Setting: A cave somewhere in the Hindu Kush
Time: The present
Scene: A chamber with an old wooden table and two chairs on either side. A battered kerosene lamp sits on the table. Two tunnels lead from the chamber, stage left and stage right.
Saddam Hussein enters from stage left. He's wearing his usual black beret and general's uniform. But the uniform is wrinkled and badly stained. Saddam sits, wearily, in one of the chairs and drums his fingers on the table. He pulls a pearl handled revolver from his holster and looks at it for a few moments, then slowly raises it towards his temple.
Osama bin Ladin enters, stage right, dressed in his usual white robes and camouflage jacket.
Osama: That bad, huh?
Saddam: (quickly lowers the pistol, places it on table) I was just going to . . . clean it.
Osama: But of course.
Saddam: (peers suspiciously at Osama) Hey, where have you been? I've been wandering around for at least an hour, and I haven't seen one of your guys. You can't find anybody in this rat trap.
Osama: (shrugs) Well, that is the general idea. (sits in the other chair)
Saddam: So have you heard any news? Anything from the outside?
Osama: (chuckles) The BBC says the Americans are still looking for you. They think you are in Tikrit.
Saddam: (scowls) Tikrit! As if I'd ever go back to that shithole. Every time I'm in town, it's 'Saddam can you kill this guy,' or 'Saddam, can you torture that guy.' You'd think they could handle their own blood feuds. But noooooooooo! Everybody expects Uncle Saddam to do it. (stops to scratch his chin with his pistol)
Saddam: Well piss on that. I'm never going back. I mean, did their President Clinton ever go back to Arkansas? Of course not. . . Not after eight years in the White House (pauses reflectively) Those were good times, eh Osama?
Osama: (dreamily) Yes. There was this great little cafe in Kabul, where you could get the best shish-ka-bob -- all you could eat! And the mint sauce . . .
Saddam: (interrupts) And now I'm stuck in this shithole with you. (glares at Osama) None of this would have happened if you hadn't pulled that idiotic stunt in New York. And they call me a meglomaniac! Since when would Allah hook up with a pompous gasbag like you?
Osama: Since he got tired of waiting for senile old pan-Arab farts like you to get off their asses and fight the infidels, that's when. And we wouldn't be here if you had the sense Allah gave a jackass. You just had to go and invade Kuwait before you had the bomb. Would it have killed you to wait a lousy six months?
Saddam: (grumbling) The scientists were slow. They lacked the proper . . . incentives.
Osama: (sarcastically) Heaven forbid that you should torture any of them.
Saddam: We did. But you know how Uday is, he gets . . . carried away. I told him to try the grenade fishing because I thought it would calm him down. But instead he used the damn scientists for bait. How was I to know?
Osama: Well, it's all blood under the bridge now. Speaking of which, how about a game?
Saddam: (moodily) I don't want to hear anything about bridges. How many times did I tell them to blow the frickin' bridges on the Euphrates! How many times! Was that asking too much? A couple of frickin' bridges?
Osama: C'mon, give it a try. It will make you feel better. (He claps hands. A bodyguard pokes his head in from stage right.) Akbar, tell Dr. al-Zawahiri to come right away.
Saddam: What about a fourth?
Osama: Yes. (turns back to the bodyguard) And see if the King would be willing to join us.
bodyguard: Yes, my sheihk.
Saddam: Are you sure the King plays bridge?
Osama: I believe so. (waves his hand) No matter. It is easy enough to learn.
Saddam: You'd be surprised. I tried to teach some of my generals, but they just didn't get it. Perhaps the voltage to the nipples wasn't high enough . . .
The King appears at the tunnel entrance stage right. Although his hair has gone entirely gray, it's still molded into that distinctive high pompadour. His enormously fat body is stuffed into a tailored white jumpsuit, encrusted with rhinestones. A white scarve hangs around his neck; dark aviator sunglasses cover his eyes.
Osama falls to his knees, bows his head to the floor. Saddam stands, touches his pistol to his forehead in a mock salute.
Osama: O King, if it pleases you, will you grant your humble servants the favor of your company for a game of bridge? It will help pass the time until our martyrs can take their revenge against the infidels, inshallah.
The King: Don't mind if I do, Osama baby. Don't mind if I do. Thank ya. Thank ya vurry much . . ."