NYC Letter: Message From The Beyond

Yesterday afternoon we hotwired a Ouija board to the Internet and received this urgent communiqué:

WOOOOOOOO-weee! Is it hot! Hello, folks, Abu here. The Z-man. Well, it's official. I'm dead and gone. You can catch the action on the al-Qaeda blooper reel on Al-Jazeera.

HOT! HOT! HOT!
The Z-man Feels The Heat

For starters, let me say -- oops! No 72 virgins in my welcome wagon. All that tosh about martyrdom -- the glory, the sainted status, the endless schtuppita-schtuppita. Ha! I couldn't buy myself a $2 houri with Steve Wynn's Gold Card. Come on. Who's kidding who? An eternity of Paradisical amenities as a reward for a lifetime of murdering innocents, grotesque beheadings, spreading sedition, petty crime, and never paying a single parking ticket? Oh yeah.

You know, the whole defunct Al-Tawhid wa-l Jihad crew is here. The first thing they ask me is, Z-man, why'd we blow up unarmed civilians, mothers and babies, kids? Why not take it to the "man", the Great Satan? Duh. Because the Great Satan shoots back, Brainiacs. I've been picking GBU-12 out of my butt since I got here -- that's why. [Pause.] What a bunch of losers.

Lookee, I'm a sociopath. OK, I'm a psychopath. It's a [Pause.] a medical condition. Bona fide. Pan-Islamism re-purposed my medical condition as a profession. And the Western press transformed me into a romantic freedom fighter. Pan-Islamism gave me back my dignity. My pride, pride in my work. Praise be Al-

[Forbidden from invoking God, an enormous djinni appears and smashes Mr. Zarqawi's forehead with a huge iron hammer.]

Hey! Ouch, ouch, ouch! Damn! It was a joke for God's sake!

[The djinni reappears and drives a white-hot iron spike deep into the top of Mr. Zarqawi's head splintering his spine and severing his bowels, which triggers a supernatural episode of incontinence.]

Oh, man, look at this. This is so - [Mr. Zarqawi breaks off. He manages to clear his fingers and attempts to push aside his rising easement.] - embarrassing. It's been like this since day one. The iron hammer, Zaqqum fruit cups, Ghislin pudding packs, diarrhea. They're very big on shit here. It's everywhere, like being in Paris. And if it's not the damn djinn it's some pajama-bottomed kaffir making fun of my - [Wiggles his fingers to keep his chin clear.] - straitened circumstances.

Oh. Listen, I'd like to thank Nicolas Berg's father for sending flowers. Hey, grieving infidel! How about a couple of PBRs! Where the hell do you think I am? Pansyland?

[There is a sudden ripping crepitus.]

Oh, man! That is so nasty.

[With a loud liquid sucking sound Mr. Zarqawi sinks into his surrounding ordure. His last words are unintelligible.]

End of transmission.