Osama's Summer romance
- Eyes glued to news outlets around the world as details unfolded about Osama Bin Laden’s death. Channels doled out tasty details like morsels of candy one tiny bite at a time. First, he may have died. Next he was certainly dead, followed by news of his bullet-riddled body. On and on the details unfolded. Unfortunately, the newsguys got the story all wrong.I was reclining with a coffee mug of Moscetto, a poorly written harlequin and some leftover tater-tots when I got the call from Gerald. “Turn on Fox News,” he shouted. “You’re not gonna believe this!”
Osama was dead, shot in a raid of his suburban Pakistani complex, a little terrorist posh ground. I thought of the mini mansions I’d driven by with Osama just weeks before in Saratoga Springs, Utah. He’d pointed to one subdivision and suggested it’d be the perfect location to rebuild his harem. He’d wanted a ranch style house with a bonus room above the garage, but said he’d settle for a split level. I nodded, hating the idea of a suburb, but knowing a polygamous family could live free and unfettered in Utah County. It was half expected even.
I did not kill Osama. I want that said straight off. I know what you may have heard, what you may have read, but suffice to say I had no hand in his demise. Anything contrary is silly idle rumors. True, I interrogated him harshly. I may have roughed him up a little, and I had every intention of kidnapping him for the reward money. The truth is our relationship had been a whirlwind of seduction, hidden motives and deceit. What Gerald thinks was a gun, was actually filled with paintballs. I didn’t have the heart to tell him, and besides, he half thought he was doing the guy a favor. . . This is the real problem with liberals; they cannot distinguish between a rifle and a plaything, a gunshot wound and red paint.
When I met Osama in the summer of 2004, I was liquored to the brim in a rundown bar in Vernal. I almost didn’t recognize him, but I know a guy who was in a New York jail with Osama’s partner in crime. This makes me instantly more informed than most people, and certainly better at sight recognition than you. Only when he stood did I recall my friend’s prison photo where he towered over a gang of Italians draping his arm over the shoulder of a guy with a, “Love Mom,” tattoo over the depiction of a sawed off shotgun and a rose.
I knew instantly this was my shot at fortune and revenge. The plan was simple; convince him along until we could turn him in and claim our prize money. The trouble with love, lies, and money is that they get all twisty when you try to say them out loud, but also that they can get so intertwined you can’t distinguish one from another. I won’t say I ever truly loved Osama, or Pookie as I fondly called him. I knew all too well there was a monster in his soul. For a wrinkle in time though, I began to confuse that monster with a more Twilighty kind of villain; the kind that wants to tear you limb from limb, but only because you’re such a cute, clumsy, tasty morsel. And though I am both cute and clumsy, Osama is no Edward. He is neither refined nor angsty with self-loathing conflict, just tirelessly concerned for his immortal soul. Over time, his passion seemed compulsive and obsessed with two ideas: war and virgins. I’m a huge fan of virginity, at least the idea of it, especially when you consider my conservative upbringing, but over time it became the sole basis of our relationship. Though he never suspected my secret (I’m no virgin, but I have been in the past, so it’s only a teeny white lie), it began driving a wedge between us.
I hadn’t originally planned to interrogate and torture him. That came after I discovered a series of text messages from a young vixen in Pakistan, who I learned later he’d been courting. I dug a little and ‘found’ the account he set up on virginchat.org, an e-harmony profile, and incriminating photographs. I asked him directly, but he denied any wrongdoing. “You, my mother and my other wives are the only women in my heart,” he promised.
Unconvinced, I dug a little more, dismayed to learn of scores of other lovers. He’d been in bed with the Bush girls, someone nicknamed, “Rummey,” and an Iraqi oil heiress. For the first time in our relationship, I lost my cool and bubbly facade.
“You’re gonna be honest with me or else,” I screamed, pulling a baseball bat out of my backpack. “Where have you spent the last 10 years?” Fire and rage steamed in my eyes.
“I was hiding in a cave until we met. . .” he began.
“Bullshit!” I heard his leg bone snap at I swung the slugger.
“I was trolling for virgins at a country club in Pakistan,” he confessed, offering the painful details of his liaisons. “Ask anybody you want. Look, scores of CIA saw me there; nothing happened with any of the girls. It meant nothing to me. . . I’m sorry…” he trailed off.
“Who else are you sleeping with?” I demanded.
“Nobody, just… what I already told you. . . Al Qaeda and some rogue militants.”
Snap! I kind of enjoyed the brutality of the bat in my hands.
“Everybody. . . I’m so sorry,” he blubbered. “Your government, the FBI, CIA, Iranian officials, even the God Hates Fags group. Several daughters of high ranking Saudi Oil mongers. . .” He continued on in a detailed list of his exploits. “There was this bombshell in London, oh Allah forgive me.”
“Now, tell me about your affairs. Who helped conceal it?” He hesitated, and I suspected he would’ve lied to me again. “Who!!?” I demanded, circling a taser near his upper thigh.
Over the next grueling hours, he detailed his discretions. He was worse for wear when we finished, a bloody heap of broken man and torn flesh.
I later wondered why, when the military overtook his compound, why they lacked foresight to ask these same questions, to wonder how the ‘cave story’ was concocted or how he could court virgins and militants just a stone’s throw from U.S. bases. Not a single one of his scorned confidantes wanted to ask even a single question?!
“Stuff him in the ice chest,” I ordered Gerald, who was visibly shaken with shock and awe mingling with arousal and terror.
“Yes, ma’am,” he meekly followed my instructions, eyes on his feet. His face was white and hands shaking so badly, it looked like Pookie was having a seizure.
I pulled out a joint and began strolling toward the highway. I wondered how far I could take this outlaw gag. . .
Somewhere between Vernal and Moab, Pookie escaped, probably while Gerald was belting out slurring Ani DiFranco lyrics like a smitten schoolgirl. His eyes glazed over and he nodded off. I was livid about losing the $50 million or so in reward money, so I frantically retraced our path. “Maybe those caves over there,” I wondered. More than likely, I finally decided, he’d hitchhiked to safety.
Gerald has a deep fear of arrest, even more than the average accomplice, so I figured we’d better assuage his paranoia. I filled the cooler with rocks and drove toward Lake Powell.
“Where are we,” he asked as I pulled up with a boat. “Why are we here?”
“The Dead Sea,” I joked sarcastically.
I borrowed a rowboat from a group of drunken fishermen in exchange for my number and the promise of a bottle of gin.
“Where’d ya get the boat,” he began nervously, obviously weighing the likelihood of his demise. He was a witness, after all, or at least thought he was.
“Stole it,” I shrugged, enjoying his discomfort and his newfound fear and respect.
We dumped Osama’s ‘body,’ and returned to our lives. Osama left a note on the pillow saying he was afraid for his safety and was looking for safe harborage in a battered partner’s shelter.
Gerald called a few days later, deeply upset that Special Forces was taking credit for our kill. I suspected it was a ploy, but confirmed it when I logged into Pookie’s e-harmony account. I clicked the sent box, and was surprised to read him breaking it off with that Pakistani temptress. “I’m gonna lay low awhile,” he wrote. “Let her cool off. Look, I know she loves me, she just doesn’t know how to show it. . . She only hits me when she gets really mad, but it’s probably my fault.”
“Damn right,” I thought.
So I was not at all surprised the White House decided against releasing photos of the body or when they did a quickie ‘burial at sea.’ They got the wrong Bin Laden in the wrong country, but then again, they didn’t have a scorned ex-lover leading the search either. I know what you’ve heard on the news; you think he’s dead. You needed closure and believe me, I get that. But don’t worry just yet; I’m on the trail, and when I find him, you can rip him to pieces, just like I know you wanted. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
How My Friend Summer DiVino and I Killed Osama Bin Laden
Chronicles of Summer DiVino
· Issue 1: How Summer DiVino and I killed Osama Bin Laden
· Issue 2: Michelle Bachmann and the hapless witch
· Issue 3: Summer discovers her altruistic self in the multi-verse