Algerian Terrorist 'Hacks' Can't Escape Al-Qaeda's Shadow

hey're young. They're dangerous. They're filled with hate for all Western culture and the influence it's had on Islamic countries. No, they're not Al-Qaeda; they're Algerian, and they're tired of being compared to Osama bin Laden's terrorist units.

If you haven't heard of these Algerian up-and-coming homeland security risks, it's not surprising. They've only recently made any news at all, and it took a far backseat to growing concerns about Iraq and North Korea, as well as troubling domestic issues like the economy and Joe Millionaire. They're relegated to the back page of the World news right now, and they're not happy about it.

"It's just like Americans to ignore you as a threat if you haven't set off a bomb in their country or anything," said one leader of the as-yet-unnamed group, who refused to be identified by name but used the alias, "Stonewall." "It won't be that way forever. One of these days our name will be bigger than Al-Qaeda—as soon as we agree on one. People will ask, 'Al-Qaeda who? Were they anything like…' well, then they'll say the name of our group, when we have one."

It's a strong feeling throughout the group, as well as other aspiring Islamic extremist terrorists out there: Al-Qaeda has become the Elvis Presley of anti-Western guerrillas, and it's a double-edged sword.

"On one hand," said one youth, known as "Itchy," "people are finally taking terrorists serious again, for the first time since those Iranian hostages in the 70s. But now the bar is set so high nobody can compete with them. A lot of us don't have the kind of funds and numbers needed to destroy an American landmark or symbol of Western wealth. We're the independent terrorists, the ones doing it for the real love of Allah, and we have the better arguments, the better fatwas, and when we die for the glory of Allah's cause we're receiving the most rewards. But that doesn't matter much if you're operating out of basements and searching couch cushions for money to finance your terrorist camps."

One of the reasons the Algerians agreed to meet and discuss their situation was to raise awareness of smaller garage terrorist units. The press has not been kind—even when they cover their actions, like the recent news story in Britain where a group was arrested for possession of Ricin and killed a British police officer, the reaction of the American media is cynical and smug. Newsweek referred to the incident on page 48 with the headline, "Al-Qaeda Hacks Kill Just One in Manchester."

"It's completely unfair," said a thin, wiry terrorist nicknamed "Atwall." "Ricin is pretty dangerous, you know. Had that plan been carried out by our brothers, there's no telling the kind of damage it could have done, throughout Britain and America. Well, not America—that overseas postage would have killed our budget. But still, all the major networks are scoffing, like, 'Why couldn't they get Anthrax?' That stuff's expensive, infidels. We don't have Saudi oil money behind us. Most of our funds come from the donation jars we set up in Algerian supermarkets. That and loans from our parents, which are due back in a couple of years, when we start showing a profit."

"It's true," added Stonewall. "You kill one person these days in the name of Allah and you can't even get on the third page of a major news magazine. You have to be like in double-digits to get that kind of coverage. Let's not even talk about making the cover. We're optimistic, but we know it's a long way off. First we have to get a good name."

According to the group, several suggested names have failed to please a majority of the group. Suggestions currently on the table are "The Red Flag," "The Al-Roka," and "Grassy Knoll," which the group likes, but feel like it would take too much explaining and limit how much they make major newscasts.

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Anyone who knows me can tell you I get around. I'm out with a different girl every other night of the week, and I show them all a good time, if you know what I mean without me mentioning sex in the car behind the Rally's. My sister, one of those nutty feminists, has even called me a male whore, but I'm quick to remind her a male whore is called a gigolo, and anyway I don't get paid, just reimbursed for gas money.

Still, despite all the machismo spilling out all my holes, I got to admit I'm not as confident as I look all the time. I can ask girls out, I can ball their brains out if the car has enough room, and I can never call them again and not think twice about it. But I just don't know how to bring up the subject of group sex. I'm not that confident.

Me and my friends hang out a lot, we'll all bring whatever hotties we're seeing that week (or night) and just get together and drink and have fun. All my friends are good-looking dudes, by the way, and they never bring home less than an 8, although Gary brought three 4's one time and tried to pass them off as one 12. So with all these attractive people just sitting around, drunk as can be, you'd think the opportunity for an orgy would be quick to present itself. Wrong!

I don't know why. Everybody in the group is virile and all too ready for experimentation. Maybe all the other guys think I would be gay if I suggested group sex instead of girl swapping, but they should know better than that. I'm secure enough in my masculinity to make love to strange women in the company of three or four of my best friends while they screw someone else. And hey, if somebody is mistaken for a girl or whatever, I don't have a problem with it. It's not like I would set out to sample from the other side of the buffet, but I'm not going to get all freaked out. I'm still straight as long as the girl-to-guy ratio is 2-to-1 or better.

No, I don't have any problems with the idea, just with the proposal. The time never seems right. You don't just sit there and pretend to listen while Jojo talks about how his boss is a douchebag and non-chalantly say, "Hey, that reminds me—let's all have sex with each other." Maybe in some kind of office meeting or something, where you don't really want to work at the place and don't care what they think of you, but these are my friends.

Sometimes we get so close to a good subject I almost think I can work it in, but it doesn't happen. Pete got to saying how the cub scouts were all gay, taking young boys out in the woods and boffing 'em, and I thought for sure I could suggest a big orgy then, but I lost my nerve and he just started talking about how 4-H club was for homos.

At this point I figure my best bet is to bring home some kind of weird guy who will say anything. And then I could make a joke about an orgy in some way and the weird guy might be ballsy enough to suggest we all have an orgy. Then I could laugh it off just a little bit, then say, "Well, you know…" We'd have the whole thing practically started. The real downside, as I see it, this weird guy is going to want in on the action. That would put a real pisser on the idea, I know, unless this guy looked like Tom Cruise or something.

It's not like I've given up on the orgy idea, I'm just biding my time. Patience is the key to any great plan, and I know with my friends sooner or later the subject of hot group sex will come up. When it does, I'll jump on it. I only hope Jojo is still seeing that tattooed blonde at the time.

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Surprise, I got my name back. Occasionally I jump the gun and make a situation look a lot bleaker than it is. But I did seriously think Felchyana would take away my very name. As for my new name, "Rokwell T. Stonewall" is already owned by a nationally-syndicated columnist. No shortage of legal hassle trying to write a commune column without being sued for damage to reputation.

Felchyana, on the other hand, was more agreeable than certain bastards named Rok Stonewall. She was only holding out for more money, so I agreed to give it to her—after all, money is temporary. A name like Rok Finger only comes along once in a lifetime. Rok Stonewall, a thousand times in a lifetime. Completely useless name. Besides, I negotiated with Felchyana so she could have my middle name, Teddasaurus, while I retain the right to use the initial. Which is all I ever wanted in the first place.

Now that my divorce is finalized with Ms. Teddasaurus, you'd better believe I'm lining up all my ducks for the wedding of the century! Well, I suppose that may be overstating things. It's an early century, after all. I would hate for the great-great-grandson of Prince to be forced to marry the Queen of Neptune, in order to keep us from going to interplanetary war. Then Rok Finger's proclamation of 2005 would look quite foolish to the future potential Neptunian slaves.

I have even bought the material to make a tuxedo—most rental places don't make them in my size, of course, and I'm sick of wearing doll clothes to my own weddings. Besides, three more weddings and the thing will have practically paid for itself. The pattern I'm using is based on a formal dress affair suit for a lawn jockey, made by an insane woman at the local asylum. But for all her mental instability, she's a hell of a pattern maker.

We have had trouble deciding, Ginger and I, where exactly to hold the wedding. At first, I thought we might hold it at the commune offices—these people are, after all, the closest thing I have to friends. Which is quite depressing. But Ginger convinced me there was no way in hell she would get married with the "freaks [I] work with staring at us." She made a good point. Now we're trying to decide on a church wedding or a city hall sort of affair. We haven't ruled out driving to Vegas either. What a decision! If only something combined the sanctity of a church wedding, the esteem of a judge-presided matrimony, and a topless chorus line. But then there would be lines around the block, no doubt.

Camembert suggested we get married right here, in the humble Finger abode's backyard. I didn't hear him because I've been ignoring him since he ate the last of my breakfast cereal, Sugar Shorties. But Ginger seemed to think it was a good idea. Now I only have to figure a way to hold the ceremony here and still not invite Camembert. That may seem extreme, considering the wedding is at least a month away, but I'm known for holding insensible grudges for long periods.

To tell the truth, I'm actually a bit nervous about the whole thing. I was never nervous in all my previous marriages, so maybe that means I feel Ginger Baker is truly the girl for me. Or maybe I've developed a sixth sense and I am feeling the presence of the dead all around me. But Ginger didn't think that notion was as romantic as the first, so I'm sticking with the "one true girl" thing. What a woman!

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