Jazz music tiddly-winked in the corner of the room from a piano, bass, and trumpet in a nightclub called Upscale in downtown Wilmington, Delaware. Sylvester German, clad in a tailored suit and white shirt without a tie, sat down with the Prophet Mohammad.
“This is quite the place, would you not agree?”
The prophet looked around. “I’ve seen better.”
German zoomed through the rest of the small talk and asked the sommelier, Phillips, to pour two glasses of a most special potent beverage.
Phillips came back to the table with a bottle of the potion.
He expertly poured the liquid into the glasses at the table and stepped back.
“That will be all for now. Thank you,” German said. Phillips moved away from the table and allowed Mohammad and German to imbibe.
“Now,” German said with a straight face and a slightly raised chin. “Each of these glasses is tainted with something. But it’s not going to harm one of us. Both are exactly the same as you have witnessed the man pour out the liquid from the same bottle, yes? Given the potential of the moment, we both should drink at the same time.”
“Yes, yes, can we get on with this?” Mohammad lifted his glass in the air to propose a toast. “To the glory of Allah and the global proliferation of submitting to his will.” He gulped down the liquid as German supped from his cup as well.
“That tasted horrible. I feel strange,” Mohammad said.
“Indeed you should. That was pig’s blood. It has no affect on me, I can keep drinking the stuff. But you... you’ll die, and because you ingested from the blood of an animal with cloven hooves, you will never be a martyr.” German sipped from the pig’s blood again. “But you will be in immense pain and discomfort for another five minutes as the blood courses through your system. Your days of terror and atrocities are over. You have been the name behind some of the most heinous scourges and wars ever perpetrated against mankind. You have fallen from the perch of your own poisonousness.”
Mohammad looked green in the face. His eyes blinked in an erratic motion.
German took another sip of his pig’s blood. “And you will feel the twisting, grinding, and overwhelming sense of pain that many people have felt because of your words and actions. You have proven to be a menace on the world stage for many generations. In another two minutes, you will be gasping for air and trying to fight the blood of the swine that you took into your body. You will convulse, and twist, and contort into a heap of nothingness. There is no reversal and no antidote for the substance that you just put into your body. For your ugliness that you started against this world, you will be put through the most excruciating agony that very few men get to experience. But you’ve earned it. There’s no hiding it now, Mo’. You’re—”
Mohammad’s head smacked directly into the table with a solid thud.
A few people looked around to see what the commotion was.
“It’s okay folks, it’s just Mohammad.” German checked for a pulse. “He’s dead now.” Cheering arose from the tables.
Phillips and Virgil, the manager and other waitstaff came from the kitchen to the table to see the commotion.
“Check please,” German said.
“Okay, but what’s wrong with him?”
“He’s tasted an acute form of freedom, and may have had one too many—if you know what I mean.”
Phillips and Virgil looked at each other and shrugged.
“His drink is on the house,” the general manager Tommy Coleman said.
They called for the authorities to remove Mohammad’s body. Just as the coroner made her way to the corpse, the people cheered even louder and applauded the death of this wretch.
German paid for his own drink, got up from his seat, and the tiddly-wink jazz trio continued to play as he exited the club.