One Day In Alexandria [FICTOID]

At two meters in length, the tongue would have drawn attention to itself even if not covered with think pink fur.

“Did some whale get drunk?” a European tourist asked.  “Because that’s what my tongue feels like when I’m hungover.”

The Egyptians around her looked perplexed.  First, because none of them spoke her language; second, because all the Egyptians in this particular group were good Muslims who didn’t know diddly-squat about hangovers.

The tourist smiled for a selfie with the tongue, grinning and flashing a peace sign before hurrying on to the next novelty.

“What are we going to do with this?” the crowd began asking themselves.  “Whose is this?  How did it get here?”

“It fell off the back of a truck,” said a grandmother.

“Did you see it fall off a truck?” the schoolteacher asked.

“No, but where else could it have come from?”

“Knowing where it came from can give us a clue as to whose it is.  If it fell off a truck, what kind of truck?   Garbage truck?  A moving van?  Maybe it was strapped to the top of somebody’s car.”

“Why would anyone strap a giant furry tongue to the roof of their car?” the grandmother said.  “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe they bought it for their home,” said the young seamstress.

“Who would want a giant furry tongue in their home?” said the grandmother.

“Well, it does feel nice,” the seamstress said, stroking the pink fur.

“It is a product of the decadent West,” said the imam who just showed up.  “That or Satan, take your pick.”

He didn’t know anything about the tongue, in fact just became aware of its existence when he pushed his way through to see it, but was not the sort to let a good size crowd go to waste when he could preach to them.

“Shun the tongue,” he said.  “When you make your daily prayers ask Allah to forgive you.”

“Forgive us for what?” the seamstress said.  “What have we done wrong?”

Not for the first time the imam envied Catholic priests’ confessionals; he would love to have saucy young women like the seamstress come and confess their sins to him.

Of course, that would mean taking a vow of celibacy, not that Catholic priests were notorious for their celibate lifestyle.

Nonetheless, the imam didn’t swing that way.

“Pray for strength against temptation,” he said to the seamstress.  “You are tempted, aren’t you?  Hmm?  Just a little, no?”

“No,” said the seamstress.  “The tongue feels nice, the same way soft wool or a fur collar feels nice, nothing more.  Why, what did you have in mind?”

Not for the first time the imam envied American Evangelical pastors for their ability to bang female congregants then blame the women for seducing them when caught.  Sometimes he felt apostasy against the Q’ran would be a small price to pay to get his hands on some plump American booty.

“It is a sin to allow oneself to be tempted even if one isn’t aware one is being tempted.”

“That’s like saying it’s a sin to be wet without knowing you’re wet,” said the schoolteacher.

“Yes!  Precisely!”

“It’s a tongue,” the grandmother said.  “A big, furry tongue.  What’s sinful about it?”

The imam instantly imagined all the uses he could conceive of for using the tongue with the seamstress. Ironically, the seamstress was thinking the same thing about the tongue herself, only with her husband, not the imam.  If the imam had known this, he would have left them proceed with his blessing, provided they let him watch.

A small armored car pulled up and a squad of soldiers hopped out.  Their captain pointed at the tongue and the squad quickly loaded it in the back of the vehicle then climbed in after it.

“Wait, what’s this all about?” said the schoolteacher.

“Nothing to see here,” said the captain.  “Show’s over.  Everybody go home.”

With that he climbed in and drove off.

The crowd looked at one another and shrugged, drifting off in twos and threes.

“Some tongue,” the grandmother said, waddling back home.

Only the imam remained there, looking at the spot where the tongue once laid, fantasizing about what might have been.

© Buzz Dixon