3-Ring Apocalypse

The Monster at the End of This Book

                  "When I was young, I believed genies and fairies went out of their way

                  to guide me, and whatever insults were paid me, I believed others

                  were magically inspired with words meant for my benefit, and mine alone.

                 The reality and the disaster that have made me a singer in this square

                  teach me that I have always been abandoned by the gods.

                 Oh, genies! Oh, fairies! Give me back my illusion today!"

                                     --Max Jacob

Chapter 1: The Monster at the End of This Book

In 2016, with Donald Trump sucking up all the oxygen—and Benghazi, Hillary squeaking by Bernie "the Specter of Socialism" Sanders...one demographic felt they weren't getting any attention. So they decided to stage a hunger strike.

It was one of Obama's campaign promises, that he'd shut down Guantanamo Bay. And he tried. Reduced the number of inmates with the clock ticking. Infuriating Congress.

So, the whole prison stopped eating during Ramadan—and kept going. They'd tried it before, in 2013. Hadn't accomplished much. But thought people might notice—in an election year.

The same thing happened that always happened. They were subdued, strapped down and force-fed through the nose. Same old, same old—a tiny footnote to history. Except...rumors arose of some little miracle. One patient was found outside his cell, on the roof of Camp 6.

Details are hazy—and snow-balled, accrued epic qualities over time. That the inmate was levitating when they found him, walked through walls to get there—guided by the Angel Gabriel...Had the entire Qur'an tattooed on his body (it'd have to be microscopic), or killed a guard, shooting lightning out his fingertips like the Emperor on Star Wars.

They had to put out a report denying the last two things, but succeeded in keeping the breach relatively quiet. Doubtless to save their own hides.

There's some record of a snatch of conversation—with the guard who found him. "What are you doing up here?" the guard asked.

He didn't answer immediately. Then came up with: "It's all a dream. It's all crazy. It's all over." (Quoting Bawa Muhaiyaddeen.)

"What?" said the guard.

"I don't know." He was in shock. "Think I went on a pilgrimage. Re-enacting Mohammed's Night Ride..."

The second magic trick of the inmate is: he slipped through their fingers. Blended back in, amongst the other prisoners. Didn't uncover his identity. (It seems impossible.)

The whole episode never made it to the national media; but word got out—and spread, among the other inmates: that he was the Mahdi—a legendary figure, to emerge before the end of the world. "What better place to be born," they said, "than out of the crucible of suffering?"

Half the Muslim world—who'd heard of this, or believed it—was on pins and needles. Expectations were sky-high.

The inmate himself...didn't know what to do with himself. (Wrote a letter to his sister, asking her advice.)