More than one hand stole under the table to manually choke off an imminent liquid accident.
A woman newscaster appeared on the screen. Though her words were in English, Arabic subtitles reflected her report.
"The United Nations joint command today reported that the array of forces now numbering units from virtually every standing army of the world, less Italy, are only three months away from hammering out a workable command structure."
"Lies," President Hinsein smiled. "Flimsy propaganda."
"Lies. Yes, lies. Transparent fabrications." The murmurs of agreement rippled around the long table. Laughter came easily.
"In Washington, Reverend Juniper Jackman, perennial presidential candidate and shadow senator to the District of Columbia, announced that he would go to Abominadad and attempt to win the release of BCN news anchor Don Cooder, now in his fourth day of captivity."
"Tender the Reverend Jackman an invitation to visit Abominadad," the President told his information minister.
"Yes, Precious Leader. Shall I have him detained?"
"No," muttered President Hinsein. "He is an ass-kisser. I do not arrest those who understand where to place their lips."
"Of course."
And every man in the room made a mental note of their President's pronouncement. If there was one good thing about Maddas Hinsein, it was that he spoke his mind exactly.
The report continued.
"In other news today, the citizens of La Plomo, Missouri, today held a rally in support of U.S. hostages in Irait and occupied Kuran, tying yellow ribbons around every tree in the tiny farm community, struggling to return to normalcy after last spring's catastrophic poison-gas-storage accident."
His chin cupped in his strong hands, his elbows on the table, Maddas Hinsein narrowed his liquid brown eyes at the words.
This warning signal went unnoticed because all eyes were on the TV screen and the flickering images of U.S. farmers busily tying yellow ribbons around a huge oak tree.
They were shouting at the top of their lungs.
"Mad Ass Mad Ass Mad Ass."
"See?" Maddas Hinsein crowed. "Even the American farmers support me. They despise their criminal government for denying them the right to sell their grain to the proud but hungry Iraiti people. It is just like Vietnam was. A bottomless pit of sand."
No one dared contradict the President. They knew, whereas their leader did not, that Americans had learned a bitter lesson in Vietnam and would go to any length to avoid repeating the experience. Including pulverizing storied Abominadad.
Then the camera panned to an obvious caricature of Maddas Hinsein hanging from a noose. A boy in a green-and-brown-checkered shirt brushed the straw-stuffed effigy with a lighted torch. Licking flames crawled up its legs. In moments the effigy was blazing.
The cry "Mad Ass Mad Ass Mad Ass" swelled.
And every sweaty face along both sides of the conference table jerked back to take in their President's reaction.
Maddas Hinsein leapt to his feet, hands gripping the table edge, ready for anything. A few more attempted to choke off bladder releases by crossing their legs.
"Why do they call my name so strangely?" Hinsein demanded. "Do they not know how to pronounce my name, which is revered by all Islam and feared by the infidels who dwell beyond Dar al-Harb?"
No one answered at first. Then, seeing the growing darkening of their leader's face, everyone attempted to answer at once.
Maddas Hinsein brought order to the room by whipping out his sidearm and waving the muzzle at every face. Hands that had been under the table surfaced. The trickle of running water came. No one wanted to be mistaken for an assassin with a concealed pistol-the chief reason that the Revolting Command Council met around a large square table with almost no top other than a thin border around the edge.
Silence clamped down like an aural eclipse. The weapon stopped pointing at the information minister, who wore a military-style uniform and about a gallon of sweat where his face should be.
"You. Tell me."
"They are making fun of your name, Scimitar of Islam," he said in a shaking voice.
"Maddas is my name."
"In English, 'mad' means something else."
Maddas Hinsein's meaty face gathered in puzzlement.
"What?"
"It means 'angry.' "
"And the other word?" Maddas asked slowly.
"This word, O Precious Leader, has the same sound as the backside of a man."
Maddas Hinsein blinked his deadly emotionless eyes.
"Angry Ass?" he said in English.
The information minister swallowed. "Yes," he admitted.
"Me?" he said, pointing at his chest with his own gun. Everyone silently beseeched Allah for the gun to discharge and preserve Irait from this madman. It did not.
"Yes," the information minister repeated.
Maddas Hinsein threw his head to one side, thinking. His eyes crinkled. His mouth gave a meaty little pucker.
"I have heard this English word," President Hinsein said slowly. "Somewhere. But it did not mean 'angry.' "
The gun whipped back toward the information minister. "It means 'crazy'!" he snarled.
The Revolting Command Council gasped as one.
"Both!" the information minister bleated. "It means both!"
"You lie! How can a word mean two things?"
"The American are like this! Two-faced! Is it not so?" the information minister asked of the room.
The Revolting Command Council was silent. No one knew the safe answer, so no one spoke.