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"Don't give it another thought," Remo said casually, pulling the soldier's
legs in opposite directions. The splintering of his pelvic bone was louder
than the soldier's anguished screams. It lasted longer too.
Colonel Jassim Abdulla was reluctant to accept Remo's unconditional surrender.
He was in the middle of fornicating with a goat and was at a critical stage.
To withdraw, or not to withdraw. It was a question that haunted Iraitis in
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peace as well as in war.
Remo, who had never seen anyone hump a goat before, had a question.
"Why are you doing that?"
"Because there are no more living Kurani men, and if I do this to my men, it
would be bad for morale." The colonel's face was reddening with exertion.
By that, Remo took it to mean that Colonel Abdulla was one of the sexually
misdirected Iraitis the late gunner had offered him.
The goat bleated in fear. Feeling sorry for it, Remo grasped one quivering
horn and tugged. The goat slipped from the colonel's tight embrace with a
slurpy pop! of a sound, leaving the colonel to pump his seed over the barren
Kuran sand.
His eyes were closed, so he didn't notice that he was humping dead air.
When he was done, Colonel Abdulla came out of his crouch and noticed Remo's
problem. His thick Maddas Hinsein mustache lifted with his grin.
"Why did you not mention your problem?" he said, pulling up his pants. "The
goat could have waited. Goats make excellent how do you say it?-sloppy
seconds."
"Pass," Remo said. "You don't seem surprised to find yourself face-to-face
with an American," he added.
"The Americans are overdue. I know this. Why do you think I am busy making
time with a goat? After the Marines hit the beach, there will be no more goats
for Colonel Abdulla, alas."
"Spoken like an Iraiti with goatshit on his pecker. How about surrending-"
"Where are the rest of your Americans?" the colonel asked.
"Sorry to disappoint you, but there's only me."
The colonel's face fell. "You must be mad. I cannot surrender myself to one
lone American. My Arab pride would suffer."
"You got it backward, Achmed. I've come to surrender to you."
"Why?"
"Don't ask me that question and I promise not to tell Maddas Hinsein when I
see him in Abominadad that you like to bang goats."
The colonel gave this proposition serious thought.
"Deal," he said. He offered a hand that smelled of goat. "Shake?"
"No. How soon can you get me to Abominadad?"
His dark eyes going wistfully to Remo's bulge, the colonel sighed. "Long after
your magnificent instrument has tired."
"Don't bet the war on it," Remo said glumly.
Chapter 32
Maddas Hinsein didn't hear the ringing telephone through the satisfyingly
meaty smacking sounds. Then they stopped.
"Why do you deny me, my sweet?" he asked, lifting his face off the fluffy
pillow, unhappiness writ large in his deep soulful eyes. They were in a
torture chamber deep in the Palace of Sorrows, lying on a medieval iron bed.
The spikes had been replaced by a mattress.
Poised above his naked beet-red behind, four hot-pink palms hovered. One
disappeared from view. It returned, clutching a telephone receiver. The
hand-its nails as yellow as banana peel-brought the mouthpiece to Maddas'
unhappy lips.
"Attend to business first, and I will finish you after."
"Yes, O all-adept one," the Scourge of the Arabs said meekly.
Maddas' voice lost its submissive coloring. "Have I not told you I was not to
be disturbed?" he barked into the phone.
"A thousand pardons, O Precious Leader," his defense minister replied in a
shaky voice. "Our offensive has collapsed."
Maddas blinked. Of course. The gas attack. He had been having such a good
time, he had forgotten he ordered it. In truth, he half-expected to die at any
moment from U.S. blockbuster bombs, so he had left the operational details to
his generals.
"What happened?" he wanted to know.
"The trucks fell over. Should we send more trucks?"
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