Syrian Shitfest 2

This story appeared in Horror Sleaze Trash in November 2015 under the byline of Ted DeCalb. After the original zine shut down, I moved it here.

It was Karduk who said the Prophet Mohammed was a swarthy, sex-crazed midget. He was at Nizar’s café. He’d just lifted his lips to a cup of rose water tea and—

He went to paradise thirsty. They blew Karduk’s brains out the back of his head 72 times before Karduk’s lips even touched porcelain, the extremist swine. All I’d done was repeat Karduk’s story at Nizar’s the next day, and they kidnapped me and took me to their leader.

Why was I spared? Possibly because I’m only half-Syrian, while Karduk, the unfortunate soul, was a Syrian Kurd and a Jew sympathizer. My mother is American, my father, the fat pig, a full-blooded Syrian.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t come to this bullet-ridden shithole of a country, this blackest asshole of Islam, to become a martyr. I came to shoot quality porno­graphy. The fact that I am a swarthy, sex-crazed midget might have also been a mitigating circumstance. The soldiers of the Caliphate are the dogs of hell incarnate, but they have a soft spot for little men and I don’t know why.

It was risky shooting hardcore porn in a country overrun by extremists. Islam is many things, but it is not a religion that appreciates a good cum shot or a close-up of a bald lubed pussy. To make matters worse, my boss, the producer and director and writer of my Islamic filth, wanted only Muslim pussies.

Look, I’d gotten him passable Israeli, Italian, and Spanish pussies. I’d even painted an Estonian pussy once to get that swarthy creaminess, that blushing, gushing veiled rectitude, that is the hallmark of an authentic Syrian pussy.

But he insisted.

His name was Brian de Palma. Having grown up mostly in military boarding schools in Sweden and Luxembourg, I was ignorant of de Palma’s other work, though I learned quickly that he was a big name in the industry fallen on hard times.

I’ll say one thing for de Palma, he was persistent. He knew what he wanted, and he was determined to get it. Eventually, I managed to track them down. From the barrios and alleys, the opium dens and underground whorehouses of this sad shell of a country, a stable of gorgeous Syrian war widows.

The only problem now was our male star. We didn’t have one. Only a handful of pigeon-chested runts de Palma picked up off the street on his early morning prowls. Average peckers, very little stamina. It was either porn or ISIS for these pricks and after they popped their cherries in our outtakes, they went straight for the Kalashnikovs.

But then one day everything changed. Palma burst into my office just before evening prayers. My “office” was actually the remains of another café bombed to Kingdom Come by who the hell knows who. Anyway, De Palma was out of breath. His tie was loose. He said he’d found his man. This naturally interested me greatly.

“Who?” I said.

“Fairuz al-Maliki,” he said.

“The Bull of Al Bab?”

I told him he had to be kidding. I’d tried to sign Fairuz al-Maliki a million times. I’d even brought him U.S. dollars. But he’d refused every time, the pious prick. The last I’d heard he’d gone off to fight for Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.

But de Palma had heard rumors that were making him salivate.

“Is it true?” he said.

I lay back in my half a rolling chair and offered de Palma a cigar stub from a box of stubs I’d rescued while shooting at one of Bashar al-Assad’s summer palaces. A beautiful little film about a coprophilic virgin called Syrian Shitfest 2.

“Fairuz al-Maliki has a prick the size of—” I began to say. But I couldn’t even begin to describe it. I put out one of my short, chubby arms. It wouldn’t do. I leaned over and had de Palma lay both of his skinny little arms on his lap and I squeezed them for a minute like I was getting ready to take his blood pressure. “That’ll do,” I said.

De Palma’s eyes widened.

“When Fairuz al-Maliki penetrates a girl, she comes before it’s even inside,” I said. “This is good, because when they come the second time and the third time and the fourth, fifth and sixth times, they’re more relaxed. But you’ll never get him. He’s fighting for ISIS.”

Actually, I’d heard they’d had to give al-Maliki a little car and driver of his own, a big Caliphate no-no, because he couldn’t march with the extra weight. They’d been using al-Maliki’s massive, pumped-up tool to demolish 3000-year-old Sphinxes in Tikrit. Another potential problem.

“And he isn’t even in the country,” I said.

But, shit on my apostasy, de Palma found al-Maliki anyway. He sent a CIA-outsourced Black Hawk into the deepest, blackest asshole of Iraq, tranquilized al-Maliki, and brought him back to Aleppo, shithole of shitholes, in a cage.

The rest, as many of you know, is underground cinema history.

Fairuz al-Maliki and his tremendous Islamic cock starred in 48 of our films, all shot during the month of Ramadan on a shoestring budget. Let me say, it was the only excitement we’d seen in Aleppo since the Caliphate overtook our miserable, rundown country, seeing our pious war widows coming eight ways to heaven with al-Maliki’s furious foot of Halal meat buried to the hilt inside them. Al-Maliki’s fame soared throughout the Caliphate and beyond. Actually, as far as Monrovia in Sierra Leone, where we shot Ebola Jones 1, 2 and 3.

Did it bother me that al-Maliki’s salary went straight into the Caliphate’s coffers to fund executions and tourist shootings? You bet it did. But you remember Harry Lime, don’t you? I was giving the Islamic Republic of Syria, that decomposing cesspit of war widows, dirty-fingered orphans, and triple amputees, something even better than Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci. I was giving Syria its very own porn industry.

Free Syria Studios was a lucrative enterprise by Syrian standards, raking in well over $250 a month. We had 48 original films in the can with 16 more on the way. Plus, de Palma’s contact in Israel, a rabbi from Los Angeles, was beginning to talk of the film to end all films, an idea that boggled even my mind.

Israeli-Syrian Shitfest!

And that was the point at which Karduk told his story, and I repeated it and a gang of pious swinging dicks — led by al-Maliki, the dog traitor — picked me up and blew up Nizar’s café.


Let me just say this, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi’s watch was not a Rolex or even a good Rolex imposter, it was a Seiko given to him by a Patagonian extremist named Little Oliver, a.k.a. Abu bin Patagoni.

It was al-Maliki himself who brought me to al-Baghdadi’s headquarters in a little orange child’s jumpsuit of my own. Al-Baghdadi, who had been using the money from my films to slit the throats of elderly Japanese tourists, studied me closely. My Arabic has always been awful. I think he knew that because he spoke to me in passable Swiss Italian. He told me Brian de Palma was dead.

I was devastated. Brian and I had become friends, yes, but I was also thinking of my CIA funding. Did this mean it was gone too? De Palma had been blown up, al-Baghdadi said, along with the Luscious War Widows — as they were now known throughout the Caliphate — in a café that did not belong to Nizar.

“Your film career is over, Mr. McDonald,” al-Baghdadi continued.

But had he possibly not seen through my alias? Of course, my film career was the last thing on my mind. Al-Baghdadi led me into his tent.

We shared a pilaf and almonds dish and then went upstairs to the tent roof. Al-Baghdadi looked out upon his lands, the rich vastness of them shimmering in the golden-red Arab sunset. “I enjoy your work very much,” he said, “but you are now entering upon a more noble path.”

Hot balls of Allah, did he think making good porn was easy? In Syria? In the middle of a civil war? I’d have let him know he had a serious wake-up call coming, if I weren’t standing on the roof of a dirty tent in a miniature orange jumpsuit surrounded by machete-wielding Chechen assassins.

Al-Baghdadi dismissed his men with a snap of his fingers, giving each a few aluminum coins and a Chiclet. He waited until the door to his tent roof was locked. When he was sure we were alone, he said, “We’ll be on the Plains of Dabiq waiting for the Apocalypse in—” He checked the Seiko. “32 days, 11 hours and 6 minutes.”

I’d heard about the Plains of Dabiq, that mythical battlefield on which Christendom would be annihilated forever. It was all over the radio. But what part I, a lowly midget pornographer, could possibly play in al-Baghdadi’s war was worse than a blur.

“Your humbleness, I still don’t get it.”

“You will help me recruit.”

I had a good look at the army of bearded cutthroats and goatherds camped out before us. At least a dozen of them I recognized from de Palma shoots. Average peckers and easy shooters. I spat on them and cursed their mother’s fecund pussies.

“Look in the mirror,” al-Baghdadi said.

I whipped around so fast I smacked right into al-Baghdadi, who was wearing snorkeling fins for some reason and carrying a Target-brand vanity mirror.

“Look,” al-Baghdadi said.

My mother, her skin was like Ivory soap. But I got all my DNA from a fat tub of shit named al-Mazarif who had a complexion like Egyptian car exhaust. Except father was a mountain of a man, well over six feet, and here I was, barely even four. But what were these flippers all about? And why was al-Baghdadi following me around with a mirror? I looked in his mirror alright, and all I saw was a swarthy, sex-crazed midget.

And then it dawned on me.

“Wait an Allah-loving second,” I said. “Are you saying that—?”

“Yes,” al-Baghdadi said, sinking to his knees and salaaming. “You are the Prophet Mohammed reincarnate.”


I won’t lie and say it was good being the Prophet even for a second. It was a hard sell, for one. Everyone knew the Prophet was a slender, hook-nosed merchant from Mecca who went off into the mountains to meditate every so often, whereas I, Ali al-Mazarif, was a dark, fat, stubby Syrian with a blob of a nose and unappeasable libidinous instincts.

Still, al-Baghdadi was optimistic. He drove me around in his private jeep while I delivered uplifting messages from a bullhorn. I tossed aluminum coins and Chiclets at the troops. Al-Baghdadi even gave me a Seiko of my own to keep track of the days until Kingdom Come.

The only problem I could see for myself — besides being decapitated if my true identity was ever exposed — was my own sex life. As the Prophet, I wasn’t getting any. So I was shocked, but full of hopeful yearning, when Aziz, my serving boy, came into my tent after my second Saturday sermon to announce a visitor.

I was lounging on my waterbed, nestled in my silk sheets. I rolled over onto my side into a puddle of silk I realized was actually a love handle. I’d put on a few kilos since working for al-Baghdadi.

Imagine my surprise when my sound mixer Wassouf was standing before me.

“Your Holiness,” Wassouf salaamed.

“Cut the shit, Wassouf.”

Wassouf had also put on some weight. I’d heard that some of these assholes still had Amazon accounts and ordered from Williams-Sonoma.

“I have a message for you, Ali,” Wassouf said.

“Go ahead.”

“If you would only excuse me—”

Wassouf went to the corner of the tent and pulled a tiny capsule out of his ass. He unrolled it with his fat fingers and read.

It was a message from a close friend of de Palma’s named George W. Lucas. De Palma was alive, the message said. He’d been bombed pretty badly but had been rescued and was now recovering in Karbala at the American base. Alas, he could no longer collaborate on quality pornography, as he had been badly maimed in the explosion, but that didn’t seem to matter now anyway.

“I don’t need a partner,” I told Wassouf. “I need to get out of here.”

“De Palma’s sending someone,” Wassouf said.


“George W. Lucas.”

“Balls of Allah. Another American director?”

It seemed this Lucas character was going to be filming on the Plains of Dabiq. But he was also going to be bringing a secret weapon whose identity, as a matter of international security, he couldn’t divulge. According to Wassouf, my only job was to make sure that al-Baghdadi arrived at the Plains on time.

On time? The way al-Baghdadi checked his Seiko, he was going to be there a half day early! On the other hand, none of this helped me very much. When the war was over, when the Caliphate was crushed to holy rubble and Syria a smoldering ruin, I would still be the midget that impersonated Mohammed.

“Is that all?” I said.

“Almost,” Wassouf said. “Saif gave Israeli-Syrian Shitfest to Ziam Hamzeh.”

Hamzeh? That opportunistic prick!

“Wassouf, listen to me. When you get out of this shithole Caliphate, you tell Saif, that fat cocksucker, that we’re through! Tell him his career in Aleppo is over!” Saif had been my agent for over 20 years. I’d never trusted the sonofabitch.

But Saif never got that message because Wassouf was beheaded six days later at the Evening Homily as a traitor to the Caliphate. The official report said that Wassouf’s Amazon Prime account had been discovered, along with boxes and boxes of uneaten Williams-Sonoma Christmas baskets, but I had a feeling, a creeping foreboding, that al-Baghdadi knew the truth.

After my meeting with Wassouf, time flew by. Al-Baghdadi’s visits became fewer and fewer. A very strange rumor began to circulate at this time, a tale so bizarre and unpalatable that even I, who walked the earth as the four-foot pornography-shooting Second Coming of the Prophet Mohammed, could hardly believe it. But by then it was too late to do anything about it. The Plains of Dabiq, which would initiate the Apocalypse, were now only a day away.


It was over faster than any of us had imagined because Vladimir Putin, that great big Siberian cocksucker, rocketed down from the Kremlin and bombed the shit out of NATO by accident. By the time al-Baghdadi showed up on the Plains in his jeep, the Caliphate was almost eating pizza. What was left of the French, English, Polish, and U.S. ground forces was running this way and that, moaning for supplies, extra bullets, scimitars, bleeding out their assholes from al-Baghdadi’s deadly gas attacks. It was a biblical ass-kicking the West got that day in Dabiq.

I was still on hand for moral support. Theoretically. Though, if you ask me, a midget in a jeep was a far cry from the level of religious motivation these self-righteous assholes had come to expect.

Al-Baghdadi was running donuts over the corpses of the Australian Army in a suit of tinfoil. All this death had put a definite gleam in his eye, a maniacal glow, and I began to believe the rumor circulating in some circles was true: that al-Baghdadi’s real purpose for winning this battle, his secret dream, was to be in a position to demand an appearance on The Price is Right from NATO.

Just then there was a huge explosion of sand in the near distance. It looked like a supply drop or a dud bomb.

“Out!” cried al-Baghdadi, nudging me.

I couldn’t see anything. There was too much smoke, burnt blood, pulverized NATO intestines. I couldn’t even see where al-Baghdadi was pointing. But what could I do? I jumped out.

“Bring me the bomb!” al-Baghdadi howled. “You and Fairuz.”

I hadn’t seen the Bull of Al Bab for weeks, he and his giant, fat Islamist prick. But there he was, hauling his cock around the Plains of Dabiq without his jeep. I jumped up onto Fairuz’s broad hairy shoulders. We approached the bomb in a crouch. Fairuz smelled of figs and sardines and he was spattered in Christian blood.

“I would have turned you into a star,” I told the smelly brute as we clattered along.

Fairuz carried me 100 meters and there was the bomb. Except it wasn’t a bomb, it was a wooden crate with a giant dayglo sticker attached to it that read OPEN AT YOUR OWN RISK in Arabic, Russian, Polish, French, Italian, Swahili, etc.

The sand was aglow with the day’s last sunrays. A gentle breeze trembled at our feet, while at head level the air was steamy and rank with exploded Euro-American viscera and brains. I squatted down next to the crate holding my nose. I knocked on the lid with just my knuckle.

A gentle, beguiling voice as weak as the whining of a distant door hinge.

Please, help me.

Fairuz looked at me.

I nodded.

When the lid came off, I swear on my own fat sack it was a naked woman crouching there inside the crate. She was perfect. Her breasts were like ripe blushing mangos, the nipples like date fruits. She had dark pools for eyes and tiny, winsome feet, and her olive-colored skin gleamed in the howling Arab sunset.

“George W. Lucas sent me,” the naked beauty explained quickly in French. “Close the lid. Have the hairy ox carry me back to al-Baghdadi and his troops. When you open the lid again, make sure I’m facing the troops. Then cover your eyes. Don’t look at me for any reason. You are our only hope, Ali al-Mazarif.” She blew a kiss and ducked back inside.

I closed the lid.

In the distance, al-Baghdadi’s men were already shooting their Kalashnikovs into the air like Mexicans. Putin had taken out all the American drones. The English had turned back, the French, the Germans, the Greeks, the Pygmies. It was a massacre all right.

“Al-Baghdadi told me to bring it back, whatever it was,” I told Fairuz, patting the crate. “Now let’s go. I’ll walk. You carry the box.”

But what would I tell al-Baghdadi was in the box? I worried about this the whole way back to the jeep.


“A Faberge egg?” Al-Baghdadi was circling the crate on tip toes.

“Bashar was a big collector,” I lied, keeping my fat little hand on the lid. Al-Baghdadi was also a big collector. Just one of his many eccentricities. Except he didn’t own any, not one Faberge egg. He’d always felt snubbed.

“Why don’t we show all the troops?” I said. “You can lift the egg above your head. Or better yet, you can stick it right on your keffiyeh. What about that?”

He was still circling the crate. But would he open it? My balls and ass were sweating.

“Your humbleness?” I said.

“Open the crate. Now.”

“But why this way? You need to stand in front of the crate, your humbleness. So you can see what’s inside. Here, I tell you what. Stand in front of the crate with your hands in the air making the victory sign. The troops will love that. As soon as you’ve got their attention, turn around and I’ll put the egg on your head.”

Well, he did just that. But instead of a Faberge egg, as soon as he turned back around, the naked woman stepped out of the crate and unveiled her pussy.

The glow in al-Baghdadi’s eyes now — it was nothing like before when he was planning the destruction of Christendom. No, this was something else altogether, a richer, more absorbing mania. Given the circumstances, no one could blame me for having a look myself, which is just what I did.

It was surely the most beautiful female orifice I’d ever seen, and I’d seen too many to count. How to describe it? A trembling white spirit of peace, the folds of the vulva undulating, glistening, puffing open and closed like a tissue paper swan in a noonday breeze. The clitoris began turning colors, a red-pink scallop lolling about on a bed of fragrant pearl leaf.

The troops cheered. Most dropped their pants en masse and rubbed one out with al-Baghdadi. With two fingers she drew the whole dripping rosebud upwards so we could see as far as the sweetness of her puckered brown asshole, running with love juices now.

And then—

I’d already seen enough, I know, but I just couldn’t help it. With the rest I watched as a screaming wraith the color of rancid cum with a pug nose and three sets of lower teeth leapt out of her beautiful, dripping pussy. This ugly demon roasted al-Baghdadi’s eyes in their sockets and melted his face and turned his fat to pudding. The whole Caliphate, those whores of Satan, went with him. Even Fairuz and his beautiful plump brown cock.

Sic passim. The war was over.


What is paradise, you ask? It is regret for the joys you left behind on Earth. Given, I hadn’t left behind much. I was an established third-world pornographer, a denizen of bombed-out cafes, a friend of Brian de Palma. My father was a slob, my mother left us when I was five. I could have turned out worse.

When that shape-shifting pussy started to fry al-Baghdadi’s eyes, I couldn’t help but watch to the end. It was the last thing on Earth I saw. The next thing I knew I was here in paradise with the rest of the martyrs, getting taken up the ass by 72 virgins with strap-on dildos. Over and over again, in 20 minute shifts.

And so my mind roamed, back to mother and my boarding school days, to father even, and to the fleeting joys of life. Sipping rose water tea at Nizar’s café, a jumble of young male voices around me, chess pieces skittering across fly-speckled chess boards.

At these times I was sad. But otherwise, praise to Allah, I was relieved. Because, despite all the beautiful Muslim pussies I’d shot over the years, I’d always preferred a fat Islamic cock.