Osama bin Laden, aka Joel Schmeeney

I kidnapped Osama bin Laden in January of 2011. I had been getting increasingly pissed that neither the Bush nor Obama administrations were able to locate and capture him. So I filled my hot air balloon and leisurely made my way to Pakistan. Once there, I got wind of him and hovered outside his cave armed only with a slingshot and a handful of marbles. I demanded his surrender. Astonishingly, he gave up without any resistance.

I was floating him to authorities in Afghanistan but he said to me, “Come on, man. Best two out of three, huh? I mean, I been getting away from the whole world for about two decades now and you’re the first to catch me.”

“Why should I let you go?”

“Because it was a fluke that you caught me. My protectors could have killed you with ease but I told them that I would surrender to you, that it would be for the best.”

“Based on what?”

“You're flying a hot air balloon armed with a slingshot. I feel safe with you. I can’t explain it. I just knew it was the right thing to do. You must understand.”

Indeed, I did understand. I have the power of goodness flowing from my pores. Evildoers cannot resist. The unethical become conscientious, the con artists tell their stories straight, and the manipulators refuse to create more advertisements. Given that, I recognized that his words were sincere.

I said to Osama, “Okay, I will let you go and then I will give you a week to hide from me again. But when I catch you next time I will kick your ass. Your fate will rest entirely in my hands … just as it does now. You can try to persuade me to change my mind when I capture you again, but I will do whatever I decide to do. However, if you would like to remain my captive now, if you would choose to remain captive, then I may show mercy on you in some uncertain way. I cannot guarantee anything to you. I may just turn you over to U.S. authorities and let them do with you what they will. Perhaps they’ll just let you go again. I can’t be the only one catching you and letting you go. Come on, it’s been over a decade of hardcore U.S. propaganda about your status as America’s Most Wanted! And no one can find you? Please. Please!"

I continued, “So I’ll do with you whatever I want to do with you, okay? You can stay or you can go. Either way, I own your life from this moment forward. You will only do as I say you should do. If you listen to me then you have a chance at life. If you defy me then your fate will be certain.”

Osama said, “I choose my freedom. You will not catch me again. If you even come close to me again you will be murdered. Don’t bother with your hot air balloon next time. We will shoot it down from the sky and if you are still alive we will hang you.”

I replied, “Believe what you will. You will discover that your beliefs are powerless against reality. We are low enough now for you to climb down the ladder … There you go. See you next week!”

I accidentally caught him only five days later. I didn’t mean to do it. I had had every intention of waiting until the following week to capture bin Laden again. I was in a Palestinian restaurant in Chicago and, before I even realized, I was looking at Osama just a table away from me. I lunged at him, punched him in the face, knocked him off his chair, his forkful of food flew from his fingers, and he groaned as the muffled crackle of my knuckles on his bearded jaw reverberated throughout the restaurant. A Palestinian restaurant in Chicago with accidental reverb? Yes.

I jumped on top of Osama and landed blow after blow. His face was swollen and bloody. There was a big gash on his left cheekbone. He looked up at me. “Why you punch me again and again? It is not a week. I have two more days. You lie to me.”

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t expect to find you. I certainly wasn’t looking. How the fuck was I supposed to know you’d be in Chicago?!”

“Yeah, but how I would know you like Palestine restaurants, huh?”

“You’re in the United States. You’re wearing all white and you have the same beard you’ve apparently always had. All bets are off if you come to me, man. You’re my fucking prisoner again.”

“Please, let me go. I won’t do anything bad again. I haven’t done anything bad for a long time.”

I considered his statements. I had no reason to believe this man but I also knew that I needed to work through my trust issues. Perhaps by trusting a man who has been painted as being entirely untrustworthy I could transcend my limitations and become someone else entirely. “Okay, Osama. I will let you go. But if you do not turn yourself in to authorities in two months I will hunt you down and take you as my prisoner.”

“But I am not guilty of the 9/11 attacks. I am not guilty of any acts of terrorism. I was never even a freedom fighter in Afghanistan against the Soviets in the 1980s. I don’t work for the CIA. I’m just a guy, a guy who the U.S. decided to promote as a bad guy for everyone to hate. I’m just an actor. My real name is Joel Schmeeney. I was born in Toledo and grew up in Akron. I went to New York to become an actor and somehow landed this gig. Believe me, it's the role of a lifetime. Some people get lucky and become the Subway guy or maybe the “Where’s the Beef?” lady. Me? I play the world’s greatest evil villain. I never imagined I’d still be playing this role in 2011. Heck, I thought I’d be done after the 1993 World Trade Center bombings. That was one of my early leads. I played bit parts before that, but under Clinton I saw more and more action as the centerpiece of violence. It was Bush, though, who gave me the break I’d really been craving. All the sudden I was making Saddam Hussein look like yesterday’s toilet paper.

Osama lamented, “Ah, but the Bush giveth and the Bush taketh away. Soon enough, Saddam was back in the forefront. ‘Al Qaida’ started getting more press than I got. The American media began ignoring me. I was an afterthought, an evil villain who’d lost his powers, like Jack Frost without any wind, snow, or ice.”

Osama pouted and began to cry. I felt sorry for him so I punched him in the face again. I told him he had two months to clear his name.

I went about my business the next couple of months without as much as a thought about bin Laden, er, Joel Schmeeney. In March, though, I got the itch to look for him again. I had a feeling he might be sightseeing in Europe so I booked a flight and got a Eurail pass. I checked in Berlin, but he wasn't there. I asked around in Vienna but no one had seen him. I went to Chamonix to take a break and go skiing. While I was there I decided to take the aerial tramway over the glaciers of Mont Blanc. Each tram is only large enough to seat four people. As I settled into my seat, Joel stepped inside and began to sit. As he did, he looked over at me and said, "Oh, shit." The door closed and the two of us left Aiguille du Midi on our way over to Pointe Helbronner.

I said to Joel, "Look this ride lasts a good 15 minutes and then another 15 minutes to get back. Let's just enjoy the views while we're here. It's not like either one of us is going to be going anywhere ... unless you want me to open the door and throw you out. It's about a thousand meter drop. It's up to you."

Joel sighed and nodded. After a few minutes, Joel seemed to calm down and he was "oohing" and "aahing" as much as I was. He turned to me as we neared Pointe Helbronner, "I had no idea how beautiful the Alps were. Yeah, I'd seen photos, but they don't do it justice, you know?" I nodded in agreement. Schmeeney turned his head to look out again.

When we arrived at Pointe Helbronner I asked Joel if he wanted to stick around for a little while to look at the Alps and breath in the crisp air at 13,000 feet. He said, "Sure, why not? That's why I came here!" I told him the same was true for me so we took out our cameras and took pictures. Joel asked if he could get a picture with me. I told him I didn't think it would be a good idea. He pleaded and I relented. He asked a middle-aged Italian woman to snap a photo of us with the Matterhorn in the background, but she refused to do it--not because she thought he was bin Laden, but because she was averse to taking photos of strangers. Joel seemed saddened, but I put my arm around him and told him to cheer up. After all, we'd be getting back on the tramway and enjoying the views again. He smiled briefly, but I could tell he was still hurting from the rejection.

After we returned on the tram to Aguille du Midi we went into the restaurant/bar with windows looking out and up at the magnificent peak of Mont Blanc. I ordered a white wine and asked Joel if he'd like a cocktail. He said sure. I said, "I thought Muslims didn't drink." He smirked and said, "I'm not a Muslim, man. That's all part of the act. I'm an atheist." He ordered a martini with two olives. We sat for awhile in silence, enjoying the views and one another's company. After we finished our drinks we paid our respective tabs and walked to and through the ice corridor to get an up close view of the glacier. Joel suggested we rent ice boots, mountain clothing, and camping gear and hike toward Mont Blanc for a couple days. I thought about it, but I said no. I wanted to get back down the mountain and hit the French Riviera. Joel's eyes lit up and he said, "Sounds like a plan."

We took the cable car down the mountain to Chamonix. I invited Joel to stay with me in my hotel suite since it had an extra room with a bed. He accepted. We drank scotch and listened to jazz before we crashed. The next day we checked out of the hotel and took buses and trains to Antibes. I rented a yacht and told Joel I'd like to sail to India. He said he was up for it. We enjoyed the voyage, stopping in various ports along the way. We took our time and arrived in Goa mid-April. We hung out on the beach quite a bit, enjoyed the international scene, hooked up with some fine ladies, and just had a hell of a time for nearly two weeks. At the very end of April Joel got a call from his agent. He told me he had a gig in Pakistan and he had to take off lickity split. I went with him to the airport. We said our goodbyes, hugged, and I watched him get on the plane heading to Pakistan.

Days later, I was still in Goa. I walked into the bar of my hotel and everyone was buzzing about how the U.S. Navy Seals had killed bin Laden. I couldn't believe it! I thought, "No, not Joel! Not Joel!" I quickly went to my room and wept. I didn't get much sleep that night. I moped around the hotel room the next day, leaving only to take a long, lingering walk on the beach. After more than a decade of declared searching for bin Laden the U.S. had finally decided to cash in the chips and end Joel's gig by killing him?

When I got back to my hotel room I noticed the red light blinking on my phone. I had messages. How could that be? No one knew where I was. I picked up the receiver and listened to the message. It was Joel! He wanted me to know they hadn't actually killed him. His contacts in the U.S. government told him his gig was up because Obama needed a bump in his approval ratings given that it was an election year. After nearly three decades playing the part of Osama bin Laden, Joel finally got to shave off that damn beard.

I haven't seen Schmeeney much lately. He moved to Costa Rica and spends most of his time surfing. I get a call every now and then. He's usually drunk and I can almost always here the voices of women giggling in the background. Total party animal. He said after playing such a serious, Oscar-worthy role he was ready for a fluff gig. He's lovin' it. Can't say that I blame him.