Work Text:
One fine, sunny day, General Zia ul Haq was roaming the streets of Lahore. He had been unhappy with his role under Zulfi Bhutto's rule for some time- the rat bastard took every opportunity to make fun of Zia!- but was unable to come up with a solution, and decided to take a walk, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind. Across the street in front of him crossed a young woman. Her long black hair flowed down the back of her bright pink kameez. She walked with a spring in her step, and looking at her, Zia ran a hand through his hair, smirking.
"MashaAllah, MashaAllah," he muttered, stroking his moustache. As he repeated the words, they somehow morphed, till he was saying "martial law".
Wait.
Martial law.
Zia rubbed his hands together and chuckled to himself, to the discomfort and/or amusement of those around him who thought he looked like some exaggerated cartoonish villain. He, of course, did not care. No longer could any measly man dare to laugh at his moustache (which was not ratty, and certainly not uneven, thank you very much!) or hair (which was fashionably oiled, not greasy, and of course he showered! Once a day! Well, maybe a little less. Once a week? That was beside the point!) or brains (of which he had plenty!)! No, sir, Zia ul Haq would go down in history as one of, if not the greatest military commander and leader of any country, ever!