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A plastic gas container full of fuel sat next to Mohammad. No scratches or bruises or cuts existed on his body. His hands had been bound and his feet as well. He sat in a wooden chair. He wore a white t-shirt and tan slacks like a prisoner. Tillerson Bowe, a former Newark Police officer in Newark, Delaware held in his left hand a single match and in the other a box of matches. The color of rosewood enveloped his skin. He wore a white t-shirt, leather jacket, black jeans and black work boots. He sat on the edge of a counter in an abandoned car manufacturing plant with a huge space and high ceiling. He got up from his seat. Bowe prowled like a panther around the man sitting in the chair.
“So, you’re the one and only prophet Mohammad. Welcome to Delaware. It’s too bad that you didn’t get to see the Cuvier Hotel in Wilmington. You didn’t get to see the egrets walking along the Christina River. No, you didn’t. But you’re here with me. Isn’t that special?”
Mohammad muttered a few words from the book that related most to him.
“Oh, so it’s your book written in your name that you speak of, now? What an interesting piece of literature that is. Did you really say and do all of those things?”
Mohammad looked directly at Bowe. His eyes remained low in his head.
Mohammad muttered a few words. His head began to shake from left to right. He looked directly at Bowe. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Well said for someone who has become a brute on Earth. You don’t wish to have your image drawn, painted, or otherwise depicted, no?”
“No. What about you? Do you think that I deserve the treatment that you’re about to inflict on me?”
“I don’t know. All of the women who were mutilated, the women and men who were raped, the buildings that were bombed, in what sane world would you not be able to face this sort of ‘treatment?’
“You don’t understand, infidel. My mission is to convey the Word. You wish to suppress my people.”
“You seem rather talkative for someone who had 'nothing to say to' me. Again you err, prophet. I’m not looking to suppress anyone but you and those like you. I’m trying to enlighten the minds of those who subscribe to the mystical or social. Your set of ideas in particular is unhealthy psychologically.”
“Yes. The belief in the mystical begins with the ideal that you can’t make up in your own mind the facts of reality. It takes no thinking in subscribing to ideas like yours. All one has to do is feel.”
“I can tell you right now, infidel, you will bitterly regret the moment that you went against me, I am the...”
“Prophet Mohammad,” Bowe said. “I know. I know. But you won’t be for long. Fire is the purification.”
Bowe picked up the gas container. Mohammad began to squirm. Bowe doused the prophet with the sickly sweet smelling liquid. Mohammad gasped.
Bowe struck the match and threw it onto Mohammad. He shrieked in pain and torment. A wrenching occurred. He writhed with anguish and defeat. The flames licked about the chair and his person, consuming all wood and clothes and flesh. In moments, the shrieks and screams had subsided. The charred remnants of the prophet resembled a gray, black, and white heap of death. Bowe employed a fire extinguisher in the corner once Mohammad’s remains had reached profound crispiness.
“That’s enough of you,” Bowe said.