The Peacemakers by Andy Wilkinson

            “Bubba, did you know that today is Martin Luther King’s birthday?”

            Bubba cocked his head and grinned at his friend. “Yeah, Mohammed, we get the news up there in Chumuckla, too, you know. In fact, we think he was a great man. We even wanted to have a float for him in our annual Redneck Christmas parade, but we just didn’t think it would look right, him up on that float with a Confederate flag draped across his shoulders. Wouldn’t want to turn his dream into a nightmare.”

            “Okay, Bubba, I get the message. Didn’t mean to insult you.”

            “Did you ever have any civil rights activist in Iraq?” Bubba asked, a little more serious now.

            “Of course! We’ve had many,” Mohammed answered. “After all, Islam is known as the religion of peace.”

            “Uh-huh. Should be known as the religion of pieces, the way ya’ll are always blowin’ shit up.”

            “That’s not funny, Bubba. And it’s only done by a handful of radicals. They’re crazy people. The rest of us aren’t like that. Remember, Timothy McVeigh was a Christian.”

            “But he wasn’t a very good one … yeah, yeah, I get the point,” Bubba said. “What happened to those peacemakers in your country, Mohammed? Did they get shot too?”

            “Yes they did. Saddam frowned on things like civil rights, and human rights, and individual freedom.”

            “Oh, yeah, guess you’re right about that. I hope he gets his before they’re done with him.” Bubba rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger and his mouth formed a wicked little smile. “You know, I was watching the news the day they pulled him out of that spider hole, and I was thinkin’ ‘now there’s a guy caught between Iraq and a hard place.’”

            “Bubba, you are such a redneck.”

            “Sorry, Mohammed, I just can’t help it.” Bubba said, still smiling. “Hey, let’s go eat some pigskins and drink a beer in honor of King and all those civil rights boys from your part of the world.”

            “Muslims don’t drink, Bubba, and they damned sure don’t eat pigskins.”

            “Oh man, I forgot. Sorry. Well, look, you have a Coke and some peanuts and I’ll have a beer for both of us, and for King, and for all the good guys from your country.”

            “That’s a lot of beer.”

            “Least I can do.”

            “You sure you don’t mind being seen with me in a bar? Those other good old boys might take it the wrong way.”

            “No. I’ll tell ’em you’re my cousin from up north. They won’t know the difference.”

            “You’re killing me, Bubba, you are just killing me.”

            “Aw, come on, you crazy camel jockey, lets go have some fun.”