Abu al-Qasim Muhammad ibn 'Abd Allah ibn Abd al-Muttalib ibn Hashim, or simply Muhammad to his friends, sits pool side at his home high in the Hollywood hills, while his Rottweiler, "Buttercup" rests lazily at his feet. He wears a purple hoodie zipped to the neck with matching sweat pants, giving the impression he's ready to go for a jog along the red brick trail that run the perimeter of his estate.
I've interviewed many profits in the past, most of whom choose to meet me in hotel rooms and offices, in bars and restaurants, but very rarely are they comfortable enough to let me into their home.
California is not where one might expect a poor boy from Mecca to end up and certainly not in the fourteen bedroom, six bathroom, eleven torture chamber, mansion he now calls home. Standing on the second floor patio that overlooks the hills of Hollywood, Muhammad excitedly points out the homes of Channing Tatum and Lady Gaga. "This is amazing," he tells me, with the dizzy pleasure of a schoolboy, "Magic Mike lives right there. I could walk over to his house right now and chop off his head for being an infidel. Amazing"
Muhammad admits to becoming swept up in the excitement of Hollywood. As a boy growing up in the middle east the only entertainment he and his friends had consisted of riding goats and degrading woman, but here, in the sunny hills of California, he finds a new pleasure in being close to the movers and shakers of the film industry.
"It's not that I ever wanted to be an actor, or even in the movie business," he tells me, "I just really love the idea of story telling, taking an idea and developing it into something tangible, like a movie or book." Moe, as he asked me to call him, wrote his own best seller called The Quran. He's been in negotiations for several months now, to turn it into a movie, "The first time I was approached about putting my book on film, was by Steven Spielberg. He had some amazing ideas and I truly loved the direction he wanted to take my story, but then I found out he was a Jew, so that was the end of that."
The angel Gabriel filed suit against Moe in mid January, claiming he was the one that actually wrote the Quran. Gabriel is currently suing for one hundred and fifty million dollars in compensation, and a public admission from Muhammad that he is illiterate and could never have written a book. Moe denies the accusation and makes it clear that if he ever bumps into Gabriel at a rave, he won't hesitate to jam a glow stick in his eye.
Along with the many Rottweiler's he collects for weekend dog fighting entertainment, Muhammad has several wives he keeps locked in the garage. "I used to keep them in the basement, but when I had friends over to enjoy a pleasant evening of light beer and gang rape, they would whimper and cry for days afterward. The garage is not attached to the house, so they can whine all they want in there and I never have to worry about being disturbed while I'm watching Game Of Thrones.
He proudly takes me into his giant walk-in closet to show off his collection of tailor made track suits, which is all he choose to wear as of late. Row upon row of neatly folded sweat pants line the shelving, the astonishing array of colors bringing to mind a box of Crayola crayons. "I love sweat pants and sweaters, they're far more comfortable then the tight jeans I wore throughout the 80's. My only complaint is that I never wear underwear, so after I pee there is always a few obvious dribbles on my groin." As he says this I glance down to find his statement to be accurate.
As the morning wears on he asks me to join him pool side for lunch. Moe employs several full time chefs that have the skill to whip up anything you could dream of. To prove this he orders a potato shaped like the Eiffel Tower, mixed vegetables smothered in the tears of a Christian, and a slice of lasagna made with the flesh of a pagan, all of which arrive promptly. He scoffs at my request for a garden salad and glass of lemonade, then threatens to toss me in a cage with one of his wives unless I eat "manly food." Not wanting to upset my host I ask for a glass of blood and a T-bone steak wrapped in the skin of an infidel, which pleases him so much, he kills one of his assistants and offers me the head.
During dessert I ask what he thinks of organizations like ISIS, who use fear and intimidation to spread his word, "ISIS is okay, but they need to work a little harder if they truly want to please me. When I was a young man we would throw ten to twelve homosexuals off a roof every day, but the kids today think they can do this once or twice a week and that will be enough to get them into heaven. They just don't seem to have a good work ethic anymore, and certainly have trouble thinking outside the box. It's all well and good to blow up a few ancient Buddhist statues, but why aren't they strapping adulterous woman to those statues before hand?"
As our day progresses, I begin to see why more then a billion people choose to follow this bizarre little man. There is a confidence in his demeanor that is rarely found outside of cult leader or game show host. I begin to feel a deep connection with him and wonder if maybe I too should not join the many that follow his lead. And then I watch him laughingly kick his dog in the ribs for no apparent reason, and realise I'm just fine without him.
When it's time for me to leave, he walks me down the long driveway where my car sits parked in front of his black, wrought iron gate. We stop for a moment and watch in silence as a beautiful Western Bluebird picks the eyes from one of the many severed heads that sit atop the wooden pikes littering his yard. He watches with a loving grin, then embarrassingly wipes the tears from his eyes, and quickly explains his love for birds. It's the first time he allows me a glimpse at his emotional side, which brings a tear to my eye as well. We hug for several minutes, and he promises to invite me over the next time he has a stoning. I tell him I can't wait, but really have no intention of showing up, not because I don't enjoy his company, although I don't, but because the idea of throwing rocks at someone until they die, kinda makes me feel bad, and I know he wouldn't approve of that.