Berlin 2039: The Reign Of Anarchy by Karsten Krepinsky (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗

very energetic. A foray into the Ghetto is usually part of the program, under police protection, of course. Drones and sometimes even a police helicopter or two. Dozens of snipers on the rooftops. This way a seemingly cleared spot in the center of anarchy can be presented to the public to make the shuttled-in TV teams believe that there has been real progress in the fight against poverty and extremism. You all know how this bullshit works. In this case the itinerary doesn’t even include the Ghetto proper, but only the puffer zone around East Side Gallery, where Lemons and Germans interface. Rows and rows of outlet stores, with the “Halal Arena” nestling in their middle. The hall doesn’t only host Islamist bingo nights but also the Lemon’s most major wrestling event ever. Here, the Muslim Terminator—a three-hundred-pound behemoth—stomps the Christian Satan—a hundred-and-twenty-pound scrawny kid—into the ground every other day in an eternal loop. People just love it, even though the outcome is predictable. Maybe it’s because the Christian Satan has the unfortunate habit of bombarding the heroic defender of the half-moon with every creative insult known to man. No idea. As today’s opening act the Imam is scheduled to preach to his flock. Next to him in the ring, he has a special guest, no other than the politician who’s trying to get re-elected: Helmut von Schlotow, mayor of our venerable city by trade. I wouldn’t want to be seen dead in this place, if not for Natasha’s insistence that the fight might provide me with a once-in-a-lifetime chance to have a little chat with the Imam. She tells me there’s an agreement with Schlotow to allow me inside the Imam’s private lounge as part of the mayor’s delegation. My first reaction is to adamantly refuse. I’m still extremely hung over. Also, I don’t seem to be able to shake off dark premonitions of trouble, gathering on the horizon. Nightmares, as disturbing as a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. The Last Judgement, maybe. Gruesome punishment. Death and destruction. Natasha doesn’t give up until I declare myself beaten and trudge along to the arena.

The “Private Security Area” begins right behind Oberbaumbrücke. Sheriffs in black uniforms guard the entrance to the amusement zone. They are headquartered in a watchtower in front of East Side Gallery. Unlike the fence that surrounds this party area, these guys in black really present an obstacle. Everyone knows that they have no qualms to open fire on unauthorized intruders. Now and then the victims of these disciplinary steps can be seen floating in the River Spree. The bodies usually drift all the way down to Jannowitzbrücke, where they’re finally fished out of the water. Just in time, lest the view of bloated corpses might affect the Globals’ marriage proposals, often made during leisurely evening strolls along the riverbank.

“Why does he always wear sunglasses?” I ask Natasha, while the Imam basks in the adoration of his followers. Our seats are in the upmost box, far away from the general Lemon population. Although the word “box” evokes images of luxury, painfully absent from the shabby interior of the arena.

“There’s something wrong with his eyes,” she explains. “They say that he’s almost blind.”

“Blind? Really? He’s moving around pretty nimbly for a blind guy.”

We both study the tall man in his off-white caftan. He’s protected by at least one bodyguard like usual. Ali Bansuri, the most powerful man in the Ghetto. 62 years of age, eight wives, 43 children. One of his daughters serves as a representative in the Bundestag, the German Parliament. Two of his wives are still girls, fourteen and fifteen years old. Bansuri means flute. And he eagerly sticks his flute into every orifice he can find. His face looks friendly. Just imagine your generic grandfather. While Bansuri enjoys the adulations of his fan club, Natasha rolls her eyes. I know how much she resents him. Bansuri is a preacher but, most of all, he’s a businessman. After a short introduction, followed by some quotes and meaningless formal greetings, he asks the members of his flock for donations to his Islamic Relief Organization. Many mosques are in a deplorable state, he complains. People are avoiding the houses of prayer, all the while committing sins in the privacy of their homes. The spectators in the lower tiers start to booh. They’re exclusively male and black-haired, most of them sporting full beards. The veiled women crowd in the upper level. Their robes are black. What this arena sorely lacks is some color, I think. Next, the Imam lists the games of chance the faithful are allowed to engage in.

Bingo is halal—okay.

Laughing while playing bingo, though, is haram—not okay.

Roulette is haram.

Wheel of fortune is haram.

One-armed bandits are haram.

Card games are haram.

These Lemons really know how to make the place rock. The Imam has the crowd hanging on to his lips. Almost foaming at the mouth, he’s screaming into the mike, dictating the rules of life and agitating against the infidels. But his emotional eruption of outrage is nothing but cool calculation. A routine performance. A controlled display of fervor, as if he were an actor on stage. He continues to whip up the masses, until his bearded puppets are seething with hatred. Bansuri claims that it’s the infidels who keep Muslims in poverty. During his diatribe von Schlotow just stands there, shifting from one foot to the other. The Imam lets the rage of the audience wash over the ashen-faced politician for a while, before he deigns to relieve the poor guy of his misery. If relief is the right word. Because Bansuri then announces that the mayor is planning to convert to Islam. No idea if it’s true. Maybe it’s just a PR gag. There are too many fake converts around, to whom joining a religion is nothing more than signing the contract for a new job. You know how politicians tick. The honest Abes among them are usually left behind in the dust or ignored by the average citizen.