“huh?” Azim questioned not sure if what he heard.

“I tawt I heard a puddy cat.” I replied to his confusion.

“what the fudge?” He responded, leaving him even more confused.

“I did, I did hear a puddy cat.”

I could expand more on our senseless conversation, but due to graphic words and regrettable statements I would rather not offend any readers. But, there is a methodology that I abide when confronted with such matters.

Three rules to infuriate an adversary:

1. Insult their mother.

2. Insult their sister, if there is no sister applicable then proceed to insult another female family member such as an aunt, niece or my personal favorite their grandmother.

3. Insult their mother.

He gave us his address. Mission successful.

Sixteen or seventeen maybe even eighteen individuals including me departed from Hassan’s basement to teach this poor fellow a lesson. You see, this child, Azim, was coerced by our persuasive technique to get into an altercation. It would be rather nefariously inhumane of us if we would pound his head in without a sufficient motive. So, we angered him enough to seek a legitimate reason to pound our heads. Everyone in life has certain strings that can be controlled; I was to be that marionette to put on show not only for the readers but the sixteen or seventeen other delinquents.

To make a long story short we arrived at his house, only to see him not there. Actually, we were not sure which house was his; so we called him to step out and meet us at another spot. (We had no intention of meeting at another place, this was our surprise tactic.) While someone called him one of Hassan’s friend opened up his trunk and started handing out weapons. I would hate to be stereotypical but his Asian friend handed out a pair of nunchucks. A few baseball bats and metal pipes were dispensed out as well; those always add excitement to a fight.

Juggling his keys, Azim ran out his house and towards his car. Visibly intoxicated the stench of the vile alcohol could be seen through his actions, barely able to run as if his body stood on rubber pegs. His judgment was impaired; it took awhile for him to realize that he was surrounded by 16 or 17 even 18 hostile people.

I have never seen fear as I did strike on that man’s face. I saw the white’s of his eyes even in the midnight hour that glowed like being powered by an Edison invention. His hands and speech began to shake, barley able to hold on to his car keys. Now, given the anarchic circumstance it would have been the perfect opportunity to apologize. A man’s ego sometimes is too powerful for a 5 letter word to disperse from their tongue.

Hassan confronted the poor man, asking for a simple apology. He was circled by us hoodlums like blood thirsty vultures on to their prey, who were curious as to the outcome of the situation. He reached in his pocket and quickly grabbed his only life saver, a cell phone. Hassan slapped it way, the echoes of it breaking were the only thing that was heard, when all of sudden from afar a voice was heard.

“hey, azim!” A man, who was witnessing the whole catastrophe from his porch, asked. “u need help?”

“no.” Azim responded as if he could handle the situation in diplomatic means.

“ok, bye.” The voice disappeared in the darkness.

That was a minor inconvenience to cure our little problematic parasite. There was a long delay and it seemed as if our trip was fruitless. We hoodlums were beginning to get restless as Azim was relentless on not apologizing. And, before we could encourage Hassan to either fight, or bounce; he stuck him in the face with his fist. I seen it in slow-motion as the impact of the hit made Azim do a total 520 degrees, pleasing the whole crowd. Then, to add insult to injury, Hassan kicked him in his large and cumbersome behind.

The problem with Zike lies within the fact that he does not care. He does not care for his family. He does not care for his house. He has nothing. No job. No car. No money. He has nothing and is nothing. So if we deal with him in military manners like the Bush regime; how would he retaliate? If the problem lies, then who knows if the answers are true?

"This ain't funny so don't you dare laugh. Just another case about the wrong path, straight and narrow or your soul gets cast." Slick Rick, A Children's Story

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiiiii

There are a few things in life that I do not comprehend. One of which is my intense infatuation with Paris Hilton. Another is my constant attraction to hazardous situations. In fact what I do understand is the concept of reruns. When a television show is first aired, there are many viewers who missed it the first time round; thus, the rerun was impeccably conceived to serve those who neglected the show. Now, a word from our sponsor.

There are a few things in life that I do not comprehend. One of which is my intense infatuation with Paris Hilton. Another is my constant attraction to hazardous situations. In fact what I do understand is the concept of reruns. When a television show is first aired, there are many viewers who missed it the first time round; thus, the rerun was impeccably conceived to serve those who neglected the show. Now, a word from our sponsor.

The chicken is the wisest animal on the farm. They lay eggs.

Now right after the chaotic incident at the mosque, I quickly called his older brother who is my friend. His brother at that time had several personal issues, often confusing himself. Like staring at the sun, his own thoughts are blinding himself. I worry about him at times, more than I worry about my evil counterpart. His brother heard my version of the scenario, which is the same version you all read in the previous chapter. Not surprised, by his brother’s stupidity or utter delinquency, he gave me advice. I do not remember word for word what he said, thus I paraphrased his thoughts.

“When I was child I would take the bus. And, there was this bully, who would always pick on me. I would try my best to ignore him. But that didn’t work, and he still picked on me. Then, one day I decided to confront him. I told him that I was sorry for what I have done. And after that day he stopped picking on me. Even though I knew I wasn’t wrong.”

His Oprah Winfrey advice would have worked on bunch of unemployed feminist, but was I to take his advice seriously. So I told his moronic brother, in the most sarcastic tone, “thank you for your help,” which sounded more like go to hell with your advice you retarded hamster looking gremlin. He understood, and hung up the phone. Stupidity runs in the family. I sympathize deeply with this tortured soul, who grew up in a dysfunctional family with issues that daytime talk shows would tackle. I was disappointed, not that I expected answers from his brother, what upset me most was he wasted my day time minutes.

7 days later.

I like jumma; it makes me feel more Muslim. It is in our nature to sin, therefore jumma is the day I feel I can cleanse my inner-self. A weekly cleansing to rid my soul of the impurifications that I have fornicated, the soul is often overlooked. So on this jumma day, I started it off with a nice long session of ghusul.

Randomly, my doorbell rang right before I left to the prayer. It was my cousin, not Hassan (he was in Houston assaulting gay male prostitutes), Zain. He heard about the incident that happened last week with Zike and offered his assistance. Bless his little menthol congested heart, but I doubt this scrawny kid could hold his own against Zike. I told him that I did not want him escorting me to the prayer, but he refused. I don’t need protection, I have a gun. Meow.

I vegetated in my usual spot in the masjid, in deep concentration. I tried. And, I tried hard to understand the imam, the cleric, and his lessons. But, I dozed off to world led by imagination. Cotton candy fantasies, enjoining in the wealth of this world with a pair of twin mermaids and Bugs Bunny, the imagination is an escape that we seldom use. I then envisioned, the rascally rabbit delivering the jumma sermon. That’s when I woke from the uncontrollable daydream.

After the prayer, like always I gathered my shoes and went on my way out the mosque. From the corner of my eyes I saw my future brother-in-law conversing with Zike. I hate to think the worst of people, but I already knew Zike’s intention was at the mosque. (He did get shot the previous week.) My sister’s finance was trying to quell the dilemma of any drama between Zike and me. What intrigued me most was Zike’s ridiculous outfit. He was dressed as if he had a trial in the morning and the only place open was Wal-Mart. Adorning a red and black plaid colored shirt that most rednecks would be proud to wear at any formal event, which was tucked into his pleated khakis, Zike was costumed like a gump. Envisioning himself as a thug, Zike was walking paradox in his get up. His outfit made me chuckle. My future brother-in-law was satisfied with the progress in alleviating the seven days of suppressed anger Zike had in store for me; thus my future brother-in-law walked away.

I could have walked out the mosque with no conflict. I should have walked out the mosque with no conflict. I would have walked out the mosque with no conflict, but that would have made for a bad story.

Before I could even acknowledge Zike, I felt his cold reptilian eyes piercing through me like a mouse in a loin’s den. I returned to Zike a smile. He hates it when I smile. Subsequently, he started a small ruckus, not as big as last week’s circus.

How low do you have to go to insinuate a quarrel at a place of worship, Zike succeeded to go that low twice consecutively. He may have set a record, going as lower then my credit score. It was not that I was irritated or frustrated or agitated or aggravated or even infuriated, it has become annoying. Like when reading a magazine and al those little subscription cards keep falling out, Zike is sublimated spam.

“they call me the Blockbuster!” Zike proclaimed proudly.

I was stunned; I had no reaction for his statement. Stupidity is unpredictable, but did this word have a deeper meaning? Blockbuster. Block: noun, hindrance or obstruction, an obstacle. Buster: a person who breaks something up. Was he implying that he breaks up or busts an obstruction? Was I an obstacle in his path? Am somehow in his way, to his greater goal? Or did he merely use the word as a metaphor that he was going to rent movies.

“What!?” I responded in pure and utter confusion.

“Yea, man. I’m the blockbuster!” Zike declared his silly iconic name.

He is the prime example of the harmful effects of drugs. Children, drugs are bad. Like Peter Parker, he fell prey to the sweet seductress known as Mary Jane. Tetrahydrocannabinol is the active chemical compound released that causes psychoactive and physiological effects. Scientificial studies, which I did not participate, have shown that cannabis can impair short term memory and affects the hippocampus of the brain. Those, that are predisposed for psychosis, my arch nemesis, increase the risk of psychotic symptoms. It is argued that long term effects of consuming the drug have an effect of personality or possible brain damage. Now, you see what I am dealing with, the poster boy of the harmful effects of drugs.

“I don’t get it?” I asked as if I was to get a coherent answer from this idiot.

“Blockbuster.” He reaffirmed confidently, “I bust blocks.”

Stupidity is ubiquitous. I do not comprehend how hard it is to create an appealing moniker. Was his goal to strike fear in my blood with that name. Super Mario was known for busting blocks with his head. If he was making a comparison to the legendary video game emblem, why could he not use more clever title? Pyro-Hurler, Koopa Trooper Stomper, or even Raccoon Man sounds a tad bit more menacing than Blockbuster.

Zain, my cousin, was not present when I was confronting Zike, I think he was engaged in conversation with my future brother-in-law. What they were discussing, I don’t know. But I believe it was my boisterous brother-in-law parading that he extinguished a confrontation.

“y r u dressed like bob tha Builder?” I commented on his hillbilly attire.

His response was laced with profane obscenities and obscene profanities. I smiled. He hates when I smile. Now inciting his anger, I figured this is the best time to get the upper hand. I would no longer be the victimized by all the Danny’s out there and I will fight for all those like me who have been oppressed.

“meet me at tha mcdonald’s and we’ll take care this.” I did not know why I said this.

“let’s go then.” he responded, which was not the answer I was hoping.

“let’s go.” What I have I got myself into? And, why would Zike agree to this.

“let’s go.” The retard reiterated.

“I’m going.” I am now consuming as much time as possible, so I can think of way to get out of this mess. “or we could go 2 blockbuster,” I added with a smile. He hates it when I smile.

Camels are efficient animals. Throughout history, they have been known to provide their services in the military without the concern of draft regulations; economic and trade with seldom challenge and restrictions; they assist in the diet’s of man through history, providing protein rich milk and meat eaten in many East African and Middle Eastern countries. Camels can adapt to their environment by changing their body temperature, ranging from 93 degrees F to 106 degrees. Able to survive unheard of climate changes, and the ability to travel long distances are a few benefits that civilizations in the past have utilized. Camels can carry up to 990 pounds, but that last statement I said to Zike, was the straw that broke his back.

A small riot almost broke. I have good news, and I have bad news. No physical altercation ever occurred that jumma day. My cousin Zain and Zike’s cousin who was also present at jumma intervened before blood could spill. But the good news, my cell phone is activated.

A man will not abandon illusions he believes as facts in favor of facts he believes as illusions. Because of too much 2pac, Zike vicariously lives his life as a thug. His mind is deluded from the mere reality that the ideology of “thug life” is not needed to live in suburbia. Now, I may have said a few words that would have garnered the wrath oh my lethal numbskull hooligan of a friend. Even the wise man dwells in the fool's paradise. If it is true that ignorance is bliss; subsequently, Zike must be in absolute utopia (after the drugs of course).

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiiii

“when I die, I wanna be a living legend.”
-2pac

Those are words to live by, or die by; honestly that man has got me in a state of utter confusion.

Slap bracelets, the running man dance along with Vanilla Ice, grunge, before Marky Mark was an actor, and the governor of California starred in the highest grossing movie of that year, before Jordan won a championship, ripped jeans and florescent colors, children adorning fanny packs and scrunchies, parachute pants made famous by MC Hammer, Del the Funkee Homospaian released his first album as a Tribe Called Quest released their second, it was either Me, Myself and I or engine, engine number nine on the New York transit line; I am back an era that laid the foundation of who I am now. The same year when the leader of our nation (Bush) obliterated Iraq; a lot has changed since then.

When a newly incarcerated individual enters prison, they are labeled a fish. I am not familiar with the rationale, but in my opinion it is possibly due to the fact that fish have gills. Entering elementary school, I was the new kid in town, transitioning from Alabama to Maryland. The adjustment was hard or maybe it was all the learning that was taken place; whatever it was, I found it difficult. Reading, writing, arithmetic, on top of all that nonsense I had to become socially accepted among my new peers. As always, I was the only Pakistani in the whole class. Being different is hard, especially when you smell like curry.

My own best friend is me. This is what losers say, when they in affect have no friends themselves. So, I am that fish, ignorant of the elementary ways of the social etiquettes in Maryland. In Alabama, I was the big shot; everyone wanted to be my friend. (They still do.) Therefore, making friends was new to me; it was a task that I did not want to accomplish. I feared not being accepted among my peers. Was I supposed to enter a new world full of solitude and emptiness? An abyss surrounded by peers who reject me? Or forever being alienated by those who smell better than me? I am a lonesome child unwanted like brown M&Ms. My own best friend is me; however, I am my own worst enemy.

Lessons being taught and lessons being learned, it was my first day of school in Maryland. I paid little attention to what was being taught; instead I was intrigued by the enormous size of the class. The teacher kept blabbing on and on, while I kept analyzing the class. I noticed the students were mainly Caucasian sprinkled with a few minorities here and there; which was much different than school in Alabama, where I was surrounded by an unending population of white people. The teacher, I think her name was Ms. Roberts, but who cares the story does not involve her, was lecturing about Mexico. I zoned out, not caring about her telemundo lesson plans. Later, she instructed the class to draw a Mexican environment.

One of my many amazing talents was the ability to make giant spit bubbles. I am not sure what that fact has anything to with anything. But another uncanny talent in my arsenal is the ability to draw the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles without glancing at the image. Not to boast, but my artistic skills at my young age had a slight resemblance of a sane Salvador Dali. After the Ms. Roberts handed out the paper, I quickly began drawing. Lightening as my pencil hit the paper, quickly doodling my rendering of a Mexican environment. When the storm had cleared, my paper exhibited a grand portrayal of Michelangelo, from the ninja turtles, wearing a sombrero and eating a taco.

All the other students were in awe of my masterpiece, as they all praised my work. One kid, named Danny who had a strong similarity to the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, asked me to draw the same image on his paper. Maybe my talent was a gift to make friends. I agreed to his wish and began drawing. I was not about to draw the same image, a masterpiece can never be duplicated, thus I drew Donatelo with MC Hammer pants. He was not nearly as impressed with my new artistic piece, so he insisted on switching papers. I was not about to part with my work of art, consequently I called him “fat.” He retaliated by calling me “skinny.” If those aren’t fighting words then I do not know what is.

Fast forward the rest of the class period to lunch, while I stood in line, Danny cut right in front of me giving me an evil stare. Was I supposed to be offended that a fat lard cut in front of me in a lunch line? But, whatever makes him happy. He then farted, and stunk up the entire line, the aroma of rotten eggs was too much for a class of elementary students. Chaos erupted. During the pandemonium, I lost my appetite, worse he blamed his stench on me. This was not the first impression I would have liked in front of my new peers.

During lunch I was now known as the lunch line farter. Echoes of laughter and teasing bellowed the large cafeteria; classmates would now acknowledge me with this new title. Kids are cruel; but so am I. Tensions between me and my new chubby friend had grown. I confronted my new enemy, approaching his table, asked him ever so politely if he ever stops eating. He took offense to my question, and told me to go back to my home land. I wish I could, honestly this hostile environment had given me nostalgia for Alabama.

Let the trash talking begin, all the kids crowded up. For some reason, children find joy in other people’s misfortune. This is bizarre phenomena that I cannot explain, either for lack of education or not caring. I perform well in crowds, especially under pressure.

“u look like a rescue ranger.” Danny the obese child yelled.

“ur an overweight Gummi Bear,” I responded as well as the crowd with a roar of laughter.

“Alf.” He retorted.

“Fat Albert.”

So far, I had the upper hand; poor child had no idea what he was getting into. His smile quickly turned into an unsmile. (Not a frown but not a smile, I do not think Mr. Webster put that word in his book of words. But, I do plan on sending him an e-mail, until then I reserve all rights for the usage of that word.) I always got in trouble for breaking things in my youth, even up until my adulthood. Breaking things is always fun; except for the fact of facing the consequences and repercussions. That day I broke the feelings of my new overweight and circular friend with embarrassment and shame all over his face. I could have stopped there, and let Danny wallow with humiliation, but I opted to make him cry.

“Mr. Belvedere.” I added to the injury. The children who served spectators to this unrehearsed mean spirited game of dozens could not control their laughter. I love pouring salt on an open wound, already knowing Danny is over sensitive about his weight.

There were many ways my foe could react to such an insult, but that would require quick wit and clevarity, none of which he possessed. And instead of crying, like I hoped, he got furious. The new lunch line farter kid stole the spot light from the over eating pudge. He then challenged me to duel, wanting to fight me and pound my face in with his stocky and flubbery arms. Little does he know that I have an older sister, and can take a great deal of damage. It was settled; we would meet at the playground during recess, and fight it out mano y mano. Yo hablo Espanol, muy bein.

Bring it on. The class was dismissed to recess, and I walked alone towards the playground. A huge crowd hurdled around Danny, like small moons orbiting a large planet. They escorted him to the jungle jim in an entourage fashion. Walking alone, I noticed I had this feeling tingling sensation in little tummy. Butterflies or school-made French fries, I am not sure what I ate. I also did not know how to fight such a large opponent. Quickness and stealth is what I relied on against this sumo-wrestler. I also doubt that I could talk my way out of this out of control incident.

Once we both arrived at the playground, we shared evil glances at each other. The children were screaming, almost animal like behavior as if they were characters come to life from Lord of the Flies. Danny’s body was now eclipsing the sun, as he stood thirsty for blood. The children were either taunting me or encouraging their portly classmate, “Danny the Killer” or something creative like “Dan the Man.” I planned on winning the hearts of my classmates with a swift and quick victory.

Without warning I ran full speed at the fat turd, only to bounce off like a rubber ball. The fart accuser stood his ground, and then ran towards me. His blubber flapping while he ran, his stomach bounced up and down in the air like a pogo stick. I stood helpless, screaming on the top of my lungs. I have never seen a fat boy run at me as fast as he did.

Black, as if was trapped in the night without lights while closing me eyes. I do not recall where I was, or what had happened, I could not move my body, paralyzed yet my mind awake in the darkness. Then, I slowly assembled the pieces of the puzzle; the plump child was sitting on top of my forty pound body. Ouch.

Thinking back, I have never been successful in duel against my sister. I do not recommend violence to end any dispute. My mind is quicker than any fist, my wit is sharper than any blade, my words are weapons and my weapons are words, delivering lethal blows and demolishing the esteem of my peers and foes alike. I have learned a valuable lesson that day. Who said that you don’t learn anything from school? Including that mulch leaves a nasty after taste. The ink of a scholar is holier than the blood of a martyr. Fighting does not always have to be physical. This was in essence my first fight, but was it to be my last?

the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiii

The last I heard of Zike, was on an instant message conversation online. The proceeding was an actual reenactment of the online conversation.

Zike: I heard u got in trouble lol

Me: tru, but how did u kno I was at her house?

Zike: wtf? im going 2 kill u

Your warning level has increased by 5%.

I intentionally infuriated my advisory by insinuating that I was at his “girl’s” house, even though I was at my salafi advisors couch that night. His anger was only a minor part of my great impulsive scheme.

POW!!! Huh?

Through certain situations heroes are made. On the other hand, superheroes are born. On a murky July night, I was born. It was far from a normal birth of a normal child. You see, I am not that normal. In fact normalicty and its boundaries were unknown to me. I do not know the definition of the word normal or normalicity. Remind me to look it up one day. The day was the 7^th of July. President Reagan nominates Sandra Day O'Connor for the U.S. Supreme Court. Hawaii is officially announced as the 50^th state. The New York Yankees win whatever baseball teams wins. Steroids? And, a superhero is born. (My birth was so anticipated, that three days before my actual birth, the United States government displayed fireworks for the whole nation to celebrate. To this day, fireworks still go off annually.)

After coming out of my mother’s womb I had unresolved anger issues while I was in there, suffocating in the dark, with unpleasant dungeon like conditions. Most of my anger was directed towards my mother’s doctor, who helped with the procedure. With nine months of bottled up aggression, I attacked the doctor and strangled him with my umbilical cord. From the moment I took my first breath, I knew I was different. If you ask my mom, her story differs. She would say something along the lines; I was born naked and crying. Honestly, who would believe that?

Every Friday I would attend the local congregational prayers at my mosque. It was clockwork, I always came at the same time, sat in the same place, and I wore the same outfit. Tick tock. Actually, I wear the same outfit everyday of the week for the past 5 years. I keep it hood in the suburbs.

On my way to the mosque, curiosity struck me like bowling ball on Fred Flinstone’s head. Where was my mortal and dim-witted enemy, Zike? I have not heard from him in a while. Maybe, because he does not know how to dial numbers from a touch tone phone; or maybe, because my cell phone is cut off. Maybe he finally forgot about me. Maybe he finally progressed to place that accepts his barbaric and delinquent persona. I just hope he does not drop the soap. After editing the last sentence, I had a mental picture of that disturbing scene. Astghafullah.

I took my usual seat, slouching by the wall. I strategically crossed my legs, my head facing the ground with my hands covering my face. This position provides an illusion of deep contemplation. Instead, what I was really doing was catching up on some necessary sleep. One o’clock in the afternoon is quite early for a professional bum, I mean uh super hero. Meow. I awoke form my state of trance only to be dulled again by the voice of the imam. His monotone voice covered with a thick West African accent bored me to death. Not only could I not understand what he said, it made whatever he said less understanding. (If you can understand that, then you understand my ordeal. Understood?)

While the imam was speaking, blah blah blah, I came across a great mystery; which surprisingly, unfolded right on the tips of my fingers, literally. A mystery that was in front of me all my life, yet I never paid much attention to it. I never realized it before, but today it came across like a sign. Mankind has traveled far in search for answers of the greatest questions. From the vast miles of ocean water to dangerous space traveling, man has always been on the constant quest for key to the unknowns. It was no coincidence that I stumbled upon a great unnoticed mystery, today. Since the discovery, it gave potential to open doors for more and more questions.

Cuticles. What the fudge are they? Do they serve a vital role in our lives? How does one get rid of such things? More importantly, do females find them attractive? I may have been the only person to ask such bold questions. Never have I heard anyone discuss this strange phenomenon, being ignored by modern society. I will be the first to lead a team of researchers to this scientific exploration.

Anyways, right after the jummah prayer, I walked out the mosque in excited at my discovery. And, impatience grew wanting me to enlighten the rest of my peers. Hurrying I put on my shoes, like a child with his first secret I was in a rush to open my mouth of the finding. And, as soon as I opened the door I ran right into my friend Shairef; he’s my favorite Bengali. He also has a boatload of problems, no pun intended. One day, my salfai advisor and I should actually sit down and discuss that he sucks in Madden.

Now I am standing outside of the mosque or in Muslim terminology the masjid; eager to tell my Bengali friend of my discovery. But being raised by television, my favorite babysitter I have developed an incurable level of ADD (attention deficit disorder). Thus I forget my discovery. Huh? I am surprised I have written this much; especially, since I am plagued with this high level ADD and an above average level of laziness. However, I am more surprised that you people are still reading this. Congratulations!

While talking to Sharief about something that is non-important, I was brutally interrupted by voice of man standing behind me.

“do u hav ghusul?” a muffled voice said with a sense of anger.

Oh, my God! The story has finally picked up. After pages and pages of pure creative artistically written rubbish the story has finally hit its climax. You would never guess who was standing right behind me. Wrong answer, guess again. Not to delay anymore of your precious time, and to kill any suspense that was dramatically built; it was my arch-nemesis, Zike in the flesh. He was standing inches away from me; his eyes boiled with unrelenting anger, his mouth filled with lethal venom, and his nose filled with boogers. Yuck! Our eyes locked with immense tension; I sensed he was not happy at my appearance at the mosque, thus causing a chaotic scene.

“do u hav ghusul?” He repeated, as if I was blind.

Zike was at least thirty pounds heavier then me and at least five inches taller. His voice was resonating within the bones of my skeleton. It was not fear nor was it anxiousness; it was just that I anticipated something was going to go wrong. In other words, my spidey sense was tingling.

“did u do ghusul?” again he repeated, but I had no reply to his silly little question; because I was dumbfounded for his reasoning for asking such a retarded question.

Ghusul is an Arabic term referring to the full ablution in Islam. In order to enter a state of purity before Sal’at (prayer), a Muslim usually performs the partial ablution, or wudu. In some cases, like on a Friday it is preferred to have a ghusul. In other cases a ghusul must be performed. These cases are:

After having sexual intercourse.

After a woman completes her menstrual cycle.

After a new Muslim takes Shahada for the first time

I hope you were taking notes; I rarely give out useful information. Actually, I usually give out false information. For example, I’m pregnant.

Where was I? Oh, yes, Ghusul. Exactly what was my unbeautiful friend insinuating? That I was convert to a religion that I was born? Or was he stating that I had sex before coming to the mosque? (I wish). Astghfullah. Or maybe that it was that time of the month? If that was the case, than I can’t be pregnant.

I was dumfounded by his stupidity.

Looking at his face is as if one was looking at vomit. It is so nasty and repulsive, yet we sometimes stare at it out of sheer curiosity to understand what the vomit consists. Indeed, one may find food that appears hideous and inedible after going through the gaseous states of the human stomach. Curiosity gets the best of us at times. His pimples made up most of his gruesome Halloween mask-type face, where they formed vast geometric type regions, similar to that of the Appalachian Mountains. His muskrat moustache covered his upper lipped, but was easily camouflaged by his nose hairs, which grew out of his nose like wretched, garden weeds. Interestingly enough, most of his pimples made up constellations. It was as if I was gazing upon a flesh colored canvas with bright pink and red stars making up the night sky. I saw the Big Dipper, Bug Bunny and Orion. The craters on his flesh made his face look like an alien landscape. This may have been inhabited by some new form of bacterial life feeding from the pores of his skin. Craters that was large enough to hide Sadaam Huesian, when escaping the American militia.

People like him have coined the redundant phrase “beauty is only skin deep.” One does not realize how ugly a person has to be. I know they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder but not even Ray Charles can find this man reasonably decent. I highly sympathize with the poor women who had to breast feed this monster. Sometimes, God makes ugly people to remind us how blessed we sexy people really are. No wonder Zike is always angry; if I had to wake up, every morning, looking like a mistake, I would be angry too. I doubt that cosmetologists, dermatologists and plastic surgeons with scholarship knowledges cannot help his face, even with reconstructive surgery and the technological advances in cosmetic surgery. Zike is doomed to remain ugly and stupid.

While observing his face, Zike kept yelling at me. It grew considerably annoying, and I tired my bestest to ignore this fool. There are times when the stimulus in my brain realizes that I should leave. Secreting acids in my cerebellum causes me to fail. That probably explains a lot.

“ghusul!” Zike yelled, as if I never heard him the first time. “u ruined my prayer, and the prayer for the rest of us. u hav 2 ask tha imam 2 pray again.”

At this time, all I am thinking is how this acid is emitting out of my ear. Yuck, I need a q-tip.

“tell the imam 2 pray juma again!” His decibel level was increasing; it hurt my eyes to hear him speak. His tone was rather vicious, like a pitbull who chewed off his tail.

“mayb, I will.” I responded. I am quite the clever one, no?

One could admit that I was in a quirky quagmire, a peculiar predicament, a difficult dilemma, a perplexing position, a troublesome tribulation, a titanic tangle, a chaotic complication all at the same time. His voice resonated with fierce anger, and the only resolve was to pound me to death. I do not mind dying, as long as I am still alive, but Zike had me in a catch 22. Not that I would question his faith, but this is the first time I have seen him at jummah in about year; probably, to knock me out.

Finally, I turned around and gave the product of malfunctioning contraception device a piece of my mind. “Zike, do you always talk out of your butt; that would explain your breath.”

What I love most is angering my opponents. At that point in time Zike was absolutely baffled, and for few seconds he did not know how to respond. He must have had an inclination; if he came to jummah to intimidate me that I would I bow to his greatness. At this point Zike responded with an awful amount of profanities that would have made the FCC faint. The retard retorted that he would resort to violence. We are now standing face to face, as if we were about to be engaged in a preflight ritual of brutal trash talk. Like a bull, ready to attack the matador, Zike’s eyes grew with intense rage. Yet, I still did not budge; I kept my feet planted as if they were roots to tree, wrapped underneath the concrete I stood. Zike kept yelling inaudible blabber, hoping that it would intimidate thy. Yet, I still did not budge.

Sharief, at his point, was getting bored; thus he tried to separate us, and try to force me to walk away. Yet, I still did not budge, neither did my antagonizer. Sharief tried again and again; but to of his avail his efforts were futile. Finally, a white convert, who was larger in mass then either Zike or I, felt compelled to split us apart. I just got bored so I walked away; knowing Zike would not be able to do anything. Honestly, if had wanted to do something he already would have done it.

Walking away from confrontations, does make one feel good. I walked with my back facing Zike, still frustrated from the event, towards Sharief’s car. Sharief was talking, as he was walking besides me, some type of talk, which I completely ignored. Possibly he could have given me advice or some type of talk dealing with the intense scenario. He kept talking and talking, reminding me of the imam. I stopped and stood still, turned around to see if Zike was still there. There was a large crowd congregating, veiling my view. I waited for the crowd to clear, while Sharief was still walking and talking, thinking was right beside him. Once the crowd cleared, I made eye contact with Zike, shaped my finger to a gun, pointed at his hideous face and fired. POW!!! Walking away from confrontations, does make one feel good, but shooting your adversary with an imaginary gun makes one feel even better. Meow.

I saw Zike’s eyes reignited with anger, after I pulled that trigger. I turned back around and walked with a swagger, as if I shot Ariel Sharon. A large smile came across my face. I heard the steps of an individual running towards me. Predicting it was Zike, I did not respond to those steps. Turing around to see what was pursuing me, I saw Zike being stopped by an older man, persuading him to calm down. A smile arose on my face, to see Zike out of breath from trying to capture his prey. Poor guy was convincing the old man who held him back, that I possessed a gun. Angering any individual to the point they want to kill me, I boast, is a another tremendous super human power.

“he had a gun!” Zike exclaimed. “he shot me!”

A deck of cards, $2.98; a pair of grey sweat pants, $14.99; Large black t-shirt from foot locker, $5.25; a black pair of Timberland boots, $120.00; inducing Zike to make a fool of himself, priceless.

He, who last laughs, laughs last. As along as it makes no sense, it makes perfect sense to me. Thus, I laugh last. And with all that laughing aside, I have not yet unleashed that ace that anxiously waits up my sleeve. Muhahahahaha. (Evil laughter.)