(APe) Denver. "America, you lost!!" spitefully shouted 9-11 terrorist plotter Zacarias Moussaoui as he was being escorted out of the courtroom after being spared the death penalty.
And now, and long after, the 37 year old man will have plenty of time to savor his victory in a specially designed confinement home that awaits, one that brims with privacy. Personal conversations, even eye to eye contact, with other inmates will be a no-no. He'll never get to share any "war stories" with the boys over meals efficiently put together by civil-servant chefs. He "can" have visitors and phone calls from the outside, but rarely, and always monitored. Over the passing years, however, he might not always be too lonely; that is, if the agitation of isolation gets to be too burdensome. Plenty of other "friends" might "pop in"; magical guests that only he'll see over time. They'll be so special, not even the guards, who constantly monitor the in-cell cameras that record every last little thing each and every life-time guest does, will be in the know. One can only wonder how many times Osama himself will secretly stop by to console, or berate, Zacarias.
His accommodation should be all that he needs, for the near future. It comes complete with wall to wall concrete furnishings such as stool and bed, neatly packed within a spacious 7 foot wide by twelve feet deep room; additionally, and also made of stone, are a sensible shower, a sink to shave "and" drink from, plus a toilet conveniently located right next to where his head will rest. Alone inside his cell, he will be afforded plenty of opportunity to celebrate his triumph, over and over, 23 hours of each and every day, for years upon years to come. That extra, missing hour? It's for getting out and about in the rec. area, for a bit of fun, say, staring at the sky, bouncing a basketball, and other pursuits of the man not allowed any earthly friends.
Now, if old 'Zac were ever to get a little bored mentally recalling again and again his one-man whooping of the sole super-power left on the planet, and if maybe the repetitions of praying in the direction of Mecca come to not cutting it, completely, there are other things he can do to pass the time. Like watching his diminutive television, complete with black and white coloring. And the program choices are unique and just can't be matched anywhere else: all officially approved, censored and time-delayed, so as not to unnecessarily upset the viewing population. Even offered, at no additional cost, are self-improvement classes piped in over close-circuit T.V.; that oughta come in handy down the line for, um . . . ?
But TV and three square meals layered atop an active religious regimen are certain to grow stale after a bit-and imaginary friends are so unpredictable in their visitations, plus they can be staved off by forced ingestion of psychotropic drugs. So, what else could "Zacky" do to pass the time till, um, seeing the coroner?
Creative masturbation is always in the cards, a hobby that holds out real promise as a time killer. There are, however, obstacles to overcome: Moussaoui's deeply religious background, the belief system which got him into all this trouble in the first place, might put a damper on any wascally wildin' wacking. Plus, knowing the guards are always watching could present itself as a real buzz-killer. And what about fodder for stimulation? Prison TV is hardly what one would choose when trying to effect a blood transfer down to the nether regions.
So, it looks like, in the long run, all Zacco really has to look forward to, the only possibility of a bonafide, heartening "release," is death. And one wonders, if along the way his fervent belief in radical Islam does grow cold, his capacity for intellectual stimulation sours into frenzied fancy, and when his sexuality, for certain, turns so moribund, a fatal state that not even the delicious concept of 72 Houri Virgins could ever resurrect, will he be primed for change, fundamentally?
Will the future Wacky-Zacky, the silent co-conspirator to a hideous mass-murder, come to doubt the wisdom of his ways, whether that stark awakening might occur today, tomorrow or decades away? Will he discover - prior to giving up the ghost and departing, or disappearing, to parts no one, in all honesty, truly knows the first thing about - the humane emotion of "regret"?
Can that pathetic pilgrim, Zacarias Moussaoui, ever sincerely realize, before the darkness at the end of the line, that he acted in an incredibly insensitive, mean way, and every lonely trial and gut-wrenching tribulation that awaits - crushing burdens he must singlehandedly face each and every single, solitary day of his remaining life - are richly deserved? Will it be taken to heart that, as a living, breathing adult human being, armed with gifts, talents and responsibilities no other species can even come close to, he should have known and done better . . . much better.