CHOKE

by

T.K. Mancia

Alimar Mohammad Omar Mohammad Amid, or Al, as he was known to family and friends, lay on the bed of his Motel 6 room, bathed in the soft glow of the TV, a half-eaten bucket of Kentucky Fried on the night table beside him. Idly his fingers pinched a small roll of fat around his middle. He worried that he might be out of condition. Three years of waiting, living the ‘American Dream’ had taken it’s toll on his once firm, lithe body, a legacy from his days in the training camp, from the intense preparation of readying himself for the event for which he was born.

He was watching a re-run of ‘Roseanne’-- good figure, lots of places to hold onto, but what a mouth! He was thinking how the woman needed a damn good whipping and fancying he was just the man for the job when the phone rang shrilly. With a muttered oath and a big bite of the Colonel’s Best between his teeth, he reached across the bed for the receiver.

‘Yeah,’ he grunted through a mouthful of chicken.

‘Alimar Mohammad Omar Mohammad Amid?’

Al stiffened, this was it, this was, the call. Gulping down the half masticated food, he felt a piece lodge in his throat.

“Alimar Mohammad Omar Mohammad Amid?” the guttural voice on the other end of the line repeated impatiently.

“Yes,” grunted Al, swallowing desperately, trying to dislodge the blockage.

“Allah awaits you.”

“Yes.” Beads of perspiration dotted Al’s lower lip and brow, he wiped a trembling hand over his face.

“You know what to do.”

“Yes,” whispered Al.

“Praise Allah.”

“Praise Allah,” Al wheezed, with the last of his breath.

Through a building wall of panic, Al heard the click as the call disconnected at the other end, then, throwing the receiver to the floor, he began clawing uselessly at his throat, which was now emitting a strange small whistle. He thrashed on the bed, knocking the bucket of chicken to the floor in his frenzy, his chest heaving convulsively.

With eyes bulging and face turning from dark red to mottled purple, he thought regretfully of the seventy virgins that would have been waiting for him. Not now. Not now that he had been prevented from his holy task by the stinking, infidel Western eleven secret herbs and spices.

He felt his eyes glaze as they rolled back in his head. His life’s work had been foiled, fouled by the dirty, filthy, putrid, rotting bird of the Americas.

There was no glory in death by chicken.

§ § §

T. K. Mancia writes poetry and short stories and is currently working on a first novel. She can be reached via email at:jtman@lisp.com.au. .

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