Suicide Bomber Goes to Heaven

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Homa O-Lardi’s suicide bomb went off before he got to the crowd. So when he showed up at the Pearly Gates, he was mad as hell – so to speak.

Suicide Bomber Goes to Heaven
A short Story by Andy Andrews, November 2010
Homa O-Lardi’s suicide bomb went off before he got to the crowd. So when he showed up at the Pearly Gates, he was mad as hell – so to speak.
[The Pearly Gates]
“Well?” St. Peter asked Homa O-Lardi. It was a relevant question.
But like all suicide bombers before him, the individual and collective elevators of which didn’t make it all the way to the top, and since Homa’s wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, and since he wouldn’t win the spelling bee or grow up to be President or Prime Minister, St Peter didn’t expect or get, a direct answer to his question. And thrown in on top, was the fact that Homa O-Lardi was the biggest idiot that anybody who can spot big idiots, could ever spot.
But in all fairness to Homa, and as you might think, it wasn’t really so much Homa’s fault, as it was his parent’s and others around him. His parents had handed ‘stupid’ and bad advice down to Homa in spades; starting at his birth and his naming.
From his parents to his uncles and male cousins, and from his teachers to his preachers, and from his Imams to his Ayatollahs: All had trumpeted and slammed the very same message into Homa’s ears and heart of hearts. Homa had been force-fed a never ending diet of ‘death to the infidels’, and ‘the virgins await you’, and ‘Allah holds his arms out for you’!
Criticized and mentally beaten down, whipped constantly with the Quran and then watched as if he were a traitorous spy, Homa eventually stopped listening to all other things around him. He prepared himself for what they all demanded, but would not do themselves of course; Homa would kill himself and take as many others with him as he could - all in the name of almighty God and for the ‘glory of Islam’ they said.
“Stupid is as stupid is born,” an Ayatollah had scolded him one time. “But you can do better than your stupid parents; none have sunk lower than they. You must not test things Homa; answers will not come for you! You are destined to be a Martyr! You have been chosen as one to greet Allah on your own schedule. I say this.”
So rather than answer the question asked of him, Homa decided to ask a question back to this questioner; “Well what?” he smirked. Homa didn’t quiet get it yet.
“No, no,” St Peter said kindly. “I ask and you answer. Let’s start again: Well?”
“Oh! I wish for girl light hair. Is ok? OK, eh…eh…Now?”
“No, not that; no more ‘knowing’ your wives in that way Homa; that part is over. Now, you know what I’m asking you about. So let’s start over once again. Homa O-Lardi: Well?”
“But I’ve yet to have a wife. I decided to skip that part, and go right to the virgins promised up here,” he said.
“Well?” St Peter asked again.
“The wine then,” Homa said. “The wine promised. I will have the wine now.”
St. Peter knew that was coming. “There is no wine here. Let’s try again; I ask you, Homa O-Lardi: Well?”
Homa didn’t like this infidel looking spirit and his pesky question. ‘When this interview is over, I’ll check with the other Martyrs around here,’ he thought. “A handful of C4 will blow these gates AND HIM; away for good.’
[In the Smelly Room]
Suddenly, Homa was in a smelly room with a sweaty and smelly man. Smelly man was tightening the strap on Homa’s back. The strapped jacket held the huge C4 pack for his suicide bomb.
“Does this one work?” Homa asked Smelly. “The last one didn’t you know.”
“Sure it did; it blew up, and so that means it worked,” Smelly replied.
“But it was supposed to go off when I was in the market; in the crowd,” Homa said. “But it went off too soon, before I got there.”
Smelly looked confused; “Too soon? Maybe the rumors are true after all.”
“What rumors?”
“The rumors about the reason for the miss-fires; the word is, the Chinese capacitors are failing to work properly and so that explains the sudden increase in guys like you showing up here in large numbers.
“Chinese capacitors?”
“Yes, and their transistors too,” Smelly said excitedly, as he yanked Homa’s strap even tighter - too tight.
Homa and Smelly blew up together in slow motion. The pain they felt happened in slow motion also. What took less than a second down on earth, now took hours. It was pure hell. He was still hurting when he found himself all banged up and back at the Pearly Gates, standing - or trying to stand - in front of St Peter.
[Back at the Pearly Gates]
“Well?” St Peter asked him again.
“The damn Chinese,” he said, cringing in pain. “It’s their fault. That’s why it didn’t work right; it wasn’t my fault after all.”
St Peter had a great idea.
[Back in the Smelly Room]
Somebody was strapping him up again. “Hong Chong chow mish chi hue C4 Tibet kpacitri-farads,” the strap tightener said.
Homa’s eyes got as big as saucers; “Don’t pull it again--”
This time it hurt even worse and for an even longer time.
[Back in line to see St Peter again]
“Well?” once again.
“Do you ever ask other questions?” Homa asked.
“Yes,” St Peter replied. “Homa O-Lardi: Well?”
“There you go again,” Homa said. “Well? That’s all you ever ask me.”
And then he smelled that smell coming on again, and he tried to apologize for being a smart ass to St Peter, but it was too late.
[Smelly Room]
“Is special day today,” his strap tightener said behind his back as he yanked on Homa’s strap.
“Special? Like how?” Homa asked.
“Look around,” Tightener said.
Homa suddenly noticed that the room was crowed. There was a Chinese dude sitting on a stool at a workbench with a station sign that read CAPACITORS. Homa noticed that the guy was dropping things. His head kept falling over; he was either sick, or drunk, or sleepy. The dude was trying to solder something, when he suddenly collapsed forward onto his bench.
Homa saw a supervisor come over and drag the guy away by his feet, and then another guy was shoved onto his stool. “WORK!” shouted the boss, as he slammed the man in the kidney with his elbow. “The Triggers!” he shouted, “Triggers more, more, more! Hurry you, triggers them make we for rich of triggers!”
Homa saw another area where small circuit boards and cell phones were wired together. “Boom up!” a guy yelled with a huge smile. “I call number trigger go work; now watch!” The guy had a phone in his hand and when he pressed a button, nothing happened. “FRICCCKK IT!” the dude yelled. He bent over to look at the wiring and when he touched a wire, the entire room exploded.
Just as the workbench Boom happened, Homa saw twenty other suicide bombers just like him, being strapped up and tightened up, all at the same time.
“NO!” Homa screamed, and then there were twenty BOOMS! And twenty times the pain and each thing that hurt in his body hurt twenty times as much as it had last time. Homa’s mind faded to black as a hot soldering iron buried itself in his eyeball. When he awoke, he was standing in line at the Pearly Gates again. This time, he was missing both feet and one arm. His left eye had a soldering iron sticking out of it.
[Back at the Gates]
“Because the Imam told me! He told me it was fate! He said heaven awaits me for killing Jews and infidels!” Homa sobbed. “He promised on the Quran!”
“Bring them forth; NOW!” St Peter ordered.
A line of miserable looking men in shabby robes stumbled into his view. Their blood-soaked bodies had limbs missing, and their heads, arms, and legs were stained in crimson. Their tears streamed down their agonizing faces as they turned to face St Peter. The first one in line spoke;
“Thirty-seven children,” he drooled.
“LOUDER!” St Peter commanded of him.
“THIRTY-SEVEN KIDS, SEVENTY-TWO WOMEN, AND TWELVE OLD MEN,” he shouted, as his spittle spewed forth blood. “All dead.”
“How many Jews and other infidels were among them?” St Peter asked.
“None,” the man replied in shame.
“Well?” St Peter asked him.
“I’m so sorry,” the man said. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it back.”
Homa was at his wits end; “Ask him the right question!” he demanded of St Peter. “Ask him WHY he did it!”
“No,” St Peter said. “That’s irrelevant here. It means nothing.”
“What?” Homa said. “Don’t you want to know? Don’t you CARE about WHY he did what he did?”
“You do Homa – You want it to be asked aloud; to fill the heavens with it. Then, once you’ve asked, you will answer with a thousand reasons that will never end. That is the pleasure you come here seeking,” St Peter said. “But you shall spend eternity NOT hearing that question asked and never will you be allowed to answer.”
“This is insane,” Homa said.
“No,” St Peter said. “Insanity is what you were going to do Homa; what these men before you did. Behold this Homa O-Lardi, suicide bomber.”
Homa saw before him thousands upon thousands of women and children and old men, as they became hungry and rose to search for food. They fretted between themselves about going to the market, but their hunger and love for their starving children pushed them to go to the market, and to their deaths. And suddenly, there he was in their midst. It was he, Homa; the one who had been promised things by the Imams and the Ayatollahs, and by the revenge seekers and the avengers, and on the souls in the Quran; Mohammed and his wisdom they told Homa, swearing to Allah as if they knew they were right.
“Go into their midst and kill them all!” his mentors cheered. “In the name of Allah Homa! Praise to him!”
“Walk there!” St Peter said as he pointed to a spiral staircase which suddenly appeared. Homa limped toward it as his heart became very heavy and filled with regret. He walked slowly up the steps, dreading what he somehow knew was about to happen. And then, there was a platform at the end and he stood upon it. He looked behind him and saw that the staircase was gone, and St Peter was gone, and all else was gone.
It only took a few seconds.
“Homa O-Lardi,” God said. “You are to spend eternity amongst the suicidal of the religious faiths not of your own. You may not speak the word, nor will you ever hear the word; ‘WHY’. Go.”
And that was it for Homa. A second later he was among the tens of thousands of others just like himself. The ones who had an unending list of answers to the WHY I MURDERED INNOCENTS IN GOD’S NAME question.
But the hell of it was, nobody had permission to ask each other why.

Submitted: November 24, 2010

© Copyright 2021 AndyMax. All rights reserved.

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