The News Lampoon.com

By Mickey Sartre, News Lampoon cub reporter

March 10, 2008, Kabul, Afghanistan--The Taliban fighter handed me a cup of green tea and said, "I should kill you."

I set the cup down on the concrete floor where we sat facing each other, cross-legged on thin rugs.  The curtains drawn, the room was dark.  The interview was being conducted in secret, in a concrete Taliban "safe house"--if there is such a thing as a Taliban safe house.  "If you divulge identity," said the Talibander, "I will kill you."

"You haven't told me your name," I said.

He tilted his head back, stroked his beard with one hand and caressed his Kalashnikov with the other.  He seemed to be sizing me up.  This went on for several seconds.  Finally, he nodded and said, "That is true.  I have not told you my name."

The Talibanders had selected us for the interview because, they said, "News Lampoon is Muslim newspaper."  Our attempts to inform them otherwise were ignored.  We could only guess as to where they got the idea we were a "Muslim newspaper."  What we finally came up with was that "News Lampoon" sounds "Muslim."

"What is wrong?" asked the Talibander.  "Don't you like tea?"

"I am letting it cool," I answered.

"Drink it, or I will kill you."  His hand tightened around the Kalashnikov.

I lifted the cup to my lips, closed my eyes, took a sip.  I waited for the poison to take effect, but nothing happened.  "Hey, that's not bad," I lied.

"I am glad you like it."

The interview "request" had arrived via U.S. mail.  "The Taliban wishes to speak with you," it read in part.  "If you do not reply to letter immediately, we will explode building."  At the bottom of the letter was written: "Do you consent to interview?  Yes ___  No___  (check aproppriat sic)."

The Talibander's cell phone rang.  He held his finger to his lips, then answered the phone.  He said a few words in whatever language it is that they speak--Arabic, I think--then he snapped the phone shut.  "Look at this," he said, holding up the phone.  "It has not even camera."  He handed it to me.  It was an LG, a little worn, but it looked like a pretty nice phone.

"It is two years old," he said.

I nodded, handed it back to him.

"What do you use?"

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Phone!" he said.  He snapped his fingers.  "Let me see."

I handed him my phone.

"Nokia."  He smiled.  "This is older than mine.  Also no camera."

"That is true," I said.  "No camera."  I felt like we were building a bond.

"This is why we ask you to come," he said, casually dropping  my phone into his pocket.  "What laptop do you use?  Apple?"

"Uh, no," I answered.  "I use a Gateway.  It's kind of old though.  I need a new one."

"Precisely!" he shouted.  "We knew American Islamic newspaper journalist will understand!"

"But I'm not . . ."

"Stop!" he said, holding up his hand.  "Listen to what I say.  We need American government to send Musharraf more money.  He has become cheap with us."

"You mean President Pervez Musharraf?" I said.  "Of Pakistan?"

"Of course!  Who else do you think?"

"He gives you money?"

"You do not know this?"

"Well, no," I said.  "I thought you were supposed to be enemies."

"But he gives us money.  He lets us live in his mountains.  He tells us when CIA is looking for us.  You are silly journalist."

"Well, I . . ."

"This is not important!" he said.  "What is important is money.  U.S. give money to Musharraf, Musharraf give money to Taliban.  U.S. give more money to Musharraf, Musharraf give more money to Taliban.  Do you now understand?"

"Yes, I think so."

"We need new laptops, new cell phones.  Chinese and Russians and Iranians will no longer give us grenades and guns without money.  It is because of Iraq!"  His hand tightened around the Kalashnikov.  He paused.  "Tell me, do you use Vista?"

I was confused for a moment, then it came to me.  "The Vista computer operating system?"

"Yes, of course."

"No.  We use XP Professional."

"We wish to go back to XP also.  Vista is not good system.  But this also cost money."

"I understand."

For the first time, and much to my relief, the Talibander smiled.  "You are intelligent Muslim journalist.  For brief moment, I think I must kill you, but now you understand.  So you will tell Bush to send money."  He rose to his feet and slung the Kalashnikov over his shoulder.  "We must go now."

"But I wanted to ask . . ."

"Silence!  You must now wear blindfold."  He barked out something in his language, and two armed Talibanders entered and blindfolded me.

"I like you, Mickey," I heard him say.  "You are good Muslim journalist.  Tell Bush to send money, and we will talk again.  Do not make us explode building."

His two lieutenants grabbed my arms and took me outside to a waiting car, shoved me into the back seat.  Five minutes later, they threw me out of the car onto a busy Kabul street.  I pulled off the blindfold and looked around.  I had no idea where I was, but I was glad to be alive.  I reflexively reached for my cell phone, but it was gone.

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