Akhmed and the Atomic Matzo Balls. Gary Buslik

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СКАЧАТЬ your temperature, Your Greatness, and it was perfectly normal. A little below, in fact.”

      “Don’t you turn on me, too, Hazeem,” the president moaned. “I couldn’t bear it. Everyone around here wants to see me dead—don’t deny it. I thought I could depend on you, at least.”

      “Of course you can.”

      “Then hand me the damn thermometer. I feel feverish.”

      Hazeem complied.

      “Shake it down for me, will you?”

      Hazeem shook it down.

      The president opened his mouth and lifted his tongue. Hazeem guided the thermometer in gingerly. Akhmed gestured for his friend, interpreter, and confidant to hand him the Popular Mechanics magazine that, along with People, Marie Claire, and House Beautiful, littered the foot of the bed. He leafed through it, found a dog-eared page, and, pointing at his mouth to indicate he didn’t want to talk with the thermometer under his tongue, handed the magazine to Hazeem.

      The interpreter glanced at the article, “How Terrorists Could Make a Suitcase Atomic Bomb.” There were some nice graphics—very detailed illustrations—and even without reading the article, Hazeem could see they had researched the topic. Even at a glance he got the feeling that any rogue knucklehead could slap the thing together in the back of his carpet stall on weekends, between hits of his hookah. They not only made it look easy but fun. Even Hazeem—a peace-loving fellow if ever there was one—felt the urge to run out to Omar’s Hardware and round himself up some nuclear weapons parts.

      He handed the magazine back to his president. “Nice.”

      “Nice!” Akhmed exploded, apparently forgetting the thermometer. It did a little pirouette at the tip of his tongue, and as he inhaled for another shout, it slid down his esophagus and got stuck.

      He gasped for breath and began to turn blue. He pointed desperately to his throat, but Hazeem pretended not to understand. He knew he’d rescue the little bugger but wanted to screw with his head for a minute—although he did consider breaking for lunch, which he was fully entitled to do, as there was nothing in his contract that stipulated Heimliching his boss back to planet earth. Finally, though, he reached into his president’s mouth and, with two fingers, fished out the thermometer.

      “What the hell were you waiting for?!” the president gasped.

      “I didn’t understand what you were saying.”

      “You’re an interpreter!”

      “No harm done, Most High One.” He held the thermometer at the angle where he could read the mercury. “Still just short.”

      Akhmed shot him a glare.

      “I assure you,” Hazeem said, displaying the thermometer, “I was not referring to height. I meant you’ll be happy to know you’re a little below normal.”

      “Well, guess what? I’m not happy, okay? Don’t think for a second I don’t know they’re slipping me some funky thermometers made in China by six-year-olds who wouldn’t know the right temperature if they stuck their heads up their scrawny butts. I’m telling you, they’re trying to kill me around here.” He hurled the thermometer against the wall. “I don’t care what it says! I have a fever!” He pounded his ankles against the mattress. “Fever! Fever! Fever!”

      “But the doctor said he suspects only an ulcer. It’s not going to kill you at all. When you get your X-ray tomorrow, you’ll see. Once you know you’re not dying, you’ll automatically feel better. That’s the way the mind works.”

      “So now you’re a mind expert? Spare me, Einstein.”

      “I think you mean Freud.”

      “Who cares? They’re all Jews. It’s me we’re talking about. Stick to the subject.”

      “All I’m saying is, a simple change of diet, and you’ll be your old lovable self. Soft foods, that’s the ticket.”

      The president grabbed Popular Mechanics and shook it stupid. “It’s not my diet, Hazeem. It’s our so-called scientists. You see for yourself: every mope on the planet knows how to make a nuclear bomb except us. Look at the Pakis. When Persia was ruling the world, Pakis were eating grubs out of tree stumps—not that they’re still not. When we were opening merchant trade routes throughout Europe and Africa, they were telling bedtime stories to their goats. But do they have the bomb? You bet! While we were conquering the entire Middle East, the Chinese were still blowing off their fingers with firecrackers! While they were stuffing fortunes into cookies, our people were inventing aqueducts! But do they have the bomb? Naturally. It’s maddening! And now North fricking Korea!!! Pyong freaking Yang. Was there ever a more root-eating people? That little simian Kim Jong! Talk about no fashion sense!”

      “Perhaps he doesn’t want to appear too contemporary while the rest of his people are dying in gutters.”

      “Hasn’t he heard of the Internet? Doesn’t he know you can buy the coolest threads online at deep discount? The latest stuff. Slim cut, smart colors, all the latest outerwear? And don’t even get me started on shoes.”

      “Maybe he doesn’t have a credit card.”

      “Oh, I don’t doubt that. Even Visa isn’t dumb enough to give that deadbeat a line. All right, so he doesn’t have plastic. I’ll grant you that.” He paused dramatically, then hissed, “But he does have something else, doesn’t he, Hazeem?”

      “I see what you’re getting at.”

      “And, pray tell, what would that be?”

      “Do you really want me to say it?”

      “Yes, yes I do. I want you to say it. Right here, right now. Tell me what that squat little midget freak has that we don’t.”

      “The bomb,” Hazeem whispered.

      “I can’t heeaar you.”

      “The bomb,” he said, louder.

      “What kind of bomb?”

      Hazeem cleared his throat.

      “Go on, say it. I promise not to hurt you.”

      “Atomic bomb,Your Tallness.”

      “Atomic bomb!! Nuclear bomb!! Radiation!! WMD! Mass destruction! Mayhem!! Geno-frigging-cide!!”

      “Your ulcer—”

      Akhmed’s knees bucked broncolike under the sheet. “Even that Korean turd has the bomb!” Again he waved Popular Mechanics.“Oh, sure, the mighty Iranians—we have oil and television and the Internet and plenty of stinking credit cards. But we can’t even read simple instructions on how to make a goddamn bomb!! What are we, chopped liver??!”

      “Your Mightiness—”

      “I can’t be very mighty if I can’t even get my brain trust to figure out what every other jerkwater race has already filed under ‘Been There, Done That.’ I can’t even torture my scientists СКАЧАТЬ