Smitty, The Jihadi Next Door

The terrorist was weeding his new vegetable garden next door when I walked over to say hello. He had moved in only last week.

“Hi,” I said, using my best smile. “I’m your neighbor and I want to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

He was a young fellow, about thirty, wearing blue jeans and a denim workshirt and off-brand running shoes. He wiped his hands on his pants and we shook hands.

“Hello. Thank you. My name is Mohamet abu Masri abu Tikriti al Fallujah ben Bushi al Salami Smith.” He smiled. “Just call me Smitty.”

“Pleased to meet you, Smitty. Nice garden.” I admired the neat rows of young plants.

He threw his hands up. “It’s my wife. Every year with the garden. She’s got to have a garden because her mother had a garden, her mother’s mother had a garden. All her mothers had gardens, right back to Eve.”

“She helps you with it though?”

“You must not be married, friend. She doesn’t want to break a nail.”

We talked a bit about the weather and how he liked the town.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“San Diego. Just south of San Diego.”

“What brings you here then? New England hardly compares to the weather there, hey?”

He shrugged. “Very true. I miss all the sun and the sand. It reminds of my real home.”

“Oh. Where’s that?”

“Iraq. I left Iraq in 2004 to come here.”

A glimmer of understanding flashed in my brain. “Ah, so you must be one of the refugees.”

“No, oh no no. All the refugees went to Sweden or Jordan or Syria. No no. I am a terrorist.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A terrorist. You know. Jihadi. Blow things up.”

“But… but that’s not possible. You can’t be in this country if you’re a terrorist.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said, waggling both hands at me. “I registered with y0ur local police.”

“What?” I knew the local cops were a little slovenly and spent too much time flirting with the girls at Starbucks and MaryJane’s Donut Shoppe, but this was a little over the line even for them.

“But you’re a criminal. You attacked us.” I may have sputtered, but tried to contain it so as not to appear rude.

“Moi? No. Those were Saudis. I am Iraqi. I-rack-ee. Look.” He pulled out his wallet. “I have a paper from your police.” He handed me a card with his full name typed on it and that identified him as a lawful Iraqi terrorist.

“Well, gosh, okay, I guess,” I said, handing it back to him. “Jeez, there must be good money in terrorism,” I said, pointing at the house. It had sat on the market for two years and was way overpriced.

“Oh, no, not really. But when you invaded my country there was all this American money floating around. Saddam had stored it everywhere. I helped myself to several bundles.”

“You stole it?”

“It no longer belonged to anyone. Like my country.”

“Oh, well, of course, that makes sense. Sorry about that.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But why come here, to America? Our soldiers are looking for you.”

“Well, your President Bush, he said many times that you wanted to fight us there so you wouldn’t have to fight us here. You attacked us, and you are still there.”

“Not my first choice, I want you to know.”

“Of course. Not ours, either. So, we didn’t want to fight you. We just wanted you to go away. You didn’t go away. So since you don’t want to fight us here, we came here.”

“Does that mean you aren’t going to blow anything up, try to destroy our way of life, blow up Wall Street?”

He laughed. “Oh, no no no. You are doing all that very well yourself. We no longer have to do anything. Oh, there’s some volunteers still blowing things up over there. They just like the action. Keep the pot stirred up just enough so your government will continue its crazy action until it falls down.”

“So you’re really a retired terrorist?”

“Absolutely. Your Republicans will do all the work for us.” He clapped me on the back. “Now, you must come in and meet my wife and have some tea. Maybe we can play a little backgammon. You like backgammon? A dollar a point? It’s for my health plan.”

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3 Responses

  1. Truly Brilliant.

    Like

  2. Excellent. Is it a true story? 😉

    Like

  3. That’s awesome. Good stuff.

    Like

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