“Ghada, I think there’s a problem.”

“Problem?” Ghada said, perking up from her Playstation controller, but still watching PubG.

“Muchkilak. Nom Habibi,” I said, trying to use the little Arabic she had taught me.

The king didn’t let me on the computer for days. I was a ghost to the tech building. They put some guards around the place and even took barbed wire and covered the door. Whenever I would walk out of my home, they would be waiting. I wanted to use my stuff. I never dreamed I would have a computer like that. And I didn’t just want it for the ISIS destruction. I wanted my music, my games. My porn. It was my baby. I mean hell, I bought it.

Ghada finally turned and looked right at me with her blue eyes. Her hair was luscious and curly and black. It made me really happy. She honestly was the only thing I cared about in this whole place, aside from my computer. I could tell she didn’t like going outside. She had to wear her entire burka, and it got hot under there. But I learned something cool: the turban was for heat. When it’s really hot, you put on more cloth to cool your head. The world was a crazy place. I couldn’t imagine trying to convince Tom from Texas to wear a turban. That would be one hell of an argument.

We were couped up together and while I liked her, I could tell that when she wasn’t playing videogames she was stuck in thinking about Ibrahim. She distracted herself with the games. I was bored beyond belief. I didn’t know how she kept sane, if she even did.

“Something happened, and I think—,” and I stopped and my whole body shivered. All at once I had a tremendous thought, of telling Ghada, and of Ghada being found out. And then I imagined Ghada chained up on that town square, and that awful screw driv— NO!

I couldn’t tell her. I couldn’t do that to my wife. “I think—I think that I’m going to want to take you where I go,” I said. That was a bad cover up.

“Ah… Okay Hefty,” she said, turning to back to her game. “Zaatar and Kofta Halaby on kitchen, I you kawa next oven with zukar in ready.” Honestly, my appetite was starting to go away. Back home, I could eat until my stomach was ripping. Out here everyone fed you so much you just, didn’t want it anymore. Shukran, ISIS, I guess. La la la. “Shukran Ghada,” I said.

“Afwan,” she said, undisturbed from her game.

Shoving my face with zataar, I looked at her, and I got really sad. How could I set her free? I had created so much war. Could I take it away?

I wished I could hear her speak. Hear what kinds of stuff she was thinking. She was the wittiest person when she was online playing with her friends, but I couldn’t access any of it. It was like Error 404 to my real wife. I wanted to talk to her, but I couldn’t. I taught her English, plenty of it, but it wasn’t the same. And however much English she knew, I knew ten times less Arabic. I wondered if she cared what I had to say. To really say.

I took her controller and grabbed her hands. I looked into her eyes. Against her brown skin, her blue eyes were like lapis lazuli. Only reason I knew about lazuli was because I guess ancient Afkaz used to mine it and sell it to the pharaohs. Ghada’s eyes though, they made my spine tingle. They were gems. They were way more wonderful than the king’s. I wish we had met a different way. “Ghada,” I started, knowing she’d understand little, “I think some shit is going down with ISIS. With Daesh. Muchkilak. BIG Muchkilak. I don’t know what will happen to me, but I’m going to do everything to protect you.” She just sort of stared blankly at me. I could tell a little bit of what I said was lost on her. “Well, anyway, if I do figure out what’s going on, or how to get out of this—If I do, I want you to come with me. I mean who knows, we might all blow up, but I want to be with you.” She understood that. She took her hands from mine, and put then under her armpits. She looked away. Who knows what she was thinking about. Well, I knew. It was Ibrahim.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“I didn’t mean,” I started, and paused. “It’s just, I want you to be happy. I didn’t ask for this, and I just want to make sure you’re safe. Sorry.”

Fuck me. I still didn’t have my first kiss and I’m pretty sure I was already looking at a divorce. It didn’t matter though. If I was gonna take down ISIS, I would make sure to take Ghada with me.

But could I really?

I’m fuckin’ Hefty, I can do anything. I’m pretty sure I’m the first billionaire terrorist 15-year-old. What couldn’t I do.

The door kicked in. It was the king. I guessed it was go time. Ghada instantly turned. Was no longer upset. She was terrified. Everything went slow motion. The king walked over to her and started yelling at her in Arabic. Ghada tried to reply but kept getting talked over.

“Hey, what’s up, why are you—,” and the king pushed me away, into the TV. He made it clear that this was business that didn’t concern me. But I didn’t know what was being said. I just knew that he was being ugly to my wife. Suddenly, I was watching a cheetah snap at an antelope. I got in between the king and Ghada, now crying. I wasn’t tall enough. The king rained down blows over me. He beat Ghada. He made my wife bleed, smacking down on her.

The king wasn’t impressive any longer. He was just an animal. No better than anyone else in this place. I lifted my hands, trying to catch the king’s elbows, and then I felt a crunch.

I wailed. The king stopped.

My finger was hurt. The king started to rain down Arabic apologies . I pushed him away. I wanted our relationship to be over. He grabbed my wrist and inspected it.

“English!” I yelled at him. “La understand you.”

“A pardon. Hefty, give.”

“Whatever. La shukran, What the hell? Leave her alone.” Ghada was doing her quiet cry, like mom, or at least trying not to. The king said something else in Arabic to her. She stood and walked into the bathroom, locking the door.

“You still use finger can?”

I moved it. My middle finger. It was a little stiff. I didn’t think it was broken, but it sure wasn’t right.

“Yea, maybe, whatever. What do you want? Can I get back to my computer?”

“Soon,” he said, then let go. We walked outside. The heat was settling. “Hefty, remembering chess game? When time right, you serving me. Yes?”

“I thought I won the chess game.”

“You did. You stay. You win the gift of serve me, inshallah. Do you understand?” said the king, starting to finger his trademark weapon.

Fuck. “Yea, yea I guess I do understand.”

“It is time. I doing thing incredible. Do you know? No, you not know. You not have computer.”

“Know what?” I balked. I was in no mood.

“You know day what next day?” It took me a moment to figure out that it was November. Black Friday.

“I make master plan. I not even need you, and work. Big attack. New York City. Many people die. Many of our fighters go Paradise. Great success. Even greater I could having imagined.”

“Congrats.” I wondered how many people died. Wait, why was I so alright with terrorism all the sudden. I didn’t even blink. New York. Thanksgiving. “Times Square?”

“Yup!” said the king, like he just found a dead fish to poke at. “But even better. That fool king of USA. He make big mistake. I show you.”

He gripped me by the collar and led me. Walking into my cave, I saw that things were running. And then I got right pissed off. I wanted to punch someone, but that would not go down well. The little “pew pew pew” kid, Samir, was sitting. In my chair. The king came down the stairs, blind to my rage at seeing Samir. He said some stuff in Arabic, and Samir started typing away. He didn’t even wipe off his fingers, the little shit. That’s it, ISIS. SUCKS!

Then Samir pulled up a video of the president and blasted the volume.

“That’s right! Every cop car you see is gonna have everyone armed to the teeth. New guns. BIG guns. And every plane. Every lovely, million-dollar plane we own, is gonna be ready to roll. All. The. Time. We’re not gonna have a repeat of Yesterday. EVER. That’s why I am making sure our military is armed. and ready. Always. Get ready folks. History will look back and smile on us.”

I pushed Samir from the seat. I started to replay the video.

“GoPro, Hefty,” the king said, “You make GoPro live stream, yes?”

Live stream? “What? That’s easy,” I said, “you get Periscope.”

“No Hefty, we are done with the submarine.”

“What? Oh, no, no. That’s not what I mean,” I chuckled, “you gotta get PERISCOPE, not A periscope.”

“I SAID NO SUBMARINE!” said the king, smacking down his palm.

“No dude, It’s an app. It application. You know the word: app-li-cation.”

“Yes, I knowing app. Do not insult.” A wave of disdain fell over the room.

“The app is called Periscope. You need to download it, and then you can get that thing live streaming.”

The king spoke some Arabic. Samir pushed my chair away. The wheels rolled a foot or two, and he was already finding Periscope. “We change plans, Hefty. You and Samir have project.” Samir turned to me and smiled. I didn’t like him anymore.

“I see this Cleveland Dog team, this Brown. They have tradition. Each game they fly war plane. Over stadium.”

Oh fuck. My eyes went pure owl. “Ah, I see you understand. You know well very. Samir, and you, change world will. I see know you very well very.”

Samir clicked a few more keys and loaded a screen. I turned and looked, and I might as well have fainted. There it was. Portland, Oregon. My backyard, my fire pit that I plugged the coordinates into. I became very frosty. The king laid hands of lead on my shoulders. “I told you when it was time, I would call upon you, Hefty.”

Oh boy.

“It is time.”