His machine pistol was not noticed at first. But his blue sweater with the blue eagle of the USPS was immediately recognized.
The first people he encountered shrank back. A woman screamed. Someone yelled, "Look out, another one's gone postal!"
That was enough to start a panic.
Mohamet Ali found himself caught in a frantic boil of people, all running in different directions, including unwittingly at him.
Like a man who faces a herd of charging elephants, Mohamet Ali lifted his Uzi and triggered a stuttering skyward burst.
"Back! Back away, I tell you!"
That changed the direction of the human herd. People leaped into the empty train track bed and hunkered down.
Mohamet Ali fled into the great concourse of South Station—right into the approaching police officers.
"Stay back!" he cried. "I am disgruntled. I am very disgruntled!"
The police came to a halt, hands on service pistols.
One made calming gestures with his empty hands. "Stay cool, buddy. We won't hurt you. Just lay down your weapon. Okay?"
"I am feeling very disgruntled today. I will not lay down my weapon for any of you."
All shrank from his fearsome words.
"Look, we don't want this to get any worse than it already is."
"Then let me pass. The mail must go through. You cannot impede me, for there are laws against such things. Have you never heard of the crime of interferrag with the mail? It is federal. A federal crime— which is the worst of all."
"Gone nuts for sure," one of the policemen muttered.
"Let's talk about this. My name's Bob. What's yours?"
"Mohamet Ali."
One of the policemen thought this was humorous, and to be taken seriously meant survival if not escape, so, Mohamet Ali set the Uzi to single shot and shot him dead.
The surviving police took him very seriously after that. They tried to kill him, in fact.
Mohamet Ali threw himself behind the big glass newsstand. Firing wildly over his shoulder, he made his way to a door.
The police wanted to shoot him but did not want to shoot other people. So their shots were infrequent and futile.
Mohamet Ali ran upstairs, downstairs and everywhere he ran, he found that there were U.S. police agents blocking his path of escape. From their expressions, they were very frightened of him.
Somehow he found his way to the roof of South Station, where he could command all approaches.
, with night falling, Mohamet Ali still commanded his destiny—but escape was out of the question. The intersection below was filled to overflowing with infidels of all kinds.
His only hope lay in rescue. If not, then he would martyr himself in some spectacular way designed to bring great credit to the Warriors of Allah, which was the name of his jihad cell.
The trouble was, he could think of no suitable fashion to enter the gates of Paradise, and he possessed but one clip of bullets, now half-spent.
Meanwhile the criminal FBI down below kept trying to talk him down while news reporters shouted exhortations and entreaties from a distance.
"What do you want, Mr. Ah?"
"I wish to escape, fool. Is that not obvious?"
"Why do you want to escape? What do you want to escape from? Is it the pressure?"
"Yes, yes. The pressure of fools such as you."
"Talk to me about the pressure, Mohamet. What is it that's made you unhappy. Can you articulate it?"
"No, I cannot. It is unspeakable!"
"Nothing is so bad it can't be talked about. Come on, fella. Let it all come spilling out. You'll feel better."
Mohamet Ali considered these words. And angling the Uzi around the great decorative stone eagle, shot the fool dead.
After that, they did not try to talk him down. They pulled back and attempted to wait him out.
Infidels began calling for him to jump to his doom. It was a thought. But because infidels desired it, he would refuse their enticing entreaties.
At the hour when Mohamet Ah realized his best option was to suck on the erupting barrel of his own Uzi, his weapon was forcibly extracted from his hands.
Ah was stuck in his crouch, trying to keep his legs from going numb. He heard no approaching footsteps, felt no shadow, but his Uzi jumped from his hands.
Ali's gaze followed his weapon, and he saw a tall man with the shadow-hollowed eyes that made him look like a death's-head.
"Are you crazy!" he hissed. "I am a crazed mailman! Such a one as I am is very, very dangerous."
"Cut the crap. You're only a terrorist. Time to cough up."
And the Westerner gave the captured Uzi a squeeze. The gun actually complained as it twisted up. Then it fell to the roof, clearly maimed by the experience.
"That which you just did was impossible," Mohamet muttered.
"That which I am about to do will hurt very deeply."
"I fear no pain, not even death."
A different voice said, "You will learn fear, then, Muhammadan."
And Ali felt pain such as he had never known. The source seemed to be in the vicinity of his ear. It was very acute, as if the ear were being ripped away with exceeding slowness.
Ali screamed. And screamed some more.
The pain subsided to a dull achiness, and his tearing eyes sought out the source.
An Asian man. A little mummy of a man, impossibly old.
"Who are you,
"Your doom," intoned the mummy whose eyes glowed in the waxing moonlight. He had the lobe of Mohamet's right ear pinned between his thumb and some sinister green implement of torture capping his forefinger.
"I will tell you nothing," Mohamet said bravely.
"You will divulge the name of him who commands you."
"Never!"
Then the sharp green torture tool pinched more deeply, and the pain returned. Not only to his ear, but to his shoulder and the back of his neck. It was like electricity. Ali understood that Westerners believed the human body to be electric. He had never accepted this heresy until now. Now his entire body felt like a jerking puppet of sparks and short circuits. Very painful ones.
Ali attempted to beseech Allah to help him withstand the wicked agony. But Allah did not hear him. He heard the words coming from his own mouth as if from far away.
"The Deaf Mullah! I serve the Deaf Mullah!"
"Nice try. The Deaf Mullah's in the federal pen. Better coax him harder, Chiun."
The pain became exquisite.
"The Deaf Mullah! By Allah, it is the Deaf Mullah who commands me!"
"Better let me try, Chiun. I think you're off your game."
"I am not. This man cannot resist me."
"He's telling lies."
"No, I swear by the Prophet's beard. No lies. I am a servant of the Deaf Mullah."
Then the hard steel fingers dug into his shoulder. Where the other dispensed electric pain, this one gave bone-breaking agony.
"The Deaf Mullah, by all that is holy! The Deaf Mullah! How can I say it that you will believe me?" Mohamet blubbered painfully.
The two withdrew, hovering some feet away in the dark. Ali could hear their urgent whisperings.
"He's telling the truth," said the tall Westerner with the death's-head face.
"I told you this, but you did not believe me," squeaked the ancient mummy.
"Maybe the Deaf Mullah's getting messages out of the pen."
"This is possible."
Then they returned, two grim moon shadows.
"What's the game plan?" asked the Westerner.
"To visit terror, shed infidel blood and create other anti-Western mischiefs," Mohamet grudgingly admitted. "So that the infidel nation collapses, and the pure flame of Islam flowers in the scorched soil of idolatry. It is really for your own good, for you are truly Muslims under your infidel skins."