The Search for Yaser Abdel Said; Vol. 4

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
It wasn’t every day a middle-aged private detective trapped in the body of a ten-year-old boy was picked up by a Hamas patrol in the Gaza Strip—especially a ten-year-old boy disguised as a girl. But that is what happened to private detective Bernard Piffy. It was scary; it was discombobulating. The middle-aged brain shut down and the kid was left to fend for himself. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Fortunately the kid had been through Ka’b bin al-Ashraf’s version of Calvin and Hobbes’ transmogrifier before and had learned to cope with the vagaries of an exponential existence. Whenever the adult brain went into hibernation he would revert to the ten-year-old Calf-Roping, Skeet-Shooting, Bronco-Busting Champion he had once been. But he was in one hell of a pickle and he knew it. His cup was running over with woes. He had violated hundreds of haddiths and dozens of suras. He had killed a couple of al-Qaeda operatives—shot them dead he had. He had taken a nasty spill while trying to escape. Hamas had dragged him from Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble’s burning limo half-conscious and gasping for breath, one hand holding his skirt over his panties. If they had discovered he was a boy and not a girl he would be in a worse fix than he already was.

The notorious Dr. Haribert ul-Heim had given him a shot of truth serum. He had no idea what he had said. They had carted him off to the ul-Heim Sanitarium and Rehabilitation Center with his friends Aisha and Fatima. The three ‘girls’ were installed in a mini ward where they were kept under guard. So far no one at the ul-Heim Institute was aware that the ten-year-old in the Shirley Temple smock and the nylon-lycra rosebud panties was the notorious Bernard Piffy, the private detective who had let loose the Sufi Flea, the shamus who had punched the sixth cousin twice-removed of King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia in the face on a TV Talk Show, the Kuffar swine that had shot and killed a Mujahi-deen in the basement of a London Madrassas, the dhimmi that had thrown a shoe at Imam Riyadh ul-Haq and a ham sandwich at Abu Hamza al-Masri. His crimes against Islam were legion. If they should discover who he was…

But he couldn’t hide out in the mini ward forever. There would be a physical examination. Unless he could get to Egypt and contact his sponsors he would be stuck in his dis-gusting little ten-year-old body for the rest of his life. Yeah, the rest of his life…how long could that be…another two or three days…maybe…if he was lucky. But he had to look on the positive side.

And there was Aisha and Fatima—what should he do about them? They were his wards, sort of. They knew nothing of his adult status. It wasn’t anything he could tell them or anybody else—who would believe him? His case appeared hopeless.

But there were people looking for Bernard Piffy—people who knew Bernard Piffy and liked Bernard Piffy. They would find out where he was; they would come and rescue him. There was Bonds—Stockton Bonds, Agent Six-and-seven-eights. Bonds had pretended to be 007 for so long he had come to believe he was Sean Connery. And there was St. Anthony, Piffy’s guardian angel. Guardian angels are good; they have mysterious powers; they can go places even Keith Olbermann can’t go. As Patron Saint of Lost Items St. Anthony should be able to find a middle-aged private detective scrunched into the body of a ten-year-old. And there was Wheatley W. Wheatley with her 100 percent Mujahi-deen pizzle whip. Yeah, they would come and get him. And if not one of them then Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble would tool up in his fancy Midnight Rider. The Sheikh still had the hots for the pretty little ten-year-old girl Aisha and Fatima called Krista. Who wouldn’t have? Sure, sure, the Sheikh had drugged little Krista and had tried his damnedest to have his way with ‘her’ but he was a good man, a good Muslim.

In the meantime the local ulema was meeting to determine the ‘child’s’ fate. They knew much more about him than he imagined and none of it was good.

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The Search for Yaser Abdel Said; Vol. 4

Submitted: September 18, 2012

It wasn’t every day a middle-aged private detective trapped in the body of a ten-year-old boy was picked up by a Hamas patrol in the Gaza Strip—especially a ten-year-old boy disguised as a girl. But that is what happened to private detective Bernard Piffy. It was scary; it was discombobulating. The middle-aged brain shut down and the kid was left to fend for himself. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Fortunately the kid had been through Ka’b bin al-Ashraf’s version of Calvin and Hobbes’ transmogrifier before and had learned to cope with the vagaries of an exponential existence. Whenever the adult brain went into hibernation he would revert to the ten-year-old Calf-Roping, Skeet-Shooting, Bronco-Busting Champion he had once been. But he was in one hell of a pickle and he knew it. His cup was running over with woes. He had violated hundreds of haddiths and dozens of suras. He had killed a couple of al-Qaeda operatives—shot them dead he had. He had taken a nasty spill while trying to escape. Hamas had dragged him from Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble’s burning limo half-conscious and gasping for breath, one hand holding his skirt over his panties. If they had discovered he was a boy and not a girl he would be in a worse fix than he already was.

The notorious Dr. Haribert ul-Heim had given him a shot of truth serum. He had no idea what he had said. They had carted him off to the ul-Heim Sanitarium and Rehabilitation Center with his friends Aisha and Fatima. The three ‘girls’ were installed in a mini ward where they were kept under guard. So far no one at the ul-Heim Institute was aware that the ten-year-old in the Shirley Temple smock and the nylon-lycra rosebud panties was the notorious Bernard Piffy, the private detective who had let loose the Sufi Flea, the shamus who had punched the sixth cousin twice-removed of King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia in the face on a TV Talk Show, the Kuffar swine that had shot and killed a Mujahi-deen in the basement of a London Madrassas, the dhimmi that had thrown a shoe at Imam Riyadh ul-Haq and a ham sandwich at Abu Hamza al-Masri. His crimes against Islam were legion. If they should discover who he was…

But he couldn’t hide out in the mini ward forever. There would be a physical examination. Unless he could get to Egypt and contact his sponsors he would be stuck in his dis-gusting little ten-year-old body for the rest of his life. Yeah, the rest of his life…how long could that be…another two or three days…maybe…if he was lucky. But he had to look on the positive side.

And there was Aisha and Fatima—what should he do about them? They were his wards, sort of. They knew nothing of his adult status. It wasn’t anything he could tell them or anybody else—who would believe him? His case appeared hopeless.

But there were people looking for Bernard Piffy—people who knew Bernard Piffy and liked Bernard Piffy. They would find out where he was; they would come and rescue him. There was Bonds—Stockton Bonds, Agent Six-and-seven-eights. Bonds had pretended to be 007 for so long he had come to believe he was Sean Connery. And there was St. Anthony, Piffy’s guardian angel. Guardian angels are good; they have mysterious powers; they can go places even Keith Olbermann can’t go. As Patron Saint of Lost Items St. Anthony should be able to find a middle-aged private detective scrunched into the body of a ten-year-old. And there was Wheatley W. Wheatley with her 100 percent Mujahi-deen pizzle whip. Yeah, they would come and get him. And if not one of them then Sheikh Rahman al-Kabibble would tool up in his fancy Midnight Rider. The Sheikh still had the hots for the pretty little ten-year-old girl Aisha and Fatima called Krista. Who wouldn’t have? Sure, sure, the Sheikh had drugged little Krista and had tried his damnedest to have his way with ‘her’ but he was a good man, a good Muslim.

In the meantime the local ulema was meeting to determine the ‘child’s’ fate. They knew much more about him than he imagined and none of it was good.
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