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Message-ID: <40744asstr$1044601805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: eidelon262@aol.com (Eidelon262)
Subject: {ASSM} Nasrudin! The Mystical Prophet! (1!)
Date: Fri,  7 Feb 2003 02:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Nasrudin! The Mystical Prophet (1!)
by Eidelon262

<Inspired by the wonderful work in "Sailbad the Sinner", and I wish I'd written
it first.>

Legal disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, so if your name is Nasrudin and
the exact same things happened to you, fuck off. And don't read the damn thing
if my telling you to fuck off was offensive, because it doesn't get any more
comfy from here. Miners are allowed; they're fine, hard-working people. Minors
have to hide their monitors under the covers after bed time (and stop touching
that, you'll go blind). Always respect the law, as long as I can figure out a
way for it to give me legal rights to "Sailbad".

Many creatures were boiled alive in the creation of this story. You've gotta
get crawfish in the pot before they're dead, or else they're no good, or else
you've got a bunch of dead crustaceons rotting up your kitchen trash and five
days until the garbage men pick it up, so what good is that? Might as well dump
'em live in the Zatarain's and leave what's left for the cats.

Many dead creatures <cows and pigs and chickens, mostly> were also fried,
baked, broiled, and consumed. Now that this story is done, I think I'll get
some frog legs. So amphibians were also crippled in this work of fiction.

Mmmmm. Frog legs. Reminds me of Nasrudin's first girlfriend, from which he
first knew wisdom ....

NASRUDIN!
THE MYSTICAL PROPHET!

<DA duh DA duh DA du DAHHHHHHH!!>

Okay, so this spindly Greek and a massive Roman prelate walk into a bar in
Jerusalem, right? Yeah, so the Hebrew bartender says: "Oy! What's with the
stick?"

The Greek looks at the Hebrew, and the Hebrew looks at the Roman, and they both
stare at the Greek. The Greek is about to give an absolutely KILLER punchline,
when in walks Nasrudin the Mystical Prophet, a man known for his subtle but
absolute talent for killing a good stereotype-based joke right at the build-up.

"Give me a beer, " he said.

The patrons moaned in dissapointement. The bartender sighed and started to
syphon some of his cheapest lager into a wooden goblet. "Not that stuff,"
Nasrudin said. "It gives me the Schlitz."

A number of rocks sailed at the prophet's head (many of them connecting), but
he was wise enough to turn the other cranial lobe. Didn't matter much anymore
anyway.

Oddly, when Schlitz Beer first came back after Prohibition, they used bottles
designed after ancient rocks thrown upon the skull of the Mystical Prophet.
Turns out he had some ability to face the future head-on after all. But I
digress.

"Why are you here, Holy One?" the bartender asked.

Nasrudin considered his cup of slightly-less-bad beer. "I have seen the future
of this place in a dream, and it is desolate," Nasrudin said. "No one alive
will walk into or from this tomb.

"But!"

They were hanging on his words, the patsies. They had all this ancient wisdom
to build ziggurats and pyramids and outer space flying saucers, but the
ancients were still pretty gullible. So when Nasrudin the Mystical Prophet
said:

"But!"

everybody spilled their drinks. Some even shit themselves. Different story.

"But!" repeated Nasrudin, "I have seen myself enjoying seven free beers at this
bar, and the malignant terror passing by without harming a single man!"

The crowd gasped. Nasrudin was a drunken looney, but he was also considered
amongst the wised of them. So they fell for it.

"Seven beers coming up, on the house!" said the bartender.

"Actually, I had the dream twice. Better make it fourteen, just to be safe."

"Uh ... sure. Fourteen free beers."

"You should have seen it! Blood and fleshy things dripping off the walls!  It
was horrible. Nobody would ever drink here again, not that you'd care, stuffed
into that cask of wine until your asshole tried to breathe for your lungs."

Ishmael, the bartender, was starting to think the old drunken Mystical Prophet
was playing him for free beer. He ignored any further conversation with his
guest, and Nasrudin got quietly drunk.

Half-way through the fourteenth beer, Nasrudin stirred and walked to the open
door. In seconds the streets were sent into horrifying turmoil by the
Geshtapah, the most feared of all the Caliph's Royal Guard, second only to the
Shoostaphem. Nasrudin waved through the dust stirred by the horses' hooves. The
soldiers rode by without seeming to even see Ishmael's bar.

All were awed by the power of Nasrudin's wave.

"My friend!" cried Ishmael. "You have saved my tavern! Let me give you another
beer, on the house!"

There was great laughter and many slapped Nasrudin's back in congratulation and
thanks.

But the minute the Mystical Prophet took his first sip of the bar's finest (and
his fifteenth) beer, the Geshtapah returned and slew everyone who still moved,
except for Nasrudin, who was faking death. The scene resembled his vision
exactly, with the blood and fleshy bits clinging to the walls. It was horrible.

"Guess I woke up too soon this morning," Nasrudin said.

***

But when Nasrudin had awakened from that dream, stayed awake long enough to
toke up the hookah, then fallen asleep again, he had a second sequence of
Mystical Prophet-type images.

These involved the daughter of the (now-deceased) Ishmael. He saw her so
clearly in that second sequence of visions. He could trace the dark buds of her
nipples with the needle of his mind. He could rim the linings of her most
private of parts with the shriveled needle of his ... whatever. Fill in the
blank.

He was brought from his recollection of the past by the crying he heard now in
his present. The voice was young and mourning, and he recognized Ishmael's
daughter. What was her name? Nasrudin sought amongst the vast resources of his
mystical powers until he found it, along with a phone number (which made no
sense to the ancient at the time), carved in the walls above the toilet in the
Stall of the Fates. Just under the foreboding phrase, "For a good time call:".

She was Arikash, which means "The One Who Makes You Grow".

He helped her up, wiped the dust from her face, her shoulders, her tits, with
his tongue.. She had the same dark nipples he had dreamed of since he was a
child, until, in adolescence, he had realized they were the nipples he already
had on his own chest. That was his second experience that let him believe he
was a genuine Mystical Prophet. The first was finding his mom's keys in a
prosthetic leg being sold by an amputee street orphan.

Okay, the orphan was a setup, but that other thing was real. His nipples were a
mirror image of hers. And since he was staring at both of their chests in
amazement and awe, it's kinda hard to believe that Nasrudin didn't see the
short sword which she struck straight into his chest with a really sick sucking
sound.

It was pretty nasty. Once again, Nasrudin had awoken too early for his vision
to be of any value.

Nasrudin had her name and her celestial phone number, but this nubile minx was
about to rip out his spine with an incision that started with his asshole.
Being almost dead from a critical heart injury, he wondered if beer would help.
It was a question to which he would never know the answer.

***

Yeah, like I'm giving up THIS story. Christ, there hasn't even been any SEX
yet, fer crying in the mud!

So stay tuned for Nasrudin! The Mystic Prophet Traveler!

Coming soon to a theater near you.

Eidelon 262

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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