This is an excerpt from our author Denis Schulz's 3-volume fiction: "The Search for Yasser Abdel Said".

This is expert from Volume III of "The Search for Yaser Abdel Said."


The first volume, "Aisha", was originally written about two years ago and was a satire. Bernard Piffy was little more a muscuilar Barney Fife; he was a clown, a fool, a joke. I wrote two chapters and that was it. A short time later, I wrote two more chapters -- it was still a joke, something done for amusement more than anything else. But I went back after a spell and wrote two more chapters. And then two more and suddenly Bernard Piffy was no longer a joke. I got serious. It involved a lot of rewritng.

The chapters appeared periodically on my now dormant website and various blogs I've been associated with as I finished them. All of them have been rewritten. And I kept writing and writing. Eventually I had 120 chapters more than enough to satisfy mortal man. They were full of hyperlinks and pictures. I could have went on forever but I had to make order out of the chaos. It was time to turn them into books. It took four months of 12-hour-a-day rewriting to get them in the shape I wanted. The three volumes are: "Aisha", "The Sheikh", and "Johnny Whiz Bang, Abolitionist".

These books are not meant for Muslims or ex-Muslims or anti-Muslims (Islamaphobes), but for people -- especially the young -- who have no knowledge of Islam except for what they have seen or heard on TV or read in the print media interpreted for them by likes of CAIR, MSNBC, and the Obama administration. They are meant to exposed Islam's dreadful treatment of women. It is hoped that they can get a few of the younger generation to reassess their view of Islam.






Bonds—Stockton Bonds—stared at the detonator. “I can’t understand why it didn’t blow,” he said.

Beauregard Zolo looked up from his backpack. “Maybe the Estane in the explosive is too old,” he said.

“Too old?” said Bonds. “What do you mean—too old?”

“How long has Maxwell Smart been dead? Thirty-forty years? The Estane could have degraded.”

Bonds shook his head. “Naw,” he said. “I checked everything before I bought it—I ran a sample through a cylinder expansion test. I even talked to Agent 9-to-5. She said she would stake her life on the stuff being good. It should have blown that door to Kingdom Come. This wouldn’t have happened in the Old Days”

He set the detonator on the sink and his mind began to wander. “No, sir…not in the old days when Blofeld was running wild… not when things that were supposed to go ka-boom went ka-boom…not when there was a Honey Rider lurking behind every Bamboo Curtain from Timbuktu to Sasquatch…not when M had the ear of Maggie Thatcher…not when…” He paused. “Say, did I ever tell you about the time I caught Ms Rider skinny-dipping in a piranha infested lagoon…”

Zolo had heard the story before and each time it had had a different ending. He gulped some oxygen from his Mountain High handheld third lung oxygen system. “Changes in the molecular weight of the Estane in a plastic explosive can lead to oxidative degradation of the Estane,” he said. “Estane is the segmented poly that binds the HMX explosive crystals and provides the mechanical integrity to the composite banded explosive. That is probably why the explosive didn’t go ka-boom.”

Bonds shrugged. “That’s what they all say,” he said.

He hadn’t understood a word of what the Man from AUNTIE had said. Things either went ka-boom or they didn’t. He went to the door and poked at the explosive. It should have blown the door to Hell and back or to where Honey Rider dried her bikinis after splashing around in one of Dr. No’s aquariums. Yeah…Honey Rider…things weren’t as easy as they were thirty years ago…nothing worked as well…it was the Socialists…

He checked the detonator again. Maybe he should take the battery out of his hearing aid and stick it in the detonator. Or he could bang the detonator against the wall and see what would happen. It would be better than spending the rest of his life cooped up in a toilet with a guy who knew what the hell plastic explosive was made of but couldn’t take ten steps without sucking air from an oxygen mask. What a pathetic wretch this Man from AUNTIE—he should have insisted on Ilya What’s-His-Name.

He turned away from the door. “Maybe you’d better get in one of those stalls,” he said to Zolo. “There’s no telling what might happen when I get to fiddling with this Estane stuff.”


One of the Mullahs grabbed Aisha before she could reach the operating table. She screamed and with tears running down her cheeks she struck at the man. But he was three times her size and her blows had no effect. He pulled her arms behind her back, caught her wrists in one large hand. A little pressure in the right place and she stopped struggling. She stood there obediently, sniffling, eyes focused on the floor.

The Imam was furious. “If this is any indication of how you run things here, ul-Heim,” he said, “I will recommend this place be closed!”

Dr. Haribert bit his lip. “Don’t be hasty, Imam, “ he said. “I have had nothing to do with this. We are in the presence of evil.”

“Evil?” said the Imam.

“I will show you,” said ul-Heim.” He had an idea. He took Fatima by the hand and led her to the operating table.

The nine-year-old was terrified. She had seen things the last few days no child her age should ever see—things that were as much nightmare as reality. She had seen a janitor with his throat ripped apart by a dog no larger than a bowling ball; she had hid in a toilet from two rampaging Mujahideen; she had seen her friend Bernie attacked by a girl with a knife; she had been flung end for end when the Midnight Rider left the road and ended up on its side in a ditch. And now Dr. ul-Heim was pushing her toward an operating table upon which her friend Krista was lying naked.

Ul-Heim placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and gestured at the naked ten-year-old. “Who is that?” he asked softly. “Do you know him? You can tell me—it will be our little secret. No one else will know.”

Fatima looked at Piffy. She was confused. Her mind was so cluttered with fearful premonitions she wanted to scream but Krista looked so beautiful lying there he took her breath away. He reminded her of the picture she had seen of the Christ child in the old Christian prayer book. “He is Krista,” she whispered. “He is the Christ child.”

Christ child? The Imam was stunned! He could not believe his ears! “Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” he cried. He grabbed the girl by the arm and slapped her across the face. “Who told you that? Who told you that?”

Fatima began to cry. “No one!” she whimpered. “No one!”

The Imam turned on Piffy, his eyes blazing with a hatred Boris Karloff couldn’t have replicated in 1,400 years of Frankenstein movies. And the words he spoke came straight from the Qur’an (114:4):

“From the evil of the sneaking Devil, who Whisper Evil and withdraws after his whisper, the slinking Satan, the same who whisper into the hearts of mankind from among the jinn and men.”

Piffy eyed the Imam. Evil? What evil? The old fool was crazy! “You’re full of crap!” he said. “If there’s any evil around here, it’s you!”

The Imam leaned across the operating table his face twisted with hatred. A trickle of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth and spittle sprayed from his lips and across the face of the naked ten-year-old. Once again he quoted from the Qur’an (70:26):

“Fear the torment of the Lord, for the Lord’s torment is such none can feel secure.”

Piffy wanted to paste the bastard in the face but he was helpless. He stared the rat-bag in the eye. “Torment?” he said. “You let me loose and I will show you what the hell torment is. I’ll kick your stinking butt from here to hell and back!”

The Imam pressed as close to the child as he could until their faces were almost touching. The words were from the Qur’an (5:37):

“The disbelievers will long to get out of the fire, but never will they get out there from; theirs will be an enduring torture.”

Piffy closed his eyes. Enough was enough. The Imam went on and on, one quote from the Qur’an following another; spit following spittle. He turned his head to one side. Some of the words were familiar. He remembered them from the three days he had spent in the Madrassas in London listening to and repeating the same suras over and over again. If there was a hell this was surely it.

When the Imam paused for breath Piffy opened his eyes. The Holy Man was still there but he had stepped away from the operating table. The look of utter disdain and contempt on his face as he looked down at the ten-year-old would have humbled a million moderate Muslims but Piffy was not a moderate Muslim and he was not humbled. He got angry—William Cump Sherman angry; damn Yankee angry! Two could play this game! It was time to fight fire with fire!

He started a Hail Mary but he couldn’t remember the words. Maybe he was under too much pressure. He would try an Our Father. He knew that one. He cleared his throat.

“Our Father who art in heaven,” he prayed, “hallowed be thy Name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

He would have preferred a sharp stake and two free hands to drive it through the old rat-bag’s heart but all he had was words so he continued as best he could

“And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” he said.

But he lost his place and he had to start over again. There were too many distractions. He would never have made it through Gethsemane. He wasn’t used to praying; it wasn’t like him, but he kept at it. He must have gone through the prayer two or three times—maybe four. By the time he had finished the operating room was as silent as a catacomb.

He looked around for Father Mulcahy. He wasn’t there. Neither was Radar O’Reilly or Major Winchester. The place was full of Muslims. What the hell had he done to deserve this?

The Mullahs were shuffling uneasily. They knew a Christian prayer when they heard one.

Little Fatima broke the silence of Piffy’s sepulcher. Her eyes were as wide as those of a dozen Hentai babes. “Forgive us our trespasses,” she repeated, “as we forgive those who trespass against us. That is so beautiful.”

“Quiet, child!” hissed one of the Mullahs.

“But it is so beautiful,” persisted Fatima.

“There is no forgiveness in Islam for disbelievers!” thundered the Imam. “There is only an eternal torment.”

“You’re wrong, potato head,” said Piffy. “Islam is the eternal torment.”

The Imam hit the ten-year-old across the face. “There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet!” he screamed.

Piffy shook off the blow. “There are no Gods and there are no prophets,” he said. “There are only Devils and liars.”

The Imam hit the infidel again. How dare this despicable Kuffar swine challenge the knowledge of the greatest Islamic scholar in all of Gaza!

Piffy drew a labored breath. “The crimes of Islam are so great,” he said hoarsely, “that neither Hitler nor Stalin need be ashamed of theirs.”

The next blow rattled Piffy’s teeth and slammed his head hard against the operating table. It was tougher this time but he wasn’t finished. “Ten million dead Muslims isn’t too high a price to pay for my freedom,” he gasped.

He scarcely felt the next blow—the left side of his head was already numb and blood was running into his mouth. Where he found the words and how he managed to get them out he would never know. “I, Bernard Piffy,” he grated, “am now quite certain that the crimes of Islam can never be purged away but with blood.”

Dr. ul-Heim grabbed the Imam and pulled him away from the operating table before the irate holy man could strike another blow. Things could get out of hand if he let them go any further. “Easy! Easy!” he said to the Imam. “We can’t operate on a dead patient!  The professors have traveled a long way for this. Sex reassignment surgery is rare in Islam.”

“Unduly rare,” said one of the Mullahs.

By now ul-Heim was as sick of Islam as he had ever been. How could he have suggested something like sex reassignment surgery even in jest? He should have opposed it from the very beginning. He should have refused to attend the meetings. He should have said nothing. He wished he wasn’t there. Islam no longer gave him the satisfaction it once had. The glow was gone; doubt was creeping in from every direction. He was tired; he was exhausted. He needed a rest—a vacation—a change of pace—something new…something better…something better than Islam…

Fatima was crying and a low mournful sound was coming from Aisha—a 1,400 year lament flying in the face of everything said by the likes of Christiane Amanpour, Naomi Wolf, Karen Armstrong, Audrey Shabbas, Yvonne Ridley and their running dogs at Columbia and Berkeley and in the White House.

The university professors exchanged nervous glances. They had agreed to perform a sex reassignment surgery not to partake in the physical battering of a ten-year-old child. It was more than they had bargained for.

Diabolica shook her head. “The kid’s got more guts than any man in this room, I’ll say that for him,” she said. “It’s too bad he’s a Kuffar and not a Muslim.”

No one knew what to do next and everyone begin to talk at once.

And then Masoud stuck his head in through the door. The ul-Heim security chief had more bad news. “Al-Kabibble’s here,” he said.

“Al-Kabibble?” said ul-Heim.

“He’s got a bunch of al-Thi’b’s men and a couple of artillery pieces,” said Masoud.

“Artillery pieces?” said ul-Heim.

“Yeah—artillery pieces,” said Masoud. “And a couple of PCs.”

Ul-Heim scowled. “What does he want?” he asked.

“He wants the girl,” said Masoud.

“The girl?” said ul-Heim.

“He wants his ‘Krista’ and he wants her now,” said Masoud, “Or else!”

“Hasn’t anyone told him ‘Krista’ is a boy?” asked ul-Heim.

“I guess not,” said Masoud. “He’s a very powerful man. People are afraid to approach him with bad news.”

“Well stall him!” ordered ul-Heim. “I’ve got enough surgeons here to provide him with exactly what he wants if he will give me the time.”

“You mean the sex reassignment surgery is still on?” asked Masoud.

“Yes,” said ul-Heim, “more so than before.” He had an idea. He was beginning to see a way out of this mess. It would be tough on the boy but it wouldn’t be fatal.

“Al-Kabibble says we’ve got ten minutes,” said Masoud. ‘Ten minutes—that’s all.”

“Stall him!” said ul-Heim. “Tell him our tailors are preparing the child’s trousseau. He’ll like that. Ask for an hour—we’ll be done by then.”

Yes, they would be done by then—all of them…Dr. ul-Heim, the Imam, the girls, the university professors, the Mullahs; they would all be done by then…

And so would Bernard Piffy…

Comments powered by CComment

Joomla templates by a4joomla