I awaken to the scent of something so abhorrent, I wretch upon the concrete floor upon which I am confined. My vision is blurred from the sick. I focus as best I can. Walls. Sterile. White. Walls. What was that scent? Was it death? No. It was not sickly sweet. More corrosive. Pollution then? No. For as much as it suffocated my lungs, it was not smokey. Acidic. A burning scent. A putrid ichor that can only be produced in a singular plane of existence.
It was the stench of America. You probably never noticed. You. Who were raised from babes. Like how your olfactory senses become desensitized to the smell of your dogs piss stained carpet once you’ve spent enough time vegetating in your living rooms. Until by the grace of God you finally take a shower. You emerge refreshed. Simultaneously horrified. As your clean nostrils retract from the realization that your living room smells of refuse.
Similarly, that is how my nostril stands on end at this very moment. You wonder why the French, the British, the Eastern Europeans, the high class Indians and Orientals...how they can always turn their noses up at you in disgust? It’s that smell. Your smell that can only be described as uniquely...American.
Thus I am surrounded by this...filth. Although my cage is clean as a whistle. Although my bedding is laundered. My emptied tray from an earlier discarded meal still vaguely reminiscent of the lingering smell of tika masala. I am never-the-less, suffocated by American exceptionalism.
My mind wanders, although you cannot see it. I attempt to escape from this place mentally at the very least. I remind myself of my name in its entirety. Alistair Abu Bakr Siddiqui. Alistair means Defender of Men. And I defend my fellow man voraciously. Abu Bakr was a follower of Muhammad and the First Caliph of Islam. I wear the name with pride. Siddiqui are the first descendants of Abu Bakr. It means voracious. A name given to Bakr by Muhammad himself. And thus, I will defend Allah, his precepts, the teachings of Muhammad and the warrior spirit of Abu Bakr with all of my strength. I am renewed in purpose.
I remember my majestic home of Khobar. A vibrant and beautiful city rich in the culture of trade, the arts and entertainment. I learned much from the youngest of the Triplet Cities. And if I so chose I would have strong roots there. But I have a mission to carry out. A divine providence enacted by Allah. Blessing me with the strength to smite those who would not believe as I do. I am reminded of my task. Yes. I must first plant roots within the cursed soil. I would re-establish myself to this realm through prayer. Then I will use that foundation upon which to build a new Kingdom of Allah, right here, in Serenity.
I quickly take inventory of my surroundings and remember where I have been taken. In North America, by and large, the direction to pray to Mecca is Northeast. I position myself thus. And I pray.
“Allahu Akbar. Subhanaka allahumma wa bi hamdika wa tabara kasmuka wa ta'ala jadduka wa la ilaha ghairuka. A'udhu billahi minash shaitanir rajim. Bismillahir rahmanir rahim. Al hamdu lil lahi---”
To my exceeding rage, my Salah is interrupted by vicious knocking upon my chamber door. I scowl. I hiss. I spit upon the ground closest the door. They do not falter in their disrespect for me or my religion. The alabaster men in their alabaster coats. They jeer at me with impatience. They will not allow me to finish but even my first Rak’ah.
“Hey ah-Mister uh, City-Kitty? Yeah, you’s. You’s gots an interviews for your upcoming match! Come on now, we aint got all day. Longer yous take, less time yous gets in the Rec Room ya hear?!”
How barbaric. They cart me off like some fucking canary to sing for his slave drivers. I know the drill. I’ve been briefed on how this...Sanatorium operates. In all it’s barbarism. You serve time for your crime. In the meanwhile, you perform as “Professional Wrestlers” every few weeks to earn privileges within the cell. In some sick twisted fantasy of the fascist American machine, no one is given parole here. There are seemingly no structures for sentencing or time served. Indeed there are monsters I’ve heard of here like Phantom. Like Legion. Like Mya Denton. Prisoners who’ve been in this confines for YEARS. With no hope of ever escaping. There is no justice here. Only war. Constant. Bloody. Ruthless War. Little do they know, that’s just how I like it. Just where I WANT to be. Because while I’m in here, I can hurt as many filthy infidel swine with impunity. I can win their championships and make even more white devils cry as they curse me through gnashing of teeth. Oh how sweet the taste of Satan’s blood really is. Especially when imbibed with righteous purpose.
Oh hello. It looks like I daydreamed long enough to be fully escorted to the “promotional” area. A sweet little slice of hell carved out just for me to deliver scathing words about my upcoming contest with one Joshua Anderson. Oh yes I know quite a bit about him too. For more on that, let’s stop wasting time as I am introduced by my demure and devilish looking interviewer for this pre-tape. It’s a miracle they don’t expect me to strangle the ogre right here and now...alas. It would not be live. After all, the revolution cannot be televised.
“Omar Riordan here! Here to introduce you all to one of the newest inmates of the Sanatorium! What was it that got you in the slammer my guy, Domestic Terrorism? Maybe a little staged insurrection of the Capital on the side, eh friend? Hah! Ladies and gentlemen, I bring to you, “The Evening Star” “The Arabian Dark Knight” “Insidious” Alistair Siddiqui!”
It is here that I finally make my mark on the World Wrestling Headquarters. And the world at large.
“First of all thank you Mr. Riordan for that introduction! I am very happy to represent all the thousand thousand Saudi Arabian fans around the world! All the intelligent American Jew, they KNOW about Alistair Siddiqui! Twenty Sixteen, bronze medal winner. One Hundred Thirty Kilos! Rio De Janeiro, Olympic Champion! You name it, I can do it! Greco-Roman. Freestyle. Alysh & Pankration! Twenty Eighteen Wrestling Championships! I was the Azizli Coach. I was the Chunayev Coach! I was the Stadnik Coach! You name it! We were the winners! Gold, Medal, Bronze. If you wanted a man who is wrestling excellence! You got him!”
I sneer at the cackling of those production assistants in the distance. My broken english a joke to them. Humorous as it may be to them. My intensity and passion for my first love of wrestling cannot be equaled. Even my bi-partisan interviewer cannot seem to hold his composure. They are laughing at me. They don’t take me seriously. They will pay for their ignorance.
“Well...thank you Alistair for that...riveting introduction. I would put upon you however, your opponent for your debut in the Sanatorium is a rather large man! They call him the Man with the Golden Fists, Joshua Anderson! A former PRIDE Fighter, a brawler. Some say you can’t wrestle the man down like you’d hope to, oh Insidious One! Tell us, how do you plan on defeating such a man?”
I spit on the ground. My rage and frustration boiling over. I’ve only been here for some short while and already I wish to have nothing more to do with these disrespectful pieces of American trash.
“PRIDE Fighter? Golden Fists? Pah! I never respect a Golden Calf! Everybody know what happened when Moses came down from the mountain. He SMASHED the ten commandments. And he BURN the calf to the ground, making everyone swallow their foolish PRIDE! They imbibe the taste of humiliation! THAT is what I plan to do with Mr. Howdy Doody Hollywood Blonde Joshua Anderson! He may be a great fighter. He may BE undefeated in the cage. In the ring. Whatever he was doing you know what I’m saying?! But ME, Alistair Siddiqui! I am the Evening Star! I shine brightest just before the darkness! I will eclipse the golden light of Anderson! There will be NOTHING but darkness for all may he reign! Then and only then! Will he see the Arabian Dark Knight in his truest form. Joshua will KNOW who the best wrestler is. On March 14th! Joshua Anderson will WISH he was back in the MMA. There will be NO escape. Until he respect Insidious Siddiqui. He will bow before Allah and pray for forgiveness. Look at me! Saudi number one! Siddiiqui number one! America? Hack tooey! Ya allah! Ya Mohammad! As-Salamu Alaykum! Almawt Lilkifaar!”
Ha! Will you look at them now? They want to laugh. They want to continue to make light of my broken english. But even they can see. Through their thin veil of American arrogance. They can feel it. As they escort me back to my holdings. As that demonic nitwit Riordan wraps up with whatever pithy one liner he can come up with to further emasculate me as I am dragged off scene. The energy of their fear is delicious. They know I am dangerous now. That I mean every single word I say. You cannot match that level of confidence with sheer bravado. That confidence only comes from a righteous KNOWING that my path is the right one. Whoever this Josh Anderson is. He can bring as strong of a fight as he wishes to this battle. He will not win. I will not allow it.
It is written in the stars.