Welcome to Riyadh. Don't mind all of the green banners hanging from...only everywhere.
Here, the overpasses are shaped like horseshoe arches. A green flag flies over the city. From some spots, crescent moons hang. Here, if everyone doesn't think that Allah's legendarily fat ass isn't the best thing invented since camel milk...they are paid VERY well to pretend like they think so.
Here, the women overdress so much, you can't tell their heads from their feet. All you can tell is that one interacts with the ground, and the other ducks to avoid attention...as if the veil wasn't doing enough of its own job. It's like human women to be cowards. But Muslim women take cowardice to a whole new level...by order of every authoritarian Muslim who's ever lived.
Over here, we have the Mosque Palace. It's the nicest fucking mosque in Arabia; not even Mecca has anything this nice. Even so, it's more than just a local place of worship. It's the fucking royal palace.
On certain levels of the palace, the royal women under-dress...but are required to overdress in the more public parts of the mosque. The female servants under-dress, too...a lot more than the royals. In here, you wouldn't know Allah had his eye upon anyone. That's because he doesn't; he has is back turned to the royals, because he trusts them. It takes more than a tripper, after all, to become the fucking king of Arabia.
In a room on the upper levels, surrounded by shadow, the oldest Koran in Arabia sits. A sunlit spotlight shines down upon it, all day. Sun beams dance all around it, and above it, within the light. Nobody ever worries that its pages will burst into flames, from all the solar energy the desert climate encourages.
Only the best of servants are trusted to handle this Koran. The king himself has read it over 490 times...mostly at night, because the Koran looks SO angelic when that daylight shines upon it...
You'd think so, if you were a Muslim. Or rather, if you were threatened with the death penalty for ever stopping being a Muslim...
Up in the royal chambers, the king bends over, and inadvertently shows his bare ass to the sunlight in a window, as he puts on a new pair of boxer-briefs. Those twin golden moons NEVER shine upon anyone ELSE in Arabia...
In a wardroom, all of the greatest imams in Arabia meet. They would all wear turbans...if this wasn't an indoor space. There's no long table; they all sit on their knees. Rather, they all sit on the same Arabian rug. At any moment, the Muslim angels, who probably eavesdrop on this meeting on Allah's behalf, assuming that Allah himself doesn't do the holy eavesdropping here, probably expect that rug to ascend, and fly away with all seven imams still on it.
The imams are like a board of directors for Arabian Islam...if Arabian Islam were a corporation. It STILL remains unclear, as to whether Allah or the king would be the CEO...if those two men are even perceived to be different men in Arab lore...
And they ARE both men. Arabian lore makes that VERY clear... As clear as those twin golden moons, on the king's ass, that never shine down upon Arabia, as much as his autocratic theocratic rule does...
Anyway, seven imams sit on the rug, chanting. It doesn't fly, but they'll just have to deal with it. They've got nowhere else to be, after all...except maybe Mecca. And the world is SO full of infidels...
On many of the lower levels below them, hourglasses still trickle. There's a really big one in the royal court, from which the king uses to tell time as he's hosting court from day to day. A gyroscope automatically turns it over, at every hour.
Onward, the imams chant. For the most part, their souls are at peace. Even so, they always suspect that subjects are dying in their faith. And when that happens, they MUST be prepared to encourage the king to take penal action...if the person who loses their faith is an infant Arab still learning the ropes of his nation's compulsory religion...which his own soul might or might not choose to reject later in life. Little prepared the nation is, to accommodate for that bad case scenario...if it isn't the worst case scenario...
A desert wind blows a window open. One of the eunuchs on duty sighs, and accommodates for it. Until he closes it back, desert sand trickles into the imams' robes. No need for an explanation as to how much they hate that...as used to it as they should be, by now...
As the imams' eyes are closed, a man appears. He assembles himself from all the sand that's trickled into the room. He materializes into a normal-looking man...in black robes. He wears a black turban...in the Mosque Palace.
All around, the eunuchs gape. The Sandman grins at them, and holds up a small hourglass, suggesting what will happen to them if they don't leave before it's empty with a glass dagger. Without another word, the eunuchs run.
"I don't expect you to acknowledge me while you chant," the man says, "so I'm just going to recite my monologue while your minds are so far up Allah's ass, that it's almost as if all seven of you are all worthless pieces of holy shit."
The imams fidget, when they hear this blasphemy...but don't react otherwise. Ah, the discipline it must be taking these imams to not react...or TERROR, more likely...and NOT of the Sandman...
"My demands are simple," the Sandman says, skipping the monologue. "Your jobs, in exchange for your lives."
Still, they chant. They're probably chanting the Koran's version of the "though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death" clause...if it even HAS such a clause. It should. Muslims sure are deathly committed to their faith...
The Sandman knows what real commitment is. One might even say that that's how he got his powers...
"Very well," Sandman acknowledges. "Since you won't give me the one I want," he causes his own arms to disintegrate, into sand. "I'll take BOTH!"
All around, leviathan tentacles, made of sand, slither around the room. They dip themselves into the imams' trousers, and give them uninvited handjobs.
The imams scream, grab their turbans, and try to beat the tentacles, as they all yell "RAPE, RAPE!" Alas, each time they beat the tentacles, they turn into sand, and reassemble. They aren't hurting Sandman. But Sandman is sure as Jahannam violating them.
"Ah, the wise men of Arabia," Sandman mocks. "They can't even remember to turn the other cheek when a strange foe challenges them... Speaking of what,"
With the tentacles, he squeezes both of each imams' cheeks; NOT the ones on their faces.
Sandman spits some sand out of his mouth, as his tongue disintegrates. From the sand, a very long whip-like serpent one assembles itself. It slithers between all of their legs, raises them up, whips around, tickles their undercarriages, and has its way with them...
"Ah," Sandman admits, "this is a hard thing for me to do, but," his legs disassemble, into sand, requiring him to stand on the floor with his waist.
In the air, giant ostrich's legs, made of sand, appear. They dip themselves into the fronts of the imams' pants, and play footsie with their gonads. If the imams were hooting before, now they're screaming like Wilhelm. With open windows all around, the whole damn capital can hear them.
All around Riyadh, all look to the Mosque Palace, confused. Never, in any of their lifetimes, have such animalistic noises been generated from such a dutiful and sacred place...
In the marketplace, a critic chuckles and shakes his head, while buying some white grapes. "The Iron Imams are FINALLY cracking," he murmurs. "Who woulda thunk it?"
In a cart, the critic's already gathered more grapes than there probably are at one market in Riyadh. He's likely plotting to distill some moonshine white wine when he gets home. And of course, ALL liquor in Arabia is moonshine. And once it's made, and especially sold, it's bootleg. And to think that the NAU once thought that Prohibition was unfair...
Back in the Mosque Palace, Dark Sandman continues to delight in his raping of Arabia's Most Iron Imams. Needless to say, these imams are in SERIOUS need of a demotion...
"Care to address my terms again," Sandman asks them, "newfound adulterers of the king's vizier council?"
"OKAY, OKAY," they all shout. "WE'LL GIVE YOU WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT! PLEASE! JUST GET YOUR SAND OUT OF OUR BRITCHES."
"Aw," Sandman mocks sympathy, "you misunderstand." All around, he turns his arms' sand into ax blades. "I told you I WILL take both."
With that, Sandman bathes the wood of the room in blood, by adding seven new tombstones to the royal cemetery.
One of the imams puts up a struggle, out of insanity. Sandman turns much of his arms' sand into a long scythe blade, and runs the poor man through; the pointy part of the blade comes out in the center of his chest. The imam looks down, at the gleaming blood-stained point of the blade...and dies doing so.
Palace guards swarm into the room, and aim their firearms at Sandman. They order him to stand down.
Sandman reassembles his arms, and casts an illusion. With it, he deludes all of the guards. One by one, they lower their firearms, and salute Sandman.
"Good," he says. "Take these bodies to the morgue. I want them thrown in the Persian Gulf, and forgotten. Our economy is already running out of oil, as it is. They'll all make GREAT additions to our precious oil reserves...just as soon as they're all rotten enough for our generation's gasoline engines to not tell the difference..."
"Yes sir," they all say in Arabic, before doing to the fallen imams' bodies what they've been commanded.
"Oh, and uh," Sandman adds, "when you're done with this...execute the king."
"Yes, sir. On what charge, sir?"
Sandman stops, and thinks. "Forcing the public to believe in Allah against their wills," he finally responds.
"That's not a state crime, sir."
Sandman turns around. He assembles more blades from sand, and holds them to his new guard's necks.
"I am about to write a new constitution for this nation. No offense, but the Koran is centuries old, and hasn't been updated since its first publication. But society has been. While I haven't yet written this country's new constitution...I can guarantee you that as soon as I get to the bill of rights section...THAT'LL be amendment number one."
With that, the guards salute, and leave to fetch the proper accommodations for the imams' bodies. Sandman steps over their bodies, with blood-soaked feet, and stands in their midst. He closes his eyes, and expands his arms.
Between them, a scrolled document assembles itself. It's the Arabian constitution...re-forged in his own image, and not Allah's.
In the other room, the oldest Koran in Arabia flips itself open, flips through many, many pages, and bursts into flames, while in the spotlight. Below, Sandman opens his eyes, looks up, and smiles.
"FIRE CONTROL IN OLD MOHAMMED'S CHAMBERS," he shouts.
"YES SIR," the palace's staff shouts, from wherever they are.