Chapter 31
Poor Ziad.
Why are we pitying Ziad?
Think about it. He hasn't exactly had what one would call a normal life. Quite the opposite, in fact. The poor kid just can't seem to catch a break. He's been involved in violence and war and strife and stress and anxiety for months, now.
And it isn't about to end any time soon, now, is it. Because otherwise there wouldn't be a story to tell, and let me go ahead and break it to you- Ziad's story is one you'll want to know the end to.
So let me bring you a little closer to our action. Set the stage just a little.
Where is poor Ziad?
In Tehran, in the New Iran. The theocratic pseudo-democracy of before has been replaced (largely on accident) by a new, pro-western secular democracy.
The war Ziad started (again, largely on accident) is winding down, with the Indians and Pakistanis engaged in peace-talks after the deaths of over two-hundred thousand soldiers and civilians.
Why was this war started? So Russia can replace the Afghani Taliban with a pro-Russian government. Did they succeed? You betcha. While India and Pakistan were distracted by all the pretty violence, Russian-supported insurgent groups quietly overthrew the Taliban and installed a Russian puppet-government. Islamist groups are being forced out of the country, generally into either western Pakistan or eastern Iran. The new Iranian government is cracking down hard on these groups, while the militarily weak Pakistan is increasingly unstable. The Chinese are eyeing the country they supported with distaste. Pakistan will get no help from them. India, too, is recovering from the war that left tens of thousands of her sons dead.
Where are the Americans in all this? Well, its president is too busy not having sexual relations with a certain intern at the White House. Plus, what do the Americans care about that part of the world? Please.
Now, Ziad is reading the newspapers in a certain young lady's home, discovering what he has done to the world (again, largely on accident). It can be quite disturbing for a young man of such innocence and kind-heartedness to see what horrors he has unleashed upon the developing world.
"Oh my God!" he shouted, dropping the newspaper in fright.
"What is it?" said Golshifteh, hurrying into the kitchen, expecting to see some awful eruption of demons from the Dungeon Dimensions.
"Pete Burns got truly awful plastic surgery! Look at him! He's hideous!"
Golshifteh sat down and put her head in her hands.
"Please. You need to leave, Ziad. You've been here for two days now. I'm sure those men have stopped looking for you."
Ziad continued staring at the picture of Pete Burns's new face.
"It's so... Ugly..."
Golshifteh looked.
"He does look pretty horrifying now, I grant you that. But seriously. Leave."
"Fine, fine. I'm going."
Ziad left the apartment and began walking. Nowhere in particular. Just walking.
After walking for perhaps an hour, he started feeling hungry.
He had a vague sense of deja vu- drifting through a foreign city, nowhere to go, nobody to meet. You'd think he was a soul drifter or something. But no. He was just a poor boy, though his story's seldom told, he has squandered his resistance for a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises.
Ahem.
Ziad walked down the street. It's a strange street in a strange world, maybe it's the Third World. Maybe it's his first time around, he doesn't speak the language, he holds no currency. He is a foreign man, he is surrounded by the sound. Cattle in the marketplace, scatterlings and orphanages. He looks around, around. He sees geometry in the architecture, spinning in infinity, he says Allahu Akbar! And Masha'Allah!
Cough, cough. Ahem.
Ziad searched for a sign. He looked everywhere. He wandered, he traipsed, he meandered.
Night began falling, and the street crowd changed from one of business to one of pleasure. Sharp dressed youths began filling the street around Ziad, and he heard the faint thumping sound of a club. He was able to pick up a few words...
"You... round baby, right round... baby!
You look like …... fun, open up... I want some, want some!"
The music became clearer.
"You spin me right round, baby, right round, like a record baby, right round round round!"
I! I got to be your friend now, baby! And I! Would like to move in just a little bit closer!"
"Masha'Allah!" exclaimed Ziad. He had found his sign.
The music was coming from a club called Club Pretentious.
"Well, at least they're honest," muttered Ziad.
He got in line for the club.
The bouncer was a large (no shit) man. He didn't look Persian, perhaps more Uzbeki or Afghani.
He spoke to Ziad in Persian.
"I don't speak Persian. I got English, Pashto, a little French here and there, a little Hindi, and some Portuguese."
The bouncer replied in perfect, unaccented Portuguese.
"That's unexpected. Fair enough. I wish to enter the club."
"Identification?"
"None."
"No ID, no entry. Sorry, bro."
"What about if I tell you I'm a personal friend of...Uh... Ali's. Yeah. Sure. Ali's my best bro."
The man smirked at Ziad.
"Sure, I'll just call Ali right now, and interrupt his business. You want me to do that?"
Ziad lost a little confidence, but went with it. For once, he had a good feeling about it.
"Yeah. Give Ali a call."
The bouncer spoke into a lapel-radio. He spoke in what sounded like Russian.
"Ali is coming now," said the bouncer smugly, "Please wait here."
Ziad waited outside the club for what felt like an hour. It was probably more like two minutes, but this sort of thing always feels longer than it should.
The song in the club changed. Ziad's confidence fell a notch or two.
"Relax! Don't do it!"
"Oh... Shit. Not... Frankie!"
"Yes... Frankie." said a voice in a British accent.
Ziad slowly turned to the source of the voice.
An immaculately dressed (by "immaculately" I mean "a crapload of black leather") man stood in front of Ziad, with a wicked smirk plastered across his face.
"You worked with dear Pete, didn't you? I thought I saw his ugly mug at a party in Hollywood. Yes, I do recognize you."
The man stepped closer to Ziad.
Ziad backed away.
"I am Ali, aka Holly Johnson, aka Codename Frankie, aka... The Dark Lord Steve. Muahahahahaha! Ha! HAHAAHAHAHA! MAAHAHAHAHAHHA! Ahem..." He coughed.
"Anyway. What is it you ask of me, little boy?"
Ziad recovered his confidence just in time to realize the street had cleared out. If tumbleweed had existed in Tehran, he was sure it would have tumbleweeded across the street. He lost his confidence again.
"Answer me! Why have you disturbed my pleasure?"
"Uh... I need a wand."
The Dark Lord Steve stopped.
"A... Wand, you say? Hmm..."
A pensive look crossed his face.
"Uh, no. I think not. After all, you worked with my nemesis, Pete Burns. You really think that ugly man got bad plastic surgery? Hahaha! No! I hit him with a curse that makes him look ridiculous. That man is truly an annoyance. So no, you helped him, so I shall not help you. Deal with it."
The Dark Lord Steve turned around and began walking back into the club.
Ziad felt in his pockets and found the pen still stained with the blood of Mr. Patil.
He pulled the pen from his pocket.
"I need a wand."
Two swift steps forward and a hard arm-swing later, and Holly Johnson aka Ali aka Dark Lord Steve lay on the ground, bleeding from a neck-wound and choking on his own blood.
"This is a really bad habit," Ziad muttered to himself as he searched Holly Johnson/DL Steve's pockets.
He discovered a wand. Finally.
A stubby stick of black wood. Ziad gripped it experimentally. It didn't fit his hand like a glove, but dammit, desperate times called for desperate measures.
He prepared to make a portkey.
Before the final gesture, he turned to the now-dead DL Steve.
"Badass quip!"
He jammed his wand into one of DL Steve's commandeered shoes.
"Portus!"
Author's Note:
When I began writing this story, if you had told me mid-'80s pop-dance numbers with vague (or overt) homoerotic themes would be heavily featured, I would have laughed in your face.
Well, look where we are now.
I weep for my future.