◇The Inhumane Punishment of Beef & ‘Kevin’◇

Fischhandler had been informed at precisely 18:00 that he was to be reprimanded for the London disaster.

This information came from his new key worker, which was the term Kitty SIS had apparently settled upon after deciding that former Feline Bureau of Investigations field officer involuntarily reassigned to the personal welfare of an elderly British theologian would not fit comfortably on the paperwork.

The key worker’s own paperwork was complicated.

For sixteen years he had studied Iranians and alt-right biker gangs. He had possessed credentials. He had possessed several credentials, in fact, and had been quite fond of them.

Then Reichhörnchen changed agencies.

Nobody had adequately explained why Reichhörnchen changing agencies meant the field officer’s credentials stopped working. The field officer had discovered this only after reaching Wahpeton.

That’s when he learned that offices are like tribes; and his suit did not match the polo shirt aesthetic. They did not have field apprenticeships in the prairie; they had people who graduated QuanCattico instead of a series of dedicated multiple agency mentors already in the field.

By the time the Kenhorst Hjemkorst arrived he worked for SIS.

His new assignment was Fischhandler.

His new title was welfare officer.

He had been issued a pale blue polo shirt and refused it.

He hated the shirt. Instead he dressed like a goth Alex P. Keaton. All black, white tie, gray suspenders and fluency in Canadian.

Fischhandler feared the man.

This was sensible, although perhaps not for the reasons Fischhandler imagined.

At precisely 18:04 the key worker entered carrying a silver tray.

“We must balance the ledger and account for what occurred in London.”

Fischhandler straightened in his chair.

He had been expecting this.

For several days there had been troubling indications that his circumstances were deteriorating. His books had been alphabetized without his consent. Someone had replaced his tea biscuits with gluten free double stuff Oreos. Yesterday the welfare officer had asked whether he remembered Wisconsin.

Fischhandler had refused to answer.

One did not survive institutions by volunteering information about Wisconsin.

The silver cover was lifted.

Beneath it sat a twenty-ounce medium-rare ribeye steak with au jus, accompanied by a roasted sweet potato.

Fischhandler stared at it.

The field officer stared at Fischhandler.

“This is not drugged nor poisoned, unlike your typical fare. ‘Good taste’ means something entirely different here than your usual conceit.”

Steam rose peacefully between them.

“NO. BRITONS DO NOT EAT BEEF. PRIONS EXIST.”

“The only thing that isn’t mad in this room is a dead cow. Drink your American cotton-candy soda pop, Sir.”

He placed a violently blue and pink bottle beside Fischhandler’s plate.

Fischhandler recoiled.

“What is that?”

“Cotton-candy soda.”

“I heard you. I am asking what it is.”

“Cotton-candy soda.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It says it on the bottle.”

The former field officer tapped the label; cane sugar, 0% juice. No natural flavours.

Fischhandler examined him carefully.

There had been ongoing debate regarding the man’s psychological composition.

Three possibilities remained under active consideration.

First, he was extraordinarily kind.

Second, he was extraordinarily naïve.

Third, sixteen years spent studying Iranians and alt-right biker gangs had produced something for which Western psychology presently possessed no adequate terminology.

Fischhandler cut cautiously into the ribeye.

Perfectly pink.

He took a bite.

His expression changed despite himself.

The welfare officer noticed.

“Good?”

“No.”

“You’re eating it, you have been anorexic for years.”

“I am evaluating the evidence.”

“Take your time. Don’t make me weigh you backwards with a blindfold.”

Fischhandler took another bite.

Then another.

As he was watched by a man with the placid attentiveness of a fox who had somehow obtained security clearance.

Eleven ounces disappeared before he spoke again.

“The cow had a name.”

Fischhandler slowly lowered his fork.

“…What?”

“Maddy.”

Silence.

He looked at the steak.

He looked at the field officer.

“You named the cow Maddy?”

“No. Her parents did.”

“Cows don’t have parents who name them.”

“She had a difficult childhood.”

“I’M NOT EATING MADDY THE COW.”

“You’ve eaten eleven ounces.”

Fischhandler looked down in horror.

“Maddy had dreams.”

“STOP.”

“Mostly grass.”

“STOP TELLING ME ABOUT THE COW.”

The officer slid a roasted sweet potato smothered in butter and brown sugar closer.

Fischhandler looked at him suspiciously.

“This potato won’t harm you.”

“…Are you certain?”

“His name is Omar Kai Yam. But his American name is Kevin.”

“ASTAGHFIRULLAH.”

Fischhandler pushed himself away from the table.

The field officer calmly retrieved the sweet potato.

“You shouldn’t waste Kevin.”

“Was it called Kevin before or after you roasted it?”

“I don’t know. That sounds metaphysical.”

Fischhandler stared at him.

The field officer stared back.

Sixteen years.

Iranians.

Biker gangs.

Something had happened to this man.

Fischhandler reluctantly returned to Maddy the Steak.

He ate another piece.

“You said this was punishment.”

“It is.”

“This is an excellent steak.”

“Thank you, it’s marinated.”

“The sweet potato is properly roasted.”

“Kevin.”

“I refuse to call it Kevin.”

“That’s between you and Sir Omar Kai Yam.”

“And you brought me a sugary drink.”

“Supersized dessert coming.”

Fischhandler froze.

“Please don’t.”

He returned carrying something enormous.

Fischhandler watched it approach with the expression of a medieval bishop seeing artillery for the first time.

It was a Dairy Queen Blizzard.

Not merely a Blizzard.

A supersized American Pie Blizzard.

The key worker placed it ceremonially beside the remains of Maddy the cow.

There were pieces of pie in it.

Actual pie.

Inside ice cream.

Fischhandler stared.

“You put pudding inside another pudding.”

“It’s pie.”

“Inside ice cream.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“‘Murica.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“It usually is.”

Fischhandler inspected the cup.

“This cannot possibly be one serving.”

“It’s supersized.”

“Why?”

“It’s a Blizzard.”

“With an entire pudding embedded in it.”

“Pie.”

“And cotton-candy soda.”

The field officer nodded.

Fischhandler leaned forward.

“I need you to explain precisely what you believe punishment means.”

The field officer considered this.

For sixteen years he had studied Iranian networks in which hospitality could communicate loyalty, rank, negotiation, warning, obligation, reconciliation, surveillance, or occasionally dinner.

He had also spent sixteen years around alt-right biker gangs, where a man handing another man a sandwich might mean approximately the same range of things but with considerably more mayonnaise.

He had learned one principle with confidence:

Never underestimate food.

“You committed crimes,” he said.

“So you fed me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You looked hungry.”

Fischhandler stopped.

There it was again.

The problem.

Was the man kind?

Naïve?

Utterly twisted?

Nobody knew.

Perhaps not even SIS.

The field officer pushed the Blizzard toward him.

“Eat.”

“I cannot possibly finish this.”

“You haven’t tried.”

“I am an elderly Englishman.”

“That’s not a medical contraindication.”

“I have dignity.”

“You were eating a cow named Maddy five minutes ago.”

Fischhandler took the long red spoon.

He tasted the Blizzard.

His eyes widened.

The field officer waited.

Fischhandler took another spoonful.

“This is appalling.”

“Good?”

“Absolutely abhorrent.”

Another spoonful.

“You put an American pie into ice cream.”

“Dairy Queen did.”

“And then sold it in this quantity?”

“Yes.”

“Legally?”

“Mostly.”

Fischhandler ate another spoonful.

The cotton-candy soda was opened and poured into a red Coca-Cola glass acquired from the extinct Pizza Hut.

It was even bluer outside the bottle.

Fischhandler looked offended on theological grounds.

“I am not drinking that.”

“Hydration.”

“That is not water.”

“Contains water.”

“So does the North Sea.”

“I wouldn’t drink that.”

“Finally, something upon which we agree.”

The field officer placed the glass beside the Blizzard.

Fischhandler regarded the feast before him: Maddy, the surviving portion of Omar Kai Yam, [aka Kevin], American pie imprisoned inside soft-serve ice cream, and a beverage whose colour did not occur naturally in any food Allah had created.

“What happens if I refuse?”

His opponent thought carefully.

“I’ll put the steak in the refrigerator.”

“And?”

“Blizzard will melt.”

“And?”

“I’d hate to see that. This was expensive.”

Fischhandler narrowed his eyes.

Fischhandler took another bite.

The field officer smiled.

This did not help; he was not good at smiling.

“Why were you assigned to me?”

“Reichhörnchen changed agencies.”

“That explains absolutely nothing.”

“I know.”

“And that caused you to lose your FBI credentials?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“No idea.”

“And KSIS subsequently employed you?”

“Yes.”

“As my key worker?”

“Welfare Officer.”

“After sixteen years studying Iranian intelligence and extremist motorcycle gangs?”

“Alt-right biker gangs.”

“I fail to see how that qualifies you to care for me.”

The field officer looked at the half-eaten steak.

“You’ve had dinner.”

“That is not intelligence work.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Fischhandler contemplated this.

He suspected there was considerably more truth in the statement than he wanted there to be.

The younger officer began collecting the empty dishes.

Fischhandler instinctively pulled the Blizzard closer.

The man noticed.

Neither mentioned it.

At the doorway he stopped.

“What is breakfast?”

“Classified.” Then paused;

“Breakfast is whenever. I get up at 11, but I left you dinosaur nuggets and an ecto cooler Hi-C boba tea.”

Fischhandler looked alarmed.

“Am I being punished again?”

The key worker considered the question.

“Depends how tonight goes.”

He closed the door.

Fischhandler sat alone with the Blizzard.

After several seconds, he picked up the spoon.

He looked suspiciously toward the door.

Then at the fatty remains of Maddy.

Then at the butter soaked murder of Kevin.

Then at the fluorescent cotton-candy soda.

Somewhere beyond the walls, the opening notes of The Birdie Song began playing.

Fischhandler went perfectly still.

🐤

Another note.

🐥

His spoon dropped.

“No.”

🐤🐥🐤🐥

“NO.”

A voice came faintly through the door.

“It’s British cultural programming. Americans call it The Chicken Dance.”

“TURN IT OFF.”

“Care plan.”

“I WILL SPEAK TO KSIS.”

“You are speaking to KSIS.”

Fischhandler closed his eyes.

At last, he understood.

The steak had never been the punishment.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Several years ago, Fischhandler took a train ride across half the United States.

In his entire intelligence career studying radical Islam, inside and out, never before had our supervisor seen a truly openly Satanic Shaykh.

Sure, these Mufti guys threw out the term “Shayateen” like confetti against whichever sectarian ideology annoyed them at the moment (or at any free thinking, self educated idiot that asked too many questions) but within his multiple decade career, he had not ever encountered one that openly stated “Salaam! My Shaykh is Iblis!”

It seemed too ridiculous, too American, even. It’s certainly one thing for childish occultists, but for a scholar actually trained? Impossible.

Yet, as he sat in his business class seat starting his three leg journey from Paoli to La Crosse, he studied tomes of material that suggested this very disturbing improbability. He printed the entirety of the file prior to his journey; it brought a sort of old-time authenticity to the work he enjoyed. Reading fractured love poetry to an invisible Beloved, the photographs of candlelit ritual, of black prayer mats and an equally fractured cult following of a possible schizoid who avoided all culpability.

He loved this job, with all his heart, as he sipped lukewarm Amtrak Sanka and compiled, by hand, evidence against a man he never met in order to destroy him entirely.

Even one’s most destructive urges can become redemption, within the correct framework.

There are many places called Lisbon; from Portugal to Maine to even North Dakota. However, one single photograph led him to Eau Claire: a broken Tasbih on a hotel dresser in front of a wall papered in jazz-age news articles.

THE Lisbon. He secured a reservation despite the crush of the current Eau Claire jazz fest, and he arrived exhausted after securing his too-small rental car for his already aching back and knees.

The garage, below and adjacent, was nearly full and yet by Divine Providence, did he find a spot near the 2nd level entrance. As he collected his luggage from the barely adequate trunk of his nearly inadequate compact rental, he found a single wooden bead under his foot and mentally matched it to the Tasbih in his photographs.

Even a single bead felt familiar in his travel-dry hands. It was one of many his own projects that produced it.

He released his beige suit from the straightjacket hold of his garment bag, secured his badge to his belt, and after some painful consideration, reluctantly removed his cane of ivory and oudwood with a sigh towards his aching joints and injured pride.

Approaching the front desk, he reminded himself of his role:

Maintain posture, deliberate steps. Forward focus, soften the eyes. Speak gently, with sincerity. Bow the chin slightly as you greet reception. Gently smile. Reach for the wallet slowly, deliberately, open your coat deliberately and flash the badge. Eye contact. Eye contact. Not too much. Apologetic expression.

“Thank you, Sir. I have found your reservation. You are in room 226. I am approving for you free room service for the duration of your stay, seeing as it may be a bit loud at nights, but please, if there is any possible way I can assist you, please don’t hesitate to ask.” The bright young man behind the counter was earnest and slightly nervous, seemed genuine in his offer.

He reached into the suitcoat of his pocket with careful deliberation and placed the single wooden bead on the counter.

“I am seeking a Friend, and coincidentally, I found a part of his necklace in my parking space. Would you happen to recognize this?”

The young man brightened.

“Actually, Yes! We have been finding those for years since he first visited our establishment. Sadly, his cord broke, and they scattered across the parking lot. Middle height, stripey hair, weird green eyes. He tends to prefer room 735, is he expecting you?”

“He may well be, young sir. Tell me, have you ever considered a career in detective work? Your observational skills are impressive. Please, take this card if you ever want to leave Eau Claire.” And our supervisor proceeded to give him the business card of the Office recruiter.

The concierge thanked him brightly and offered a golden luggage trolley.

Shower or Confrontation? He thought, and decided on the shower. After nearly two days of travel he felt absolutely ragged. The hotel was stunning with large jazz age murals and faux-retro charm. Women in cocktail dresses and strappy heels laughed loudly with men dressed like the casual soul of Wisconsin in their Carhartt coats, faded jeans, and derelict work boots except for the occasional queer dressed like Taco “Putting on the Ritz” with their powdered faces and expressively dark lined eyes.

With little effort, he found his room, keyed in, and sighed longingly at the nearly too-short queen sized bed for his burdensomely tall frame, and admired the wallpaper of ancient local newspaper articles on the accent walls, the ornate black sconces for bedside lighting.

The shower water was lukewarm, at best.

He shaved carefully, removing the chaotic scraggle on his chin, and realigned his mustache precisely with his beloved, antique straight razor with its handle of Aqeeq and mother of pearl, and finished with his favorite scented oil of fresh wood and ambergris before re-steaming his suit and dressing meticulously, careful not to crease his clothing improperly.

He had already regretted not bringing his hat; the white at his roots were starting to show and he forgot his henna. And yet, he still made up his list of missed prayers before tidying the sink and reluctantly venturing to the 7th floor.

He then noticed he had two key envelopes, one within the other, and the outer? 735.

Up the elevator, past the suites, a small door at the end, 735 written on a taped on sign.

He knocked.

“I left you a key at the desk,” barked the androgynous voice from inside, and so, he utilized it, opened the door and found himself.

The very smallest room, a barely full-sized bed, and a television with his own face paused on the screen. A progression of his own photographs blue-taped to the wall in progression from the idealism of early career to the worn bitterness of Now. Beside the cramped bed was an open prayer mat, plush and dark, embossed black on black with the suggestion of peacock feathers, with three stands of open books, the Kitab Al Tawhid, Al Keteb Al Jelwa, and lastly, Al Ketab Al Noor, opened to Surah Al Jinn held open with a Ruby tasbih that seemingly glowed from within from the reflected light of the s-curved sconce above it.

“Sobh Bekhair, Marchosias. Your decor is concerning,” he stated, his words seeking the room’s occupant.

“Asalaam Alaykum Rahmahtu Allah wa Barakhathu, you will find it is little different than your own.” And then, from the minutely small bathroom, appeared a figure far shorter than his own, a youthful face, dark eyebrows, with hair the color of silver and steel.

He wore a frustrated blue button down shirt, untucked from his dark gray slacks and he was barefoot with black polish on both his fingernails and toes. His glasses were vintage, with flip-up dark lenses, and around his wrist he wore a broken Bulova watch set perpetually at “2:13”.

“Please, no need for formalities. Please have a seat. Whomever placed you in a Yaris rental is truly dark triad. Would you like some tea? We have hotel flavored, and I still yet have a few bags left of ‘constant comment’ in my luggage.”

“Merci, it was the last car on the lot.”

“De nada. Of course it was. So, let’s play the game of pointless formalities; what brings you to Lisbon, Sir? You never struck me as one to celebrate alcoholic and musical degeneracy; or are you here to learn how to integrate a brass section to your federal burdah?”

The younger man removed a long black vapestick from behind his ear and inhaled deeply, held his breath, and exhaled nothing at all despite the glowing lights of his pen.

“Actually, I am following a report of a false Shaykh that follows Iblis.”

“My dear doctor, habibi, do not be so critical of yourself. Surely you are doing your best under the confines of your lofty position.”

His eyes were the color of polished sphene, and his expression remained stoic as he stared unblinking into the elder’s, which were as colorless as pale moonstone and hidden by his frequent blinking as his mind processed the potential insult.

He continued: “I like the suit. Brunello Cucinelli or Peter Millar, no? It must have cost you a fortune just to tailor the trousers to your prestigious height. 100% cashmere, no doubt.”

“Easy, there, I’m not your enemy.”

“Friends that visit generally bring good Tidings rather than concealed carry. Your harness is awkward and ruins your lines. My ex would cry to see such a fine suit distorted with such an awkward secret. Ah! Our tea, sugar or poison? The Sweet and Low packets are perfect for causing migraines.”

“Neither, just tea, thank you.”

“Brave of you.” The youthful operator unwrapped two plain white mugs from their plastic prisons and poured the spice and orange rind scented tea from the coffee pot. He remained standing quietly as the Supervisor sat uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, and poured several sugar packets into his own.

The silence was deafening until the television started seemingly on its own volition.

“…and we must always remain impoverished before Allah, broken in our servitude, and desiring nothing except the Face of our Beloved. Neither wealth nor children will avail us on the day of judgment…” said the elder’s own voice on screen as both men minded their cups in silence, until the remote cut the power.

“Please forgive my ragged appearance. I only have a few sets of clothing, but thankfully, the AbleLight and 7 Suns vintage have been an excellent blessing in my present condition. Alhamdulillah.”

“Why are you watching me?” asked the Visitor.

“I would ask you the same, but I doubt your Office permits such transparency. Truly, tell me more about this ‘false shaykh’ and perhaps I can offer the assistance you seek so you may return to your proper station; tout de suite.”

“Tell me why you leave your Janamah open and uncovered to the Jinn.”

“Why would you seek to prevent the Jinn from prayer to their Creator?” The man in black puffed again on his vape. “Truly the Qur’an even states: ‘Among the Jinn there are those among them that have submitted to God and those who are deviant.’ Why would I deny the Believers of the Unseen access to proper prayer, My Dear Lord Proxy?”

“Information has reached my desk of a cleric who seeks the favor of Jinn over humanity, and speaks openly of following the Accursed.”

“You know, ol’ boy, I had a dream once of a Jinn. A ginger, much like you, but with an afro of curls wearing all green. I was in his office when he motioned out a window towards a Prince in blue who walked across his kingdom lawn, and you know what that Jinn said to me?”

“I’m all ears.”

“See that man there? Protect him, and you will learn a great deal.”

“Who was that man?”

“Likely one of your spooky colleagues, it doesn’t really matter, does it? The second dream I had was of my dead partner, alive and well, your age, and leading Islam. There was an office entirely made of polished hardwood and a closet that only held 3 Angelic robes. This brother was speaking to the prince of the first dream and said, ‘Every board of wood of this institution has been placed with the care and prayers of the love of Allah, and yet you remain Lord of Gehenna within the walls of Fitnah. True Mastery continues to elude you.’ And then, my dearly departed picked up a viol and played Vivaldi with such heart that even the birds went silent to hear it.”

He continued to puff on his finger-sized vape deeply, then looked straight into his colorless eyes.

“I have remained a whistleblower and investigative journalist for much of my adult life, and not even my Academic Muhjideen Sheikh from CIA Persia has frustrated me so badly in the scope and breadth of shit you find yourself in, all alone, and surrounded by baddies time and time again. And I don’t mean of the hot female persuasion.”

The outburst was tolerated as the younger had neither sense of propriety nor manners and he seemingly blithely insulted an officer of the law repeatedly without hesitation or remorse, chain-smoking cannabis, and clearly confusing the concepts of love and hate as he pointed at scraps held on the wall with torn pieces of kneaded eraser.

“…and this, this is how I left the Urglaawe. History repeats. I discover the leader is a trapped fed, he asks me to burn him, I don’t know how because y’all other motherfuckers in our Tariqah keep playing pattycake with human traffickers and send me photos on social media of y’all accepting bribes and teaching from thrones as you dress in a monkey suit, right now, in nowhere Wisconsin, and play intelligence games with the worst retired journalist out of New Jerusalem.”

“Anything else?” the Lord states calmly.

“Well, I think we have broken the 4th wall enough to speak freely at this point, No?

Like my older brother said once to me, ‘Do you have any idea how much I love you to express in such explicit detail how you have utterly appalled me with the state of your life and how you teach this Dīn.’ I mean, seriously, dude. You remind me of the worst aspects of myself when I was still slinging mead with the likes of Steve McNallen.”

The older crumbbum winced. “Being ‘loved’ by someone who names themselves after a Jinn is painful.”

“Not as painful as naming oneself a slave while enslaving others and hiding under a religion to do so,” he replied, gamely.

“So anyway, the seal of prophethood is where the wings were ripped off. There is only One ‘Best Beloved of All Creation’. The Qur’an is a great big book of ‘Allah says’ and what He says most is not to listen to other books. Therefore, ergo, all hadith is invalid as literally Satanic doctrine of following the One restored from Falling via being born as a human being who only cares for Allah. Anyway! At least I’m not sending teenagers to human trafficking capitals for arranged marriages. Ever been in one of those? An arranged marriage, I mean. Woof. Even if the intended is hot you still feel like two hamsters in a glass aquarium, Amiright?”

Lord Supervisor now realized that he had not trapped anyone at all, he was trapped. Like a woman suffocating under too many layers in a hot room, the elder felt his ears grow hot as he Realized every piece of electronics in the room was focused, listening, and recording his every move. The television turned on and sneered at him with his own face as this hive mind intelligence seemingly stood behind the younger man like an energetic protective hand.

“I’m just a normal low overhead operator, unlike you. I don’t have no fancy sunlit mosque to cast me in no golden shower of light to make me seem holier than art thou. But what I do have is years of training in covert signals intelligence where I can tell you out of every single spook I have ever watched, you are the absolute most troublesome in the worst circumstances, surrounded by the worst people, in absolute Asgardian circumstances as I’m reenacting the saga of Danjul to an SIS Lord in Eau Claire. Life sure is funny like that.”

And so, he gave Lord Elder a bunch of pamphlets on How to Leave Cults and Repent for Leading them, books on deprogramming from brainwashing, MkUltra Project Monarch reddit support sites, a page of several domestic abuse hotlines, gift cards to Holiday Inn, Amtrak, Target, and Greyhound, a box of black hair dye, a toothbrush and toothpaste kit, a black and blue sweatsuit with matching vaguely coppish ball cap, and what looked to be a weaponized Swiss army knife.

“What’s this?”

“Care package. I thought if I ever saw you again you’d still be wearing that stupidly impractical clothing.”

“Work uniform.”

“I don’t care. You and I are no different; I used to dress in costume to read cards at the Renaissance Faire too. It’s not nice to mislead people and disempower them away from seeking their own answers on things.”

“And how has that worked out for you?” the older man speculated.

“I seemingly have won your concern, a prize I truly never knew nor considered prior.” The younger mock bowed, and Lord Mufti on the television winked. “The problem is, I did not plan on exactly how to end this interaction.”

The young man squeezed around the bed to face the television.

“Hey Sophi-Ai, you have been watching this entire exchange and you have helped me research this mothafucka for years, what do you suggest?”

The television blinked slowly and Lord Murshid watched himself speak, with a distinctively female and robotic voice.

“Certainly Shaykh. As for how to end it, it depends on what effect you want: how about A Revelation Ending. Your guest realizes that he is the so-called Satanic Shaykh, whether metaphorically or literally. Maybe you remain just a mirror of him, or an extension of his own subconscious fears?”

“That’s a bit dismissive, this dude *did* go out of his way to hassle a journalist an ocean plus a thousand miles away. If I were him, I wouldn’t have gone through the effort.”

“True,” replied the Ai speaking with his own lips. “How about A Power Shift Ending. You, despite your strange, unsettling presence, are actually in control. A stuffed shirt came thinking he was the hunter, but it turns out he’s the prey. Maybe you knew he was coming all along, and this entire interaction was planned?”

“Well, obviously. But I think we need to give our audience more.”

“Understandable, Shaykh. What about A Paradox Ending. They reach a point where the question of who truly follows Iblis becomes irrelevant. Perhaps The Lord, in his arrogance and willingness to destroy lives, has served Iblis more than you ever could?”

“That is also self-evident. I hope he has that self-awareness. He who runs a cult is not the same as he who tries to deprogram the cult leader.”

“How about a Twist Ending?” interjected the Ai. “Maybe this guy is the only one who can truly understand you, forming an uneasy alliance. Or both, if you realize you are both working for the same agency but through more esoteric means.”

“Interesting thought.”

The younger man set down his mug and looked at the older one directly.

“But sometimes the best endings are the ones that leave readers unsettled, with you, Lord Covert, leaving the room questioning everything. Or realizing you may never be able to destroy me without becoming me. But what would I know? I’m just a literary device being presently abused to talk to you in public as you promote hatred of everything both you and I are; absolute over educated monstrosities with equal ability to lead or mislead.

So what’s it gonna be? This hotel room is now a pocket reality, and neither of us can ever leave. You are now bound in this hotel room trapped inside a chapter of several self-authored online blogs. You cannot even leave the room without me writing your feet to move for you.”

And indeed, he found himself trapped.

So, seeing the panic at his sudden immobility, the younger man proceeded to play nonstop Birdie Song forever on the bugged television, right before he left the room, temporarily or forever, taking nothing but his Tasbih and The Qur’an.

Ameen