by Jerome du Bois
Yasser Arafat has been in Hell for little more than a day -- specifically, the River of Burning Blood -- and the pain is still instantly surprising, relentless, and excruciating, with the River erupting from time to time in lava-like explosions, cascading down to cover the damned souls crowding the river in scalding gore. There is barely time to gasp before what seems like hot lead splatters over them all, and all thought is obliterated.
Between his screams he sometimes sees, falling through the smoky ceiling above, Fallujah fighters and other Islamicist terrorists, plummeting like burning logs into the smoldering river. He screams and cries, his tears instantly turning to corrosive acid on his cheeks, floundering helplessly in the boiling river, no escape from the pain, the forlorn cries of "don't make waves, don't make waves" just part of the cacophony of screams in this dolorous cavern.
But now Arafat feels some respite, some lessening of the torture, so that he can at least focus before him. And he beholds what seems a small golden swirl, high in the dank, fetid air above and before him; a growing golden swirl or vortex that blows the horrible stench of Hell away, and creates a bell-like silence.
The vortex grows and swells toward Yasser Arafat like a horizontal tornado or golden horn of plenty until, just ten feet above his writhing soul, it fixes itself, suspended before him, and opens upon a golden staircase which recedes in a graceful curve up out of sight. Impossibly, the scent of gardenia and roses cascades out over the River of Blood. Even the screaming souls give momentary pause, sniffing the air.
Arafat, transfixed, his nostrils dilating wildly to breathe in anything sweet, or pure, or of the Earth, suddenly chokes as he sees someone descending the stairs toward him.
Theo van Gogh comes floating almost weightlessly down the stairs, barefoot, clad in white linen trousers and t-shirt, suspenders holding his pants against his vast expanse, his hair tousled, a fresh cigarette jutting from the corner of his mouth. The smell of the tobacco is the worst temptation to Arafat.
Theo van Gogh stops at the foot of the stairs, which open up in a golden fan so he can pace back and forth. Theo looks into the distance, and points with his cigarette.
"Uday and Qusay," he says, though everyone is unrecognizable, moaning and exclaiming, arms flailing, torsos twisting, legs churning, blistered, scabbed, skin peeling in sheets, covered with blood and gore and phosphorescent offal. He steps back as five more terrorists plunge into the river, spattering boiling wet matter everywhere.
"It's not going to be in Jerusalem," Theo tells Arafat. "Not now, not ever, though some of your clowns brought in some dirt from the Holy City to pack around your worthless ass. Big deal. And it won't be the family plot in Gaza, either. They don't want to plow through the foot-high trash, and the piss-smell is worse than your breath -- when you were alive. So it's going to be Ramallah -- back to the Compound! talk about irony! -- after they clean up the blasted cars and concrete rubble and twisted steel which is your only legacy, besides thousands of innocent dead, of course. Those poor souls -- they're scattered; most of them are up here in Heaven with me."
"What -- how -- you -- here?" Arafat manages to gasp.
"The Divine owed me a favor, and this is what I asked for: just a few minutes of mercy for you. That's right, Arafat: when I leave, total Hell returns. This rose smell, the gardenias, the silence, the tobacco -- this is all of Heaven you will ever know."
Theo paused as six more Fallujah terrorists plunged down, creating a horrendous round of screaming. He shook his head and spread his arms to indicate the impressive length and broad breadth of the River of Burning Blood.
"Your work. Here they are, in this special place. You've twisted so many souls for nothing, and for gold, you murderous shit-for-brains, and now you get to spend eternity in Hell with all of them."
He takes a long drag on his cigarette, holds the ember up to his generous lips, and blows on it until it glows.
"One more thing," he says. "Heaven really is Heaven. It's good. None of the misogynistic crap you and Mohammed yakked on about -- 72 stupids is what he was! Heaven is good -- I don't know any other way to say it, and I sure am wasting my breath on you, but I had to tell you: that door was closed to you from the beginning."
He fixes Arafat with a fixed but furious gaze.
"I was done too soon, and you stayed far too long. I'll be talking to the Divine about that justice."
And he carefully leaned forward and flicked his burning cigarette off the putrescent purple bulbous blister that was Yasser Arafat's nose.
He stepped back, and the vortex rolled up like a golden carpet and disappeared. As Arafat looked forlornly on, the pain returning in hayfork stabs and sandstorm flayings, and scalding, spattering waves and shingle-like pricks, Theo's cigarette hissed and sank into the crimson gore of the River of Blood.
Posted by Jerome at November 12, 2004 12:25 AM | TrackBack