The Next Coming of the Lord. Although Mahmoud warned them, few listened. (standard:Satire, 3484 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1493/973	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
WARNING: Not meant for the extremely religious, also not to make fun of religion, but it might make you think.

Baby Mahmoud Zayyad was born to the sound of gunfire and the boom of
incoming Israeli rockets.  A stray bullet hitting an earthen wall above 
the newborn infant, his mother brushed dirt from his face and clutched 
the baby to her breast.  They, and many others, were huddling in a 
tunnel near the Palestinian village of Ein al Helweh. 

His mother noticed a family of Americans standing at the entrance,
seemingly unafraid.  Are they really that brave or only feeling 
uninvolved? she thought, turning back to little Mahmoud.  The village 
midwife, her job finished, went back to huddle with the rest of her own 
family.   Shireen, the mother had to face the wall to avoid a crazy 
American brandishing a video camera. 

Mahmoud's mother had recently been divorced and made a precarious living
begging on the streets.  When her husband -- who had been fighting with 
Hezbollah in Lebanon for over two years -- found she was pregnant, he 
divorced her for being unfaithful.  She had never been with another 
man, and swore so to him, but he didn't believe her.  He intoned the 
fateful words. “I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee,”  in 
front of witnesses, adding “bitch.” And the deed was done. 

*** 

Baby Mahmoud grew up on the streets, half starved and living from day to
day.  He refused to beg and, when he was four-years-old, learned to 
read on his own.  Mahmoud grew up as an intelligent boy who preached 
his own brand of the gospel.  A ragged long-haired figure, Mahmoud 
seemed to have a good word for everyone, even bullies. 

His prayers were answered when he obtained a job at a local McDougal's
fast-food restaurant.  The boy grew to be a man, still preaching his 
own brand of religion.  He was considered a good hearted nut, his 
preaching ignored by most of the people he met. 

Although unschooled, Mahmoud learned to speak and write both Israeli and
English, as well as his native language, and read all the religious 
texts he could find.  It didn't change his version at all, only giving 
him a deeper understanding of the world's formal religions. 

One day, in his twenties and with a small following, Mahmoud woke, said
prayers to his god and screamed out one word to the heavens -- as loud 
as his young lungs could stretch. 

“Enough,” he shouted, at the top of his voice. “Enough.  Take that job
and shove it.” 

“What was that, Mahmoud?” came a reply from outside. 

His friend, Abbas, came running into the hut.  Abbas had been in the
process of adding day-old hamburger meat -- stolen from their work at 
McD's -- to a perpetual stew pot outside, left simmering for the hungry 
of their village. 

“I have had a vision, Abbas.  My Father spoke to me in my dreams, and
told me my mission.” 

“Your mission?  I don't understand?” 

“I am His son, the Lord's, brought back to Earth. My mission is to
prepare this world for His next visit.” 

“His visit?  Your father?  I don't understand, Mahmoud, your father was
killed by the Zionists?” 

“I am the Son of God, returned.  My real father has given me powers, but
I must use them wisely.  I must prepare the world for His coming.” 

“Riiiight.  You been smoking that funny stuff?” 

Abbas wasn't convinced.  He had known Malmoud for many years and
although exceptional in many ways his friend would hardly be classified 
as a god. 

“Come on, Mahmoud.  Let's eat breakfast,”  he suggested. 



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