Another Tale of American Idiocy by PR Infidel

Oddly inspired by the Taliban

PR Infidel shared a new story about a J6 prisoner, which is described as “oddly inspired by the Taliban.” I found that odd, until I read it. I think you’ll find the comparisons between the way we’ve treated Americans who defied the Regime on J6 and how we’ve treated radical Islamic terrorists to be…interesting. So, with the author’s permission, here’s another Tale of American Idiocy:

Oddly Inspired by the Taliban

By P. R. Infidel

"I've worked out a transfer for you to GITMO," Terry Allen, attorney at law explained to January 6th prisoner Justin Greeley in a rushed whisper. Over the past year, Terry had tried everything to get the former special forces E-7 and January 6th prisoner some justice, and all had failed. At times, the young attorney seemed so frustrated that SGT Justin Greeley felt worse for the lawyer than himself, so good news was understandably received with numb silence, then disbelief as Greeley realized the legal professional wasn't lying.

Transferring to Guantanamo Bay had begun a joke, one written by a buddy he'd served with in Afghanistan...

“I spent some time as a guard at GITMO”, the letter had read.” See if you can get a transfer there. The Arabs got Korans are everywhere. They wouldn't deny you a Bible like in that D/C Gulag. They've also got comfortable beds and a load of other things our tax dollars shouldn't pay for, including better meals from the sound of it...if you can live without bacon that is.”

SGT Greeley was already living without bacon, along with most of what a human body required; his 30 lb. weight loss and gaunt appearance were testament to this. His health hadn't suffered-yet-but he knew it would soon. For fun Justin shared the letter with his attorney, but Terry had taken it seriously, and now here they were.

"You leave day after tomorrow." Terry stood, and when he did, the twenty-something lawyer looked ten years younger, like a frightened and unsure teenager. "I don't know if they will let me continue to represent you. Your case may be passed to a military lawyer, but I'll write and let you know for sure." He held out his hand, sweaty palmed and shaky. "Good luck."

# # #

SGT Greeley packed his scant personal belongings and slept most of the way to Guantanamo Bay. When he finally landed, it was to a loud thud and shouting, which wasn't entirely surprising. The veteran had heard stories about Biden purging the troops of Republicans and Christians via several measures, so he didn't expect a friendly environment like the one he'd known in Afghanistan, but nothing could prepare him for the beating and full on dragging he experienced from the Air Force crew once the plane hit the sand. Even though he came cooperatively, the crew couldn't help but dig a boot in here, a fist in there, and an insult everywhere.

The beating stopped once they reached the threshold of GITMO proper, but the evidence of it was noticed by SGT Gerald Arnt, a former battle buddy of Justin Greeley's. He recognized him instantly.

"Greeley! I saw you coming from a mile away. It's been forever!" He spoke to him as a friend, even while taking him by the cuffs and signing the clipboard the plane crew held to acknowledge his receipt, but when the crew left, reality set in, and Arnt's jubilance faded to puzzlement. "What are you doing here?"

SGT Greeley flashed a sad smile. "January 6th," was all he said, and all he had time to say, for within seconds escort MP's cut the reunion short.

"We'll take it from here, Arnt." Then, Greeley was shelled down the gated thoroughfare to his cell by other guards, guards who didn’t know Greeley.

An existential crisis then gripped SGT Arnt. There were rumors and stories aplenty regarding the DC Gulag and its January 6th prisoners, but none knew the reality of it-not really. Well now SGT Arnt knew, because reality was his friend in cuffs and an orange jumpsuit now destined to live among the Taliban. Reality was living and breathing evidence of a crumbling empire united against its heroes, a testament to the third world banana republic the US was dissolving into, and a thin shadow of the free country it had once been.

And Arnt felt his illusions crumbling along with his heart at the realization.

# # #

SGT Greeley's buddy had been right about GITMO's food; though pork free, it was worlds above the scant starvation fare he'd been fed at the DC Gulag. Within weeks his weight returned, and his blonde hair was thick and healthy again. He was given a Bible and allowed to attend protestant chapel with the soldiers (he was the only Christian prisoner), albeit in chains, but he was grateful to hear the word of God again.

Of course, the company at GITMO wasn't ideal- Most of the prisoners avoided him because he was kufar and therefore considered unclean by Islamic standards. Others ignored him because men like Greeley were responsible for putting them in GITMO in the first place, a natural state for natural enemies. Many couldn't' speak English and weren't aware that Sgt Greeley's Arabic and Pashtun, though dated, were still quite functional.

It was lonely, but a much better "lonely" than the hard isolation he'd endured at the D/C Gulag. At least here he could sit in the common area, people watch, and enjoy the background drone of conversations in Farsi, Arabic, and Pashtun. On Fridays he heard the call to prayer and was allowed to watch the prisoners bow east in the common yard. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself deployed again, with all the status and patriotism that came with it.... feelings he'd hadn't experienced in quite a while.

It was during one of these daydreaming sessions that Sgt Greeley first noticed him...a thoughtful man portly and short with a thick but closely trimmed beard. Like Greeley, he was sitting by himself. His hands shook a little when he ate, and he always had little slips of paper that he scrawled on, then hurriedly slipped in his Koran whenever guards passed by. The other prisoners ignored him worse than they ignored Greely, which he seemed at peace with-Greeley could see he was a loner. The moment he caught Greeley staring, his dark eyes slitted with suspicion and study.

Greeley half smiled and offered a polite wave.

The man stared at him for a few seconds, then gathered up the Koran with its loose papers and left.

Though Greeley thought the encounter odd, he pushed it out of his mind, that was until two days later when the same thing happened-the short man, with his slips of paper and his eyes shifting right onto Greeley. This time, he was a table closer.

Again, Greeley offered the wave. Again, the man disappeared.

This went on for a few weeks until one lunch hour the man strode right to Greeley's table, plopped his Koran along with himself down, and said in Pashtun: "How would you like to get out of here, Infidel?"

"How did you know I spoke Pashtun?" Greeley was shocked by his approach.

"Because you have the stench of the Infidel Army on you." Though the words were unkind, the tone with which they were delivered was soft and factual-proof that Greeley's assessment of him had been right-this man was a thinker. "My name is Mohammed," because of course it was. "What is yours?"

"Justin," Greeley answered, not offering his hand for a handshake. It was not their custom, although later a man kiss may be asked of him.

"Justin," Mohammed repeated, "please answer my question. How would you like to get out of here?"

"Well, I'd like to but can't." He guessed Mohammed was referencing escape. "I'm awaiting my trial."

Boisterous laughter burst from Mohammed; he moved his Koran over to keep from blowing snot all over it. "Trial?" he managed at last, wiping his nose with a napkin. "You'll get no trial, Infidel. Terrorists don't get trials."

Justin frowned and pointed a knife hand at him. "You're a terrorist. I'm..."

"A terrorist!" Mohammed exclaimed, cutting his laughter short so the other could understand, but when Justin didn't, Mohammed he shook his head. "Don't you see? In your government's eyes, we're the same! That is why you're in GITMO, you stupid Infidel!" Mohammed's cheeks grew ruddy with mirth. "Like me, you'll get no trial, few rights, and no justice."

"But my attorney was able to....

"Use the laws," Mohammed interrupted, "regarding terrorists to get you to a better place." He paused and squinted, leaning in quizzically. "Is this really a better place?"

"Then the DC Gulag, yes."

"What did you do to end up there?"

"I took selfies inside the capital," which was true. Sgt Greeley hadn't killed anyone, destroyed anything, or committed any traditional crimes, but the pictures of his bare bottom across the speaker's desk had enraged the wrong people.

Mohammed didn't quite understand. "I tried selfies also one time." He air quoted the word selfies. Then he winked, as though sharing a joke, "but mine never went off. Turns out, I'm not a good suicide bomber."

"No," Greeley chuckled, "I took pictures-not detonation equipment-inside the capital building."

"Pictures?" Mohammed was incredulous.

"Only pictures."

Mohammed shook his head. "You see, Justin? You served them, sacrificed for them, probably bled for them, and they threw you away. Do you not find this sad? Do you not want to say, the hell with them, and come with me?"

Greeley's frown deepened along with his thought. He could see Mohammed's point but wasn't quite ready to believe it, so he segued to another subject. "Why escape with me and not one of the others here? Aren't I an infidel or kufar or whatever you people call me?"

"Islamic scripture says you are both and I should be trying to kill you right now."

"Then why escape with me?"

"Because I can't lie."

"What?" Greeley was dumbfounded.

Mohammed leaned in and gestured for Greely to do this same. The Islamist then pulled back his hair to reveal a long and deep scar trailing four inches from his temple. "Courtesy of your government, and several of your infidel friends. I got this two years ago, along with a Traumatic Brain Injury. Ever since that day I have been unable to practice Taquiyyah, or lie, as you infidels call it. Every day now and for the rest of my life, I must tell the truth."

"About everything?"

"Everything." Mohammed sulked, letting his hair fall back into place. "I can no longer deceive unbelievers, and since deception is a major part of Islam, they consider me worthless." Mohammed paused, then lowered his voice. "Also, my disability caused me to disclose the location of several key Taliban bases and personnel during interrogation."

"Really?"

"Sadly, I gave these up without even a single water boarding session." Mohammed stopped short, as though realizing he had said too much. Then he put his attention back to his Koran and neatly smoothed its cover before rising from the table. "Think about it Justin. Let me know if you are interested; then I will tell you, my plans. "

With that the Islamist hunched his shoulders, covered his head, and moved with all haste past the other full picnic tables in the yard. Despite his speed and efforts at obscurity, he still attracted the attention of the other inmates and a slew of napkins. The projectiles were wadded with food and water, and many hit him on his way out. Several shouts and obscenities followed the makeshift artillery.

One inmate came up off the table, but SGT Arnt checked him with a rifle and a warning. He relented, and Arnt shot Greeley a glance that said to find him later, so as lunch was finishing, Greeley did.

"I see you met Mo Diddly," Arnt told him. It was common for soldiers to give the inmates nicknames.  "He's an odd one, real quiet. Got caught trying to suicide bomb one of our checkpoints north of Kandahar, and that's how he wound up here. He sets the others off for some reason, though he himself is real cooperative. We never had a bit of trouble out of old Mo Diddly."

Greeley didn't have the heart to tell his friend that that may soon change, but with the Islamists' proposal on his mind, Greeley did have a heart to contact his lawyer.

"Nothing regarding a trial," Terry told him over the phone. It had been nearly two months since SGT Greeley's transfer to GITMO, two months in which charges could be brought or a trial date set....and nothing had happened in that time.  That marked eighteen months since his initial imprisonment. "I don't know that you or any of the other January 6th people will ever get one. It just isn't right, no charges and no trial, like you're a terrorist or something." There was a heavy sigh over the phone and Greeley imagined the young lawyer's shoulders slumping. "Maybe that's why it was so easy to get you to GITMO."

Maybe indeed. Maybe he, like the others, was being thrown away. Maybe Mo Diddley was right-a horrid thought-yet the only made that made sense. For the next week, Mo Diddly didn't approach, but continued to eat his lunch two tables away and live rent free inside Greeley's head. Proof of this came in a small sticky note Mo plopped in front of Greeley on his way to dump his tray.

Greeley looked up from the note, just in time to see Mo double back and plop his Koran down on the table in front of him. Then he moved through the crowd. Greeley noticed that a few of the prisoners hurled cuss words at him as he passed.

Greeley opened the book, finding most of the original pieces missing, replaced by blueprints of the building, computer codes, and instructions in Pashtun on how to short the security system. There was also a letter addressed to him:

"Justin, tonight we escape. We will start a riot at dinner and then leave with the help of your friend. He is angry also, as you both should be."

Greeley looked up from the letter to see Arnt standing at the edge of the dinning square in full battle rattle with sunglasses on. He gave Greeley a short, but friendly nod when he saw him look up.

A second later there was a commotion, a shouting. One of the prisoners had Mo by the collar and hoisted up against the cellblock. Soon there was a crowd behind him, thick and raging. Then Mo was being piled on, and guards, including his buddy, Arnt, were scrambling to put out the fire caused by his unpopularity.

Greeley made a beeline for Mo Diddly. He wasn't exactly his bestie, but the closest thing he had to a friend among the prisoners. But when he reached the pile, MO was nowhere to be seen.

A second later Greeley felt a forceful tug on his leg, one that pulled him to the ground, away from the pile, and under a table. Then, he was sitting beside MO, watching a tussle of orange and camouflage legs.

"I thought this was going to happen tonight!" Greeley complained.

"Nothing ever goes exactly my way, Infidel. I tried three times to be a suicide bomber and blew up everything but infidels and myself!"

"I can see that. So, what now? "

"Now?"

"Yes, now!"

"Now this!" Mo shoved a soft bag filled with a red substance down Greeley's jumpsuit and stabbed through the cloth with a plastic spoon.

The red substance-Greeley assumed it to be ketchup-spilled through his jumpsuit and stained the full of his abdomen. "You will have to do the talking now infidel," MO reminded urgently, "because remember, I cannot lie!" Then MO grabbed him the way a combat buddy would have in deployments past and pulled him from under the table into a standing position. "Oh Allah! Allah, help!" MO Diddly wailed sadly as the two of them limped to the edge of the riot.

Now Greeley had a choice, rat out Mo Diddly, or go along with his plans. The old him would have chosen the first option easily. Deployed him had hated the Taliban and was so patriotic he often made jokes about pissing red, white, and blue. But from what he had seen over the last eighteen months, that America with her blind justice system and freedom for all philosophy was gone; thus plan b it was, Mo Diddley it was. Maybe the Taliban man would kill him, and maybe not, but at least with Mo there was a chance at adventure and escape. This new Amerikka allowed neither freedom nor justice, at least none for him.

So, when they reached Arnt amid the feuding arms and legs, Greeley let out a moan and doubled over the "wound." Arnt whisked them away to the infirmary, which was empty thanks to the doctors helping casualties outside.

Arnt closed the door. "I've got your clothes and some shaving equipment. Mo Diddly, you know that beard has got to come off. He tossed Mo an electric razor.

"Of course," Mo set to hacking his beard, and within a moment it was gone. The two then donned soldier's fatigues and followed Arnt out to the docks.

By then, the riot had blossomed into a borderline war and an alarm had gone off, its eerie wail permeating their scant corner of Cuba. From inside the walls, Greeley heard gunshots and smoke from a raging fire was now thick in the air, well obscuring their escape down the beach. The discord inside was so bad that all outside security had been drawn from the beach, and the men in the guard towers were now taking shots on the scene below.

The vessel they had was not US military. Rather, it was Cuban, acquired by some special forces connections of Arnt's who lived within the communist island proper. "They won't track you in this thing," Arnt explained.

Greeley stopped to regard his old friend. A sinking feeling came over him then. "They're going to crucify you when they find us missing,"

"You're worth it," Arnt grinned, "and anyway that won't happen. Old Brandon hasn't quite purged us all, and I've got a plan the others are in on." He turned to Mohammed. "You, I'm not so sure about," he admitted with a knife hand, "but Jesus says to give second chances, so get the hell out and never come back."

"That means me too," Greeley added.

"It does."

There was a pause. Then: "Once I'd be sad about that, never seeing America again. But not now. She's not quite the same, you know?"

"No, she's not," Arnt said, walking backwards up the beach. "Now that she's given up Jesus, I doubt she ever will be. Goodbye Greeley." Then Arnt disappeared into the smoke, a move eerily reminiscent of the patrols they'd once done together in Afghanistan: hit hard, then vanish like ghosts into the mountains.

There was an explosion from the yard, then a screeching, a death song of dying metal as, to Greeley's astonishment, the guard towers buckled and came down. It couldn't have been done by the inmates, not without serious infiltration into the ordinance room, but Greeley didn't' have time to think it over before a hand was on his shoulder.

"Come on infidel! We must go!"

They ran to the waiting boat. Arnt launched while Mo started the motor. They breached the tide easily and had made it a good way out to sea when a wave slammed them, sending the craft sideways and MO along with it. The Taliban man rode the slanted boat like a slide and would have hit the water if not for Greeley's lasso skills; they secured Mohammed's ankle and for a second he hung there, upside down and silly looking but safe. When the wave passed and the craft righted, Mo laid like a slack doll, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"The ocean is alive, Mohammed," Greeley warned, standing over him. After all, the mountains of Afghanistan weren't known for their watersports.  "You've got to watch out for it."

"Why save me, Infidel?" Mo said.  "Now that we have escaped, what good am I to you?"

"You and I are the same," Greeley explained.

"Yes, we are both terrorists.  Your government..."

"Gave up Christ and with Him its greatness." Mo was on the wrong train of thought, so Greeley shoved him onto the right one. "That's why it's acting like this. To the US government, you're a terrorist, but to my God, you are a human being like me. My scripture says there is nothing inferior about you; in fact, many of my people are inspired by how the Taliban bested President Brandon with nothing but rifles."

"That is what Arnt said."

"And I say that you fought for Allah, were imprisoned for Allah, and almost died for Allah, but he threw you away because you can't lie for him anymore. Do you not want to say, the hell with him, and go with Christ?"

Mohammed was too amused by Greely's cleverness to either reject or accept the invitation, so instead he asked his own question "And where is Christ going?"

"That depends on where we're going. He pretty much goes wherever we go."

Mohammed giggled and shrugged.

Greeley blinked. "Mohammed, where are we going?"

"I don't know. I didn't think we'd get this far!"

You can find links to buy Tales of American Idiocy here. I follow P. R. Infidel on Gab here, and my review of Tales of American Idiocy is here.

Find and follow DocContrarian from his AllMyLinks page, including his book Beyond MAGA.