CAPRICORNS: Determined. Good team leaders and organizers.

Jim Carrey. Al Capone. Paula Dean. Betty White. LeBron James.

I woke the next morning to a strange sight. A pita bread on top of a sheet of paper. Printer paper, white and clean. It shined like a beacon off the ratty prison floor they stowed me in overnight. I grabbed for the bread, and it was nice and cold. Disappoint. Underneath the pita, the paper had some text.

“You bad infidel person

You stay dead world in, you stay wath dog.

You mom was hore, and marry goat,

if even marry they, and you, sad bastard of infidels,

you look gooder in fire to be eaten like goat,

killed and eat on on in farm, but time there.

plan I have for you, infidel, plan i.”

I wanted to cry. Waking up to cold bread, in a jail. I hardly knew what the fuck I was reading, but it sounded bad. Why was I even here? I actually felt like less of a human. I was nothing. Mom lost her marriage, and I was nothing. I was germs. WHY THE HELL AM I HERE? WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

I looked up and freaked. The king, tower dude, the caliphate, whoever this dude was was down the hall. He must have snuck in. I was the infidel, and in that moment, he saw my sad realization and smiled. He smiled with his eyes. I finally got it.

Why so many gay people were hugging their murderers in ISIS videos. Hugging one last time before getting stoned to death. It was forgiveness I saw in the king’s eyes. He earnestly forgave me for my shitty existence.

“You see younothing,” said the king. His English was unreal. “You do not, cannot, welcome mujahedeen. We greatest force Allah has put on Land. You cannot see this. Why we kill you. But you see”

He turned to exit, and as he edged away, he kept on talking.

“But you… you special. You lote tree Muhammad tell us.

You help world. You are bad, but Allah forgives. Soon, you will prove who you.”

There were tears all the way down my throat. I only needed to ask the question. The simple question. “Why am I— ?”I tried, but I weaseled out. Snot clogged my nose. Now I heard roars of “Allahu Akbar”. The voices were flaming out of the hallway. Soldiers clad in black started to enter, 2 at a time.

Allahu Akbar

And then 4

Allahu Akbar

And then 8

Allahu Akbar

Allahu Akbar

Allahu Akbar

A pop rang out above my head.

Looking back, I wish the bullet had smacked through my forehead—putting me out of my nightmare. Instead, I got a shower of ceiling, sand, and dirt. My cell was made of some kind of hay-cement. My ears rang. My eyes were weeping, and my nostrils were sealed shut with snot. Every opening in my head was blocked: closed for business. I looked up and saw the golden gun. It stretched out of the camo-wrapped arm of the caliphate. He was magnificent. He was a sun. The gun. Well, the gun was a gun. At that moment I wondered if he only shot golden bullets.

“You sheep, and your life shit. And you make us great. What more you ask for life? Tell me. What you know about Bitcoin?”

My ringing ears perked. I stopped snotting.

“Avoid police? Haram, Heroin. Steal. You computer thief, no? Rob banks like Stalin, and, how-do-you-say, Bill the Kid? This you, no?”

This caliphate. This Sun King, I don’t know how, but somehow, he knew me. He found me.

“I offer chance of lifetime? No, chance of time. Salam. You have special mission. Helping, you change world. You make paradise. You help, and Allah forgive you sins. All. He heal you broken soul. He save. I can save. You will do my command, yes?”

He holstered his gun. The room was silent, and tense. They looked at me with respect. Eyes. Rows and rows of eyes. The caliphate then walked around and spoke to them in Arabic. He was proclaiming to them, something big. I think it was about me, from the way they would look at him, then look back at me.

Their looks said a lot. Was I really the answer to their problems?

The caliphate walked away from my cell. Suddenly, another door flung open and there in the back were several guards with eight prisoners, bound and gagged. The prisoners wore sweat pants and random soccer jerseys, and they entered two-by-two, with blank looks on their faces. They were calm. They were almost at peace, but mostly, they looked starved. Men yelled at them in Arabic. They ran, in good formation, to a spot a few yards ahead of the king. Then they stopped and were directed to kneel. They obeyed, dropping to their knees at the same time, like they’d choreographed the entire thing. I wondered how many times they’d done this.

The caliphate pointed his gun at me and said, “It could worse,” then walked the line and promptly, with ease and purpose, he shot (possibly) golden bullets through each of these men’s heads. The first went straight through the prisoner’s face, crashing blood against the ground. The next spattered globs onto a corner table. The next got it in his nose but did not disrupt his face. The fourth suffered the same fate as the first. The rest I can’t remember. I wouldn’t ever delete the image from my memory. The men tumbled to their demise. With each hard body falling, the Caliphate took a step closer to me. As he passed, the guards in the room pulled out their guns, and began target practice with the hard bodies. You’d think a (possibly) golden bullet to the head would do it, but not for these guards. The room swiftly became deaf and smoky.

A guard opened up my cell door. The caliphate cruised up to me, put the gun between my bulging eyes and squeezed the trigger. I heard the click and waited. Then I blinked once, numbly.

The barrel was empty. The hammer fell and nothing popped through my brain.

“Eight bullets,” he said, “See, Hefty, Allah merciful.”