He was a moslem. He had been raised to obey the will of Allah. He could recite much of the Koran by heart. He had been taught to hate infidels. he was sixteen years old when he knew that Allah wasn’t real and that heaven wasn’t real. He knew they were only his imaginings. He also knew that he didn’t hate anyone, unless it was those who had told him to hate.
He grew up in Brooklyn and loved to watch men working—in the street, on construction—as he walked about by himself in his free time—away from his mother, away from the mosque, away from hatred. And he grew to love the skyline of New York, strong, shining, hopeful—the devil’s work of the infidel, he was told. On 9-11, when he was 21, and he saw the fiery wreckage in the sky that had been the Twin Towers, he decided to change his detested name. It would no longer be Mohammed. He went to court and got it changed to John, John Smith. Then he left home, he disappeared, without telling anyone. Fifteen years later, at the age of 36, after working in a factory all that time in the mid-west, he was ready. (During those 15 years he had studied chemistry and bomb-making in all his spare time and had developed a dynamite stick 100 times more powerful than an ordinary one, plus a remote way of setting it off, giving him time to be somewhere else when it blew.) Now he had saved up enough materials to begin his campaign—his jihad against Islam.
First, it was a mosque in a little town near St. Louis. It was packed full of kneeling, bowing worshippers when it blew up, killing everyone inside. On the lawn in front of the building firefighters found a large white envelope stuck with an Islamic knife in the ground. On the paper inside were printed three words in big red letter: JIHAD AGAINST ISLAM. The firefighters gathered around it and smiled at each other. One of them said, “So be it.”
A week later a mosque near Indianapolis met the same fate. The firemen there didn’t search too vigorously for clues, but instead walked a little straighter after reading the note in the envelope. The media tried to cover up the notes, but the firemen leaked them to several talk radio stations and sent out tweets and videos of them and soon the whole world knew.
Nothing happened for three weeks. But on the Fourth of July 4 mosques in 4 different cities were blown sky high. John Smith had been busy. Moslems were enraged, demanding extra security, making speeches about freedom of religion and playing the parts of pitiful victims, with screaming men and wailing women. The President said that “this wanton disregard for the lives of valuable American citizens will not be tolerated.” Although they did not like the stench of the dead bodies, firemen loved going to these fires and finding the envelope. At one site one old, implacable-faced Marine from the Second World War saluted the note when it was opened and read aloud.
On September 11 of that year a meeting was called for all the top Moslem leaders in America. They were to gather at a huge mosque in Texas. Moslems came from near and far, packing the auditorium. John Smith, dressed in moslem garb, reciting aloud from memory those hated Koranic verses as he walked about, was very busy indeed. Later in the day, with all these higher up moslems leading the worshippers in prayer against the great satan America, there was a series of terrific explosions, the great roof collapsed, the walls fell inward, and all twenty-thousand moslems were no more.
After this, patriotic followers went across America. Hundreds of mosques were blown up, thousands of moslems fried. Then the fierce justice of Jihad-Against-Islam spread to England and Europe. Moslems were on the run. They ran, flew, sailed back to the mid-east, where they fought and killed each other in the dry, lifeless deserts.
John Smith was a happy man. He had saved civilization from the foulest evil in the history of mankind. Then he thought about all the evil people he had killed—the men who treated women worse than cattle, who raped them, or stoned them, when they pleased; the mothers who taught their children to hate; the children,—well, yes, there might have been one or two among them like himself, but, if they had been like him, they would have done what he had done. “Justice Against Islam!” was the best thing he could have done—for them, for civilized, innocent men and women, and for himself. And so he felt no guilt, but only a very manly and a very real American pride.