Back, yes, Pepe Warezabar here, and I'm back. What do they call it--a sequester? Studying my navel and sacred texts and other matters?
Now I'm bartender at Hotel Jarabulus just below the border with Turkey.
It's been two years since Kobani and my last work in Erdogan's tent (for which I received The Guard Dog's undercover-story-of-the-week award, by the way).
At this very moment I'm at the bar plus dealing with a noisy back room-Kerry, Erdogan, Obama, Putin back there yelling.
And . . . that female coughing? Must be Hillary back there also.
But here at the bar I'm standing with Osama ("Sammy") bin Rabead, and he has quite a tale to tell.
But I'm nervous. The occupants in the back room could bust out of there onto us and freak out Osammy.
Right now he's calm and smiling, although I can't see the lower half of his face due to the black scarf. But the eyes, yes, they indicate what could be humor.
"Another hit, Sammy, old bud?" I say to him, familiar as we now are, and ready to get up another Old Rasputin lager with a shot of vodka for him.
"Well, you know what one fly said to the other," Osammy said, obviously into the Old Rasputin.
"The first fly says I'll be moderate when I can fly straight ahead, no turning, no reversing, at 15 miles per hour, not 90. And, you know. Silent. No buzzing sound."
"The other fly says: And my name is Osama Bin Laden!"
Osammy gets into a fit with this ribaldry and almost falls off his stool. I wipe the faux mahogany bar top with a blue-checkered rag.
Then out of the back room bursts a wild-looking Secretary Kerry, but Sammy sees nothing as Kerry heads for a restroom.
Right away somebody else charges out of there--Hillary, in burqa, face covered except for a tiny opening for her blue eyes.
She sits down next to Osammy in a little black burqa fury.
"At long last," she says. "Finally, I will be Chief Executive of America, well-deserved, by god, and these people back there think they can tell ME how to handle it!"
"Well," I say, "I mean you know world peace . . ."
They both say: "Peace?"
"There is no there there with world peace," Hillary now says. "Let's face it. By now we've realized it doesn't work as good business policy. Junior Bush had that right!"
"Look," Sammy turns to her. "Did you hear what one fly said to the other?"
"Oh my god!" Hillary replies. "Look at you! And I just met you the other day at the border. Remember? You were changing your uniform."
"Changing his uniform?" I say, investigative reporter's instincts still high.
"From ISIS to FSA," Hillary, always eager to assist the press.
"Well, you know the Turks were coming on to Jarabulus with their tanks," Osammy's head is wagging. "We had to get the hell out of there."
"Whaat. . .?" I say.
"First we were with al Qaeda, then al Nusra, then Daesh, then back to al Qaeda, and now we're Free Syrian Army. You know--" his eye glinted again--"them moderates?"
"Your new group is Rabead al Sham Sham?" I want to get this clear. "With the FSA moderates?"
Right then out of the restroom up walks Secretary Kerry and slaps Osammy on the back.
"Osama, my man, always good to see you! We never forget our allies!"