An R.J. Godlewski and Right Truth Blog Exclusive
Chapter Two
Viper’s Lair,
Kerch, Ukraine
Muhammad gazed upon his surroundings with his intense, orange-brown eyes scrutinizing the cell that had been his home for the past two months – as near as he could tell given the circumstances of his internment. The clammy four-meter by four-meter cubical remained nothing more than a damp concrete block cage with a dented steel bucket which served both as a wash basin and commode and his abode’s sole furnishing was an antiquated mattress better suited perhaps as a condominium for an infinite variety of microscope vermin. Its ceiling rose a good meter above his outstretched hands, preventing even his 183 centimeter frame from reaching the bare light bulb that never seemed to be extinguished.How many prisoners had preceded him into this little piece of terrestrial hell, his mind could not imagine. Still, his thin nostrils hinted at hundreds over the course of undisclosed decades. Mere cattle could not exude such a foul odor for at least they often had an opportunity to relieve themselves far from where they ate and slept. Muhammad did not consider himself to be such a beast, but he dwelled amongst them all his adult life – both mammalian and otherwise – just the same.
To say that he hated his current predicament was to acknowledge to his captors that he preferred the luxurious appointments of his Beirut apartment but that was something that he would never allow his hated enemy to witness. Muhammad never allowed the outside world to understand his innermost feelings and emotions. He simply hated mankind first and foremost; temporary inconveniences would never distract him from his ultimate goal – the submission of the infidels. Like all complex personalities, he could not be defined merely by the situation. He loved luxury, yes, but in the context of his perverted jihad he would gladly accept whatever challenge the West forced upon him.
In this regard, he knew every square centimeter of his cell. That each wall was constructed of sixteen and a one-half staggered blocks towards the ceiling and an almost identical sixteen and a fraction along the floor. That the sickening yellow door contrasted vividly with the dark gray walls, floor, and ceiling. How the gurgling sound occasionally emitted from the single floor drain often interrupted his sleep when all else was silent.
From time to time, mostly when he was just beginning to fall asleep and never knowing exactly what time of day it was or whether it was the beginning of the week or the last few days; Muhammad could hear, quite faintly, the sound of a nearby prisoner being worked over by their captors. He could hear the words of a man screaming about his family in Arabic and the unmistakable laughter of several foreign individuals.Thus far, however, Muhammad had been left to his own consciousness; sitting sometimes upon the floor and at other times upon his worn mattress, always naked for that was the condition that his captors had elected to permit him after that first brutal week. From the first moment that he was confronted within his Pakistani cave until he had a fleeting glimpse of the Viper’s Lair, Muhammad had been forcibly shoved here and there. Sometimes he had to wear a suffocating canvas bag over his head while at other times a simple blindfold seemed to suffice. As if to mock his rather flamboyant tastes, every vehicle that he was transported in sounded and smelled as if it were a relic from the earliest twentieth century.
Being so ill-treated during his journey, he expected no less once he reached his final destination but therein developed something of a surprise for him. Other than an occasional meal left upon his floor, apparently timed to arrive with his erratic slumbers, Muhammad had no visitors whatsoever. Not one. No one arrived to interrogate him. No one arrived to examine him. In fact, no one arrived to torture him. He could make neither heads nor tails out of the infidels’ lack of attention.
Surely they knew who he was; everyone on the planet did – at least Muhammad never ventured anywhere where he wasn’t either idolized or demonized. Why, then, the silence once he was captured? He strongly suspected that he was being watched nonetheless, but couldn’t conceive of where a camera could’ve been hidden. He had ample time to scrutinize the walls and floor and as dark and grimy as they were, he would’ve easily detected any camera or microphone. From what he could see of the high ceiling, the flat gray cement was nearly blemish-free and only disappeared from his view near the brilliant light bulb that had served as his sole source of illumination.
The camera, if it existed – and he believed that it did – must’ve been near the bright light. It made practical sense, sharing the power lines and being positioned in the most advantageous area with respect to lighting; and it made operational sense – Muhammad could not reach or even inspect the bug.
Other than for moments of idle curiosity, Muhammad did not dwell upon whether he was being watched or not. He was in the hands of his ancestral enemy and this warranted every cognizant thought that he could muster under the circumstances. For whatever else that fate had delivered him into the hands of the infidels, he possessed an unfathomable level of knowledge regarding his own operations and intentions. Had he been a prisoner of the Israelis, he reasoned, then they would’ve been torturing him every day of every week in order to extract the information that his mind held. And yet nothing.
Muhammad’s senses were not so isolated that he could not detect the prominence of the Russian and Ukrainian languages and so he suspected that he was being held within either country, specifically the latter. That it could’ve been all a ruse was considered but his gut instincts suggested that such a fabrication held little value for his enemies. The Russians hated the Islamists just as much as the West – they just despised the West enough to keep their own hatred quiet.
Not having much of a choice as to what to do otherwise – stand, sit on the floor, or sit on the mattress – Muhammad elected to do what he did best and that was plan on how to get back at his enemies. Being a Muslim was simple and straightforward; if they didn’t believe in precisely what you believed in then they were subject to death in the most heinous way imaginable. Whether they were Russian, Ukrainian, Israeli, American, or even other Arabs changed that not one bit.
Unlike his more popular contemporaries such as Osama Bin Laden and Ayman al-Zawahiri, Muhammad did not seek a greater Islam based upon some broad-based Caliphate. No, Muhammad sought a more glorified world in which he could elect to dabble within Western luxuries while his subjects had to accept legislation by shariah. That is, Muhammad just wanted to profit at the expense of others. He knew that a global Islamic Caliphate would not quench his thirst for power and prestige. He wanted to be the one in control of the planet and, truth be told; Allah, the Qur’ân, and his fellow Muslims could be damned.
So, having already counted all one thousand or so cement blocks that had lined his personal depository, Muhammad turned his calculating nature towards his most immediate goal –how to enact revenge against his enemies once his men had come to free him. That he considered the latter arrangement to be a given, he did not allow his mind to consider anything other than the first. Still, how best to make the infidels pay for their transgressions?
At the Patient Evil Homepage the Synopsis, Prologue, Chapter One, and each chapter will be available in pdf after they are published here at Right Truth.
Synopsis at Right Truth
Prologue and Chapter One at Right Truth
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Muhammed was SO EVIL Debbie. We see him live on in these sick Jihadist.
Posted by: Layla | May 13, 2008 at 02:01 PM