Sharia Mars

 Sharia Mars

Aaron DeWeese

 

   It was a warm Martian summer's eve.  Young Master Abdul-Baari Glyphstickler was eleven years old.  Musin, his father—who was an auto car salesman—and Fadwa, his mother—a secretary for her cousin, a local shaikh—had both been summoned by the Caliph to deal with a case of a young mullah—which they were most relieved to find out was not their son, Abdul-Baari—who had allegedly stolen something from the main temple.  Musin and Fadwa both silently suspected within themselves that this was a false allegation arising from the mullah refusing to gain the favor, sexually speaking, of the older pigs. 

    The consequence of the mullah’s refusing the not-so-secret lusts of the older pigs would be carried out by the community that very night, within closed walls.  The consequence was punishment for a crime not committed. 

    Musin and Fadwa would place their votes to appease the consensus, and cast their river stones in turn, at the young mullah’s face and genitals, to then return to the guarded peace of their home.  Their sleep would be troubled and many prayers would be said for their young son, Abdul-Baari.  Their lives were lived in total submission to the laws of the land.  They awaited justice in the next life.

    Young Master Abdul-Baari Glyphstickler's parents feared for him while he was in attendance at the madrasa, knowing most intimately the aggressiveness of the sodomites, equally as lustful as their priest counterparts on Earth.

    On this warm evening, Abdul-Baari sat alone in his parent's home, blissfully lost in a virtual Thousand and One Nights.  He paused from his journeys in cyberspace to lift dehydrated eggplant to his mouth, which he followed with rose water. 

    Suddenly, Abdul-Baari became startled by a terrible noise rising from the highway below Summit Street, the high street on which his house stood.  The sound was of the screeching of tires. 

    In eleven years of life on Mars, he had witnessed the influx of more and more people from Earth.  Mars had built its first thriving industry - Jumaana, an automobile factory.  The import of petroleum products was quite inexpensive.  All Martian cars were very economical while severely lacking in ergonomics.  Long living diesel engines accelerated their speed of acceleration in the distance.  Mars’ car’s design were uniform and consistent in uniformity.  They were vehicles which resembled small silver spheres, with four small fifteen inch radials underneath.  Jumaanas, as they were called, were how the Martian now traveled.  Long gone were the wild days of Mu’min bikes and al-bukr.

    Abdul-Baari knew the sound of screeching tires on the highway very well.  Kashandenville Road was the southern most route which led directly into the hub of the city.  People didn’t seem to slow down as they approached the city.

     He cringed and waited for the sound of impact to inevitably follow the screeching.  There it was, finally, but it didn't sound right to him.  It sounded...wrong.  He ran outside into the back yard.

    Summit Street looked down upon Kashandenville Road.  A few hundred yards down, the road narrowed and ran directly through the middle of Iltmo Village.  Abdul-Baari could see customers running out of the Texaco gas station.  He couldn’t see the scene of the accident for some trees, but it had taken place directly in front of the station.  Abdul-Baari briskly walked a short ways down Summit Street, so that he might see better.  His neighbor, Mr. Bishr had come out of his house and was standing with a grimace on his face as he gazed at the accident below.  Somehow Mr. Bishr managed to stay on top of all happenings in the neighborhood.  He seemed a living repository of public information which would rather itself remain private in most cases.  It would not long remain private once it came to Mr. Bishr.  Abdul-Baari approached Mr. Bishr slowly.

    “It’s pretty bad,” he said flatly.

    “What is it,” Abdul-Baari asked as he came to stand beside his neighbor.

    He saw for himself.  A single Jumaana was stopped in the middle of the highway, it’s front end mangled and bloody.  Black tire marks trailed quite a ways behind it.  Something big was laying a ways down the road, in front of it.  It’s what made the sickening sound of the impact.  It was a grotesquely obese man.

    “I’m sure that fella just got killed,” Mr. Bishr said.

    Abdul-Baari jumped the guard rail and bounded down the hill behind the Texaco station.  In a few moments he was standing at the side of Kashandenville Road, in front of the gas pumps, with a small group of people who stood gawking.  A woman was crying hysterically.  Abdul-Baari looked at the fat man in the road.  He was white.  He wasn’t moving.  Several streams of blood were making their way down the road.  They were incredibly long, seeming as red rivers.  He didn’t doubt the blood would reach into Iltmo Village before long.  He heard the wailing of a siren in the distance.  The EMT would wash the blood away.

    The men got out of the ambulance and covered the fat man.  They ask some questions of the bystanders, and then took him away.  The crowd slowly dispersed, chattering excitedly amongst themselves.   The next morning Abdul-Baari would find himself seated within a small wooden desk at the madrasa.  A small seed of righteous hate blossomed in his heart.