“Zalim Haseena, you call me?”
“I call you a lot of things, ever bothered to notice ’em?” He said and went offline.

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Iblees

One day as I walked to the market to buy some eggs, I noticed strange graffiti on a wall. Emblazoned in red paint was an invitation to join the fight against zionist subversion, western imperialism and painful hemorrhoids; the end having been muddled with a physician’s note.

It was an open call to Jihad by a militant Islamic organization. Jihad! The camaraderie, the righteousness, the third degree burns; it’s all I’d ever wanted. I was tired of being oppressed. There I was, in the prime of my youth, jobless, eggless, with subnormal visual acuity and four strands of the dengue virus, and who was to blame? I could imagine the conversation with my therapist.

“Doctor, I’m moody, I can’t sleep and I never seem to have enough energy to do anything.”

“Why, I believe you’re suffering from oppression”

I called their toll free number and signed myself up. They sent…

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