I was born in 1968 in Staradrek, Pakistan, a small village outside the prominent town of Q'nanada. My parents had enough money to send me to school, where I learned to throw grenades and jump in front of bullets. We were a simple people, living in a much simpler time than now. My father, Mustafa Malik, fought bravely in the 1975 Raysarayata, in which our community resisted the installation of an imperialist sewage system. He was publicly honored by the village Kamishina for successfully setting off bombs on six trains. It was a proud moment for myself, my sisters and brothers, my mother, and my father's other five wives. Sadly, the neighboring village of Meksakeen lost their village baker in the last train bombing, and so they raided our village for food. The Meksakayans killed our village accountant, which led our army to spend the next decade attempting to capture Meksakeen's calculator. It was a horrid time of turmoil and bloodshed. Several of my little brothers managed to carry out suicide bombings close to Meksakayan bases, which were my family's few happy moments during the war. Our forces kidnapped the Meksakayan commando's fourth wife, which was known to be his favorite (rumor was, she was still uncircumcised). After our village city council raped her for a couple of weeks, she was publically hung in the village square. This resulted in the Meksakayans firing their missile at us. Fortunately, it hit the village nursery and so our army was left unharmed. The violence continued until 1986, when the two villages declared Q'mbaya. We were finally at peace, albeit a bitter one. It was time to reassemble our tents and return to normal living. My father, a clever merchant, saw the ceasefire as an opportunity to travel abroad on business. He sold his donkey, his boots, and several of my sisters, and bought a plane ticket to Great Satan. After receiving special permission from the village Sheik to fly without hijacking the plane, my father stole a camel and traveled for three months to the nearest airport. He was going to make history. My father landed in Ellay, a giant American village that is as tall as it is wide. The glass structures in the village are held in place by the dark magic of Sodomites and Jews, and they can be seen from a thousand steps away. It is an evil village, but a prosperous one. My father still speaks of the nasty stench of the village, and how the only place he could bare to smell was inside of a taxicab. He bore through the misery of the town. At night, he slept at LAX, which seemed to serve as both an airport and as the African Embassy. In East Ellay, my father encountered warring African tribes in battle. The Crip Tribe was fighting for Turf, their supposed god. The other tribe, the Blud Tribe, was upset by a provocative act of steppeen. The battle ended abruptly, as a band of Po-Po militias rode by in a steel donkey and shot both tribes down. My father then crept over to an African corpse and removed its shoes. They were called Nike shoes, a coveted Chinese child-made form of footwear that African tribesmen in America consider precious. It was then time for my father, Mustafa Malik, to return to Pakistan. He had acquired what he needed: a pair of Nikes. That very pair would be duplicated and multiplied, then sold in Pakistani marketplaces to consumers with a fine taste for African-American fashion. His brilliant business venture made him the wealthiest man in Pakistan. The Malik Nike imitations are still sold today. If you have ever bought Nikes in the Middle East, you can thank my father. With his newfound wealth, Mustafa soon grew tired of Staradrek. He no longer found the village puddle to be a sufficient place of bathing. The sandpaper slide no longer seemed desirable for fornication with his many wives (he now had purchased an additional twenty six women, ranging in age from four to nineteen). My father decided that it was time he move to a much more comfortable part of the Muslim world: London.