"No. The First Lady. I went to the very top."
When she was first informed that she had been granted-sexual-refugee-immigrant-victim status, Abeer Ghula had one question: "Does the press know of this?"
her first press conference in the nude, with the black wound around her waist for decorative purposes at the New York headquarters of the National Organization for Women, with a full-court press contingent in attendance.
"Cast down your male gods, your false prophets and your brazen phallic idols. I call upon all American women to embrace Um Allaha, the Mother of Us All, and compel their menfolk to take up the veil and kneel at her gold-painted toes."
A reporter asked, "Are you renouncing Allah?"
"No. I spit in his false face. There is no Allah. He is only a stern stone mask the imams and mullahs cower behind because they are too old to hide behind the skirts of their mother's
the fatwa?"
"Up here with the said Abeer Ghula, pointing to her naked buttocks.
"Aren't you afraid?" a reporter from asked.
"I am in America now. What can the mullahs do to me now that I enjoy the protection of the Second Commandment?"
"That's 'Thou shalt not take the Lord's name in vain.' "
"No, the other thing."
"That's the right to bear arms. You probably mean the First Amendment of the Constitution."
"I intend to wallow in all amendments as I prosecute my religious freedoms upon all Americans of every faith."
"Have you heard about the Muslim attacks in New York City?"
"I hear about them all the time. I left them behind in Cairo. Such male thunderings are behind me now."
"A jihad group calling itself the Messengers of Muhammad has infiltrated the post office. They're wreaking havoc everywhere."
Abeer Ghula didn't skip a beat. "I demand protection, then. If I am killed, a terrible blow will be struck against freedom of worship, not only here but in other countries where women are repressed by masculine oppression."
"This group has called for you to be sent back to Cairo in irons."
"They cannot compel me to go," Abeer sneered.
"They've made the demand on the White House."
"The Very First Lady has cast the iron shadow of her womanly protection over my mission."
"What happens if she's voted out of office next month?"
"They would not dare!" Abeer flared, gold eyes flashing.
"Happens almost every four years like clockwork," a reporter said dryly.
And before the eyes of the assembled press, Abeer Ghula paled from her shiny forehead to her ebony toenails.
Without another word, she unwound herand dropped it over her body, covering her face with her trembling hands.
"I am not afraid," she quavered.
By 9:00 p.m. the postmaster general thought the worst was over.
There had been no more explosions up in Manhattan. The Oklahoma City situation had died down. They were still looking for the assailant, but no one was reporting his capture, and with luck the SOB would hold out until the New York story had blown over.
Best of all, the President had not called back. He would be easy to wait out. The man was at the endhis term of office, and he still hadn't filled some empty cabinet posts.
Post offices over the nation were on emergency sanity-maintenance programs. That would bring the mail stream to a near-halt for at least a week, but these days people expected sluggish mail delivery. After all, what did the American public expect for a lousy thirty- two-cent stamp? Personalized service?
The postmaster general was filling his briefcase with rolls of stamps intended as Christmas presents for immediate relatives when his executive secretary buzzed him.
"Boston postmaster on the line."
"Find out what it's about."
The secretary was not long. "A postal worker committed suicide."
"What's with these nervous nellies? I have a huge operation to run. Employees self-destruct every damn week."
"He's saying the man died fleeing FBI custody."
"Find out if he's the shooter from Oklahoma City."
The secretary was back in ten seconds this time. "He doesn't believe so, but he's really anxious to talk to you."
"Take a message. I've had a long day."
Shoveling the last sheets of mint Elvis stamps into his briefcase, the postmaster general of the United States got up and walked past his secretary as she was trying to record the message from the Boston postmaster on a yellow legal pad.
He was almost out the door when the secretary hung up, tore off the top sheet and turned in her seat.
"You might want to read this."
Growling, the postmaster general said, "Read it to me."
"Local TV station here is reporting that the USPS has been infiltrated by a Muslim terrorist group for the purpose of waging a campaign of terror on entire populace. No further details."
The postmaster general froze with his hand on the brass doorknob. His sweat turned cold in his palm.
"Get Boston back on the line. Right away," he barked, whirling back into his office, his long face almost matching his tie in length.