Mad Dogma
Reta Ross
Mad Dogma
Copyright 2013 Reta Ross
Published by Reta Ross
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
About Reta Ross
Other books by Reta Ross
Acknowledgements
The Strathroy and District Writers Association was the stimulus for this piece. Specifically Dave who challenged the members to delve into Gadaffi, research him, try to determine his motivating force, his family relationships and background plus his education and then formulate our findings into an interesting and possibly humorous profile of the man.
Prologue
Laughing apparently causes the endothelium, the tissue that lines blood vessels, to expand, which increases blood flow. Laughter may also improve arterial health by reducing mental stress, which constricts vessels and cuts blood flow.
Chapter One
As a freelance journalist I found myself in a scrum attempting to interview Muoammar Gadaffi. We were held at bay and then pushed back by his bevy of bodyguards, all of them female but we had only his word that all were virgins.
Suddenly he moved away and looked at us with contempt. Before disappearing into an adjacent room he whispered to his big beautiful Amazonian bodyguard and pointed at me. She beckoned me to come forward and we followed him, entering the other room as well.
What had I done? Was I going to have to face a firing squad, be thrown in prison or maybe he was going to try to convert me to his religion like those Italian models I’d heard about. They say he paid big bucks to address 200 female models at a modeling agency in Italy, tried to convert them and then gave each a copy of a book promoting his religious dogma, The Dogma of The Middle East.
“You have been chosen to conduct an interview,” the Amazon body guard said.
She wretched my voice recorder from me and pushed me toward Gaddafi who had seated himself in a comfy wing chair in front of a fireplace.
Chapter Two
I approached Gadaffi and attempted to shake hands. He scowled, hid his big mitts in the folds of his great robe and nodded at the chair opposite.
I curtsied and complied. Without my recorder I’d have to rely on an interview questionnaire I’d committed to memory, my notepad and Gregg shorthand.
I wondered how to address him, your eminence, your honour, esteemed being, your majesty, Colonel, mister, Muoammar and decided on Sir which seemed to please him.
Rather than waste time on statistical information which is readily available on line I jumped right in with the personal questions. He greeted the first four on family, upbringing, and his place in the world with an icy silence, so I repeated them running them together like one question. And he started his discourse.
“I am the youngest in a large family. We were poor. I got no attention from my parents and my siblings were my rivals. It was every man for his self. I’ve had to work hard to get people to notice me. I know you don’t believe this but… Pointing a threatening finger at me he said, sometimes I must take bizarre measures to get people to notice me.”
No kidding I thought and said.
“You speak excellent English, I’m surprised. I didn’t know or didn’t imagine you’d be so fluent.”
“I trained at Sand Hurst Military College in Britain, of course I speak good English, why not?”
“Is there anything in life you’ve had to overcome?”
“Yes not always being able to get what I want, but now,” he laughed.
“But now?” I said.
“But now I know that money talks. I can afford to pay Donald Trump to let me erect my tent on his estate. I always travel with my tent. They wouldn’t let me put it up in Central Park.”
“So now nothing stops you from getting what you want?”
“Right, I take steps to make sure.”
“Steps?” I said.
“Yes steps. Anyone caught discussing politics with foreigners gets thrown in prison for three years. I won’t let Libyan schools teach foreign languages and my hit squad tracks down dissidents, the world over, not just in Libya, plus my all-encompassing surveillance system keeps things under control as does our public executions which are re-broadcast on national television. These deterrents are necessary.”
Seeing my shocked face he said,
“I am only joking of course.”
But I knew he wasn’t. His smile displayed cunning and guile and huge yellow teeth. He looked not unlike a camel.
Continuing on he said
“….Many world leaders helped to build up my chemical arsenal. But infidels and dissidents in China, Pakistan, India or Thailand won’t sell me nuclear arms. Why do these irresponsible countries have nuclear warheads and not me? There is nobody like me. I am unique. You can see that by my outfits.”
He stood and swished around rustling his yards of taffeta and silk. I was reminded of Scarlet O’Hara and the dress she made out of the drapes
“How well do your friends know you and are they loyal to you?”
“My friends know me very well because I tell them what they must think of me. My friends won’t say anything about me that I have not approved because they know there will be circumstances, I mean consequences.”
