72 Virgins

Jihadi blows himself up for 72 “virgins” and finds himself on the edge of heaven, but doesn't see the “virgins.” St Peter sends for him and he walks the long path up to “the big book of names of those entering into heaven.” St Peter sits behind the book and scans and scans and scans . . . there's a computer the likes of which no man has devised yet hidden by the open book . . . page after page after page . . . using every spelling of the jihadi’s name, St Peter cannot locate his name.

Then after all research is exhausted, he asks “What have you to say for yourself?” The jihadi looks at St Peter as if he's the most stupid Jew he's ever seen and says very proudly “I blew myself up for the cause of Muhammad.” St Peter looks at him with pity and says . . . “I am so sorry, you cannot enter here. There is a special place reserved for you.” The jihadi doesn't pay attention to the first sentence and becomes gloated with self-pride “a special place reserved for ME?!” and imagines his 72 'virgins' beautiful with soft as silk skin, dark eyes, and long flowing black hair living in a house that rivals the Taj Mahal.

St Peter says to the jihadi . . . “you will have a guide to lead you to the place where you will spend eternity.” And a puffed up jihadi says “bring it on” with a huge content smile on his face.

A door in a cloud opens wide and a guide appears in dazzling robes, bejeweled and sparkling. The guide reaches out his hand and says “this way my friend, my close friend. We have your 72 ‘virgins’” [the last said with a chuckle]. “Come with me my familiar friend.”

So the jihadi reaches out his right hand and the guide grasps it tightly. Suddenly and snake-like, a sinewy rope wraps itself around the jihadi's wrist so that he will be unable to pull away. A look of horror comes over the jihadi's face as the pit of his stomach lurches to warn him that "this isn't the 72 'virgins' he knew." As soon as the opening behind them closes, the clothing of the guide morphs into hideous garish clashing colors and the jewels become gargoyle-like heads . . . only these are real and not carved in stone.

What had appeared to be a lovely scene from the other side of the door, morphed into the interior of a volcano as the guide and the jihadi were pulled downward by an unseen force. As the two reached the center of this horrible scene, they had passed many screaming souls locked inside tortured and twisted bodies. As the jihadi looked at his body he was that acutely aware that his skin was crawling with small worms and maggots and he saw that his clothing was torn to shreds and there were open sores on the exposed parts of his body.

The jihadi's mind was reeling as he internally heard the Koran's verses being read in Arabic. "This wasn't supposed to happen, where are my promised 72 'virgins?'" he inwardly screamed. He looked at his right arm, now tightly twisted by the sinewy ropelike poisonous snake. He noticed at once that his skin was hanging on him and there was no blood in his arm . . . or in the sores . . . or feeding the worms and maggots. "Where am I?!" he screamed over the heart pounding cacaphony around him. His guide turned his face to the jihadi . . . who instantly surmised where he was . . . and had he had blood in his veins, it would have drained out of his body at the sight of that horrendous face. The bedlam overpowered the jihadi. The roar of the inner reaches of the volcano, the screams of the other souls, the cackling laughter of other guides, would it ever end? "And what about my 72 'virgins'??" he howled.

Then, all the noise seemed to abate and an uneasy silence surrounded the jihadi. His wild eyes finally focused on a form in front of him. The being was hideous, nauseous, with the odor of rotting flesh. If he could have done so, the jihadi would have vomited all over himself, but there was nothing within him, not a drop of saliva in his mouth, no tears in his eyes, nothing liquid. Abject hopelessness was his sustenance and he felt the hopelessness in his entire body. "Oh god," whispered the jihadi, "allu achbar, there is no god but allah and I am his faithful servant." He had barely finished his prayer when the being in front of him roared in laughter that was like a suffocating blanket. The being transfigured into an Arab caliph for just a second before returning to its original hideous form. The jihadi's mind was reeling with reality. "That was no Arab Caliph, that was Muhammad. What is he doing here? Where is the heavenly place reserved for me? Where are my 72 'virgins?'"

If he could have, the jihadi would have cried tears of remorse. But that was an emotion and a virtue which had never been taught to him on earth. He'd never felt sorry for the infidels he'd killed. He'd only felt the pride of the jihadis, stoked by the imams and the mullahs. His mind raced. "I did everything right. I followed every tenet of Islam I was taught. I was promised heaven and 72 'virgins' and I end up here? Why? Why am I in this hellish place? What the hell is going on? I was promised heaven by the mullahs and the imams. What the hell?!"

As the thoughts of the jihadi raced through his mind, the form in front of him heard them all. His raw searing laughter scraped across the jihadi causing his sores to inflame and pierce his soul with disabling pain. As the laughter died down, the form reached out his left hand. Slowly opening his hand, he revealed 72 cold white raisins and said in Arabic "Behold, jihadi, your 72 'virgins' are the last cooling food that will ever pass across your parched tongue and they will remain a heavy reminder in your stomach for all eternity."

*Notice that the 72 raisins were given in the outstretched left hand . . . the 'unclean' hand which wipes excrement. There's symbolism there.