KEY POINTS:
"Morning, Osama," said Mrs Osama, carefully moving the goat so the dawn sun could penetrate the narrow entrance of the cave. "This place is a tip!" bellowed her husband, slumped against the cave wall beneath the faded Tame Iti combat bra ad.
"Oh no," thought Mrs Osama. "Here
we go again. Another day in paradise. More complaints. More abuse. More verbal aggression," she mused in the relative privacy of her own burqa. "Maybe I should leave this grumpy old tosspot to his own devices" - one of which had gone off yesterday right beneath the clothesline!
"Did you hear me, you daft besom!!" bellowed her husband - a man renowned for mincing his enemies but never his words. "I said this place is a tip!!!!"
"Yes it is, great servant of Allah," murmured his careworn wife. "But remember, proud angel of vengeance, it was you who sacked the maid!"
Mrs Osama trembled, fearful her husband may deem the response insufficiently submissive.
"Well, she kept ringing b@&%y Howard Broad, dinshe!?!?" roared the little man, his face redder than it ever was on the videos. "Why don't you get a vacuum cleaner, woman?"
"We had one, fearsome scourge of the Infidel," protested Mrs Osama. "But you used the motor on a napalm bomb."
"That's what I do!!!!!!" raged Mr Osama, angrily firing a burst from his trusty AK47 - to the mortal regret of the goat.
It was clear Mrs Osama had to try another tack. "I know!" she said brightly. "Why don't we get away? I mean, look at us! Hiding in a cave, dodging smart bombs. No wonder you're tense, ferocious lion of liberation! We need a holiday!! And I know just the place!!"
Moving quickly to the filing cabinet - or what was left of it after that unfortunate accident with the Molotov cocktail - she pulled out a dog-eared 100% Pure New Zealand brochure. Clean. Green. And plenty of places to stay unseen was its tantalising promise. Be a sweetie! Come see Iti.
"And we should," purred Mrs Osama, passing the document to her volatile spouse. "It's hard being a Jihadist, honeybun. Let's go to New Zealand. Honestly, they wouldn't know a terrorist if they tripped over one."
"Or one tripped over to them - preferably without a passport," quipped Mr Osama. "Hmmm," he mused, "you might be on to something here, oppressed victim of medieval chauvinism. They do have some particularly witless judges over there."
"Like that Boshier lady?" inquired his wife, happy for once that she was compelled to spend tedious hours monitoring news reports on the cave's ancient TV.
"Absolutely!" chortled Mr Osama. "They had a bloke in court this week who, according to the judge herself, had declared war on New Zealand, wanted to kill white people and, bingo, she lets him out on bail! Doesn't pose a significant threat, apparently. Huh! Obviously doesn't live near 'er, does he?"
"How wise you are, mighty hand of vengeance," cooed Mrs Osama. "It's not just dodgy World Cup refs who should resign, is it, my darling? That lady should fall on her wig as well."
"Nahhh," Mr Osama shrugged. "They'll just put her in charge of ACC cases. That's what they do with judicial embarrassments in New Zealand."
"Gosh, you know so much," giggled Mrs Osama, perching seductively on her husband's scrawny lap and wondering if he'd think it brazen if she put her Glock in his ear.
"They don't call me an international terrorist mastermind for nothing, my little endangered snail," chuckled her bitter half as he tickled some part of her body he couldn't see. Mrs Osama felt her heart beat a little faster. His napalm-scarred hands always stirred her but ... so did the realisation he liked her impulsive suggestion.
The nemesis of freedom removed his hand and stroked his moth-eaten beard. "You know," said her husband thoughtfully, "I like this idea, my little Christchurch nail bomb ... Yes!!!!
"We could invite the Bali chaps over to share our military-style bungalow in the Ureweras. And whatever we did - made threats, built bombs, planned synchronised attacks - the media would, to a man, dismiss the whole thing as hot air or harmless fun and accuse the police of overreacting!!!"
"Thank goodness some people never have to resign if they get things wrong," Mrs Osama said, hurriedly packing the hand grenades at the bottom of her suitcase. "Will I need my passport?"
"No. It'll just clog the airline toilet," said Mr Osama brusquely. "Rightio, my little Paradise poppet. New Zealand here we come!"
There was a sudden chilling pause. "We could say hello to the SAS while we're over there," he added, his voice menacing and cold.
"As well as the terrorists, of course."
"So there really are some over there?" inquired his wife.
"There are now," said Mr Osama quietly. "Those raids they've had this week have either captured some or created some. I guarantee you that!!"
Mrs Osama squealed with glee as they ran, hand in hand, out of the cave and into the sunlight.
