Falling Pillars

With all the different ways that he was able to win over a billion plus people, the Prophet Mohammad took it all in stride. He held onto his sense that he was the messenger of the unknown and unknowable. He roamed the streets of Newark, Delaware on Main Street. A cool Saturday in Autumn saw a breeze which shook the trees’ golden and orange leaves. When people waved, he waved back. When they honked their horns, he smiled.

That was until he reached the police station. He felt twinges of anger and disgust at them. He even hated what they never embraced, being called “pigs.” One would think he would sympathize with such a moniker hurled at them in opposition, but he held his grudge.

A week ago, police officers killed six jihadist would-be assailants who were trying to blow up the theater in the Newark Shopping Center. The police responded so well with deft precision and expert professionalism, that the men who attempted to dynamite the theater all fell to the crack of pistols of the cops’ serious aim.

Mohammad looked up at the police station and shook his head. He spat on the ground and cursed in Arabic.

“Hey, Mister! You can’t spit on the sidewalk. I’m citing you for fifty dollars,” Officer Bonet Gulls spoke with force.

Mohammad spoke in more Arabic, rising to a crescendo. He moved his hands like a windmill. Bonet just stood there writing the ticket, unfazed by the Prophet. A small crowd had formed. She ripped it off and pinned it to Mohammad’s chest.

“You can see a judge on Monday.” She turned to walk away.

Stunned, Mohammad kept staring at Bonet; he noticed her physical beauty and well-pressed uniform despite her being twenty-four and far too old for him.

Quickly he sprinted over to her. He motioned for her to listen to him speak into his smartphone. An app translated his language into English.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I meant no harm back there. I was just trying to get the taste of goat testicles out of my mouth.”

“That seems pretty extreme but you can’t go around these streets and expel saliva on the sidewalk. The fine stands, you can argue it in court. Good day,” Bonet spoke curtly.

Mohammad wanted more. “This is ridiculous,” he said into the phone. He walked closer to her.

Bonet put out an arm. “Six feet, asshole. Take the ticket and move on about your business. You bother me. I am an officer of the law and will not be treated with belligerence. Again, good day.”

Mohammad was irate at this point. He felt boiling inside of him the Five Pillars of Islam. The first one referred to him, so he considered that chiefly.

He spoke back into the phone, this time a distance within Bonet’s earshot but not close enough to touch her.

“I am the messenger of God and there is no god but Allah.”

“Tell it to the judge, bastard.”

“You should be offering salat.”

“I can offer you handcuffs for obstructing an officer of the law.”

“What about the poor, huh?” Mohammad asked. “Can’t you find some way to give alms?”

“I donate to billionaires. Does that count?”

Bonet smirked. She fixed her body cam while she said this. The crowd swelled. Videophones recorded the back and forth exchange as if it was a scene from a streaming show. Another cruiser arrived on the scene.

“Why are you not fasting?”

“Why haven’t I put you in handcuffs yet?”

“You may be an infidel but you must respect my right to hajj.”

“I don’t care what you do. Just keep what’s ever in your mouth, in your mouth along these streets.”

Mohammad seethed. He was not at arms distance now. He leapt at Officer Gulls and she backed up and withdrew her pistol as he lay, face planted on the ground. He got up and charged at her again with a dagger. Onlookers still captured the spectacle of this moment with their phones.

Bonet fired three shots aimed at Mohammad’s heart. He staggered a bit and then fell over onto someone else’s spit.

Cheers went up for the lady cop. Two other officers surveyed the scene and kept the crowd at a distance. She radioed for a van to come and pick up the Prophet.