Writing Competition: Entries

[diebitter]

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Carter

[diebitter]

A Perfect Little Life

Bad things happen to good people, my Grandma used to say.

I never really liked the saying, though I did see that it was sometimes true as I grew up and saw a little of life.

I didn't want to go the party, but the hostess was an acquaintance of my wife, a RICH acquaintance, and in my wife's business, it was always a good idea to keep in touch with rich acquaintances. So I dutifully showered and shaved, put on my happy rags, and played with the kids while my wife continued to get ready. My oldest, Tom, played on his PS2, while my younger son, Dex, read his book. 7 years old, and intently reading...not that he was a nerd or bookworm, not by a long chalk. He loved playing soccer and did karate too, and loved rough and tumbling, but right now his little face scowled as he read his little book intently. His face made me think of a clenched fist.

It was getting close to bedtime for our little daughter, and I was hoping the babysitter would turn up soon so I could get her to do it. Not that I minded - I usually bathed and readied the kids every night while my wife made dinner for us two, but...you know...I had my happy rags on.

Anyway, I did bathe her, and the babysitter turned up and started getting my boys upstairs, bathing for the youngest, showering for the older, and getting them in their pyjamas.

We kissed the kids goodnight and were on our way.

Boy, it was an impressive house, and the valet parking made an impression too.

We went in, were warmly welcomed, everyone friendly and smiling. I hated it, but I could do the act, so I just smiled back and made the small talk. It was all proceeding along its predictable course, and I did my best to ration checking the time on my watch to only once every 5 minutes, when it all went badly wrong.

Bad things happen to good people, my Grandma used to say. She was right, of course. They do, but if they're lucky, they live through it.

When I saw the gun come out, and heard the angry shouting, I thought of my children. I thought about how awful it would be to miss them growing up, and not being there to guide them safely to adulthood as best I could. But I was born in the 60s, and teenaged in the 80s, when Rambo and Arnie showed us how to stand up to this. All that's sensible in me knew it was an utterly stupid thing to do. Those damned formative years watching superhuman feats and bullet-dodging antics and their effect on my testosterone made me think I could do it, and I hesitated in following the man's order. What settled it after that was seeing him knock down an old guy without holding back at all, drawing blood from the old man's face. I have one immediate response to violence, I'm afraid to say, and that's violence back.

So as I went for the guy, convinced I was going to take him down, I remember the slow-motion shock at him turning towards me impossibly fast and firing, and feeling like I'd been punched in the ribs, and falling to the floor.

It went quiet for me then, though I could sense screams around me, and then my wife was holding me.

Bad things happen to good people all right.

But it was okay. I had to live, I just had to, and I knew I would. My kids needed me. Why the hell did I do such a stupid thing?

I am glad to tell you, I did. I got past it, I got better. I was lucky, so lucky with my children.

I remember it all. It seemed like the bullet cut the nonsense and gristle of my life away, leaving only clean bone and firm meat, and it became impossibly good after that. My oldest became a star athelete, grew to captain his swimming team, and grew up straight and strong and muscular, clean-living and fine. His mother and I were so, so proud when he graduated with a 1st class degree with honours, and went on to be a reknowned paleontologist, something me and he talked about for the first time just before the day I was shot, strangely enough.

My middle boy, Dex, he was always a clever boy, but always a handful, seemed to change after the shooting, and was much less trouble. He worked hard, got great school grades, and became a bit of a heartbreaker among the young ladies – phone calls from different ones at all hours. I pretended to be a little disapproving, especially around his mother, but secretly I was proud. He became a traveller and successful writer. But still, my fondest memory is me helping him paint some models of soldiers he'd got for his birthday, and after that him and I going out and flying his new kite. His birthday was a week before the shooting, ironically. It was lovely to be out on that hillside with him, listening to him giggle, and still be young enough to hug me and say 'I love you, daddy' as the kite streaked around the sky.

And my daughter, Lizzy...she grew into a fine, beautiful young woman who was much like her mother in looks, but like me in temperament...calm, fun-loving, grounded (except for our occasional tempers). It seemed like only a short time since she was little, and I was bathing her. But she became a doctor. Lord, I was proud of her, proud of them all.

And, in time, all three gave me 2 grandchildren each in an impossible symmetry for normal life, so I had 6 of them in the house at Christmases and birthdays, and each reminded me of my own children, long ago. It was bliss to have that noisy houseful. It was one of those times life brings you EXACTLY what you wish for.

It was all too perfect really - just too lucky to escape death by that bullet.

Dreams can be perfect, of course, in a way that real life usually isn't. These memories...aren't memories. They are some final electrons sparking in a dying brain, so final cruel reflection of a life I dreamt might come true.

My eyes finally work for a last time to see my crying wife.

I try to say I love you, but all that comes out is a warm, running sensation around my mouth, and I can see in my wife's eyes horror cutting through her pain. So I gurgle out blood instead of words of love to be remembered, and I can't feel anything anymore.

I've never been a religious man, but I remember hoping there was a god, so I could spit in his face for robbing me and my children. He could keep his heavenly eternity, I just wanted my 20 or 30 years of family, and I'd happily dance into the until-time-ends torments of hell for the trade, and know I'd got the better of the deal.

And then it went black.

Bad things happen to good people is a truth we can't escape, I guess.

[fyodor]

Abduction/Seduction

OK my friend, I've got a problem here and you're going to have to help sort it out for me. The story I am about to relate to you is so fantastic, so unbelievable, that... well... you probably shouldn't believe it. Everyone I've told so far though does. So what's up? Are they just humouring me because they know me? Or are they just waiting for me to drop my guard so they can lock me up in some white, rubber room? If I close my eyes for even a moment, will I wake up strapped to a bed with electrodes taped to my shaved skull?

You however, don't know me, so I know you haven’t prejudged me. I don't know you, so you may be the only one I can trust. Please listen and tell me if I’m mad or not.

It happened about a month and a half ago. I was out a little late on a Friday night. I work days. I have weekends off. I'm young. I'm single. I like to party. What else is new? It was about 4am and I had just staggered out of a little booze can in one of the shadier neighborhoods of this grimy little town. Over the course of the evening I had consumed maybe twelve or fifteen beers, and a half dozen shots of tequila. I was in a pretty good mood.

I had decided it was time to go home, but with my mind operating at just slightly less than the speed of light, it hadn't yet occurred to me that I was without transportation or money, and I was unfortunately a good eight miles from my bed. I watched a cockroach enter the building through a crack in a brick. I was wondering if that was a sign for me to go back in.

It was at this moment that I first heard her voice, some kind of a European accent just dripping with sex, "Hey sweetheart, do you need a lift?"

I've never had a problem picking up women when I was drunk. Some of them even turned out to be pretty good looking the next morning. I was not then surprised when I turned around, to find a dark haired, brown eyed, exotic looking girl of about twenty-five, hanging out the window of a black caddy. "Sure," I said, "Nice ride." And I got in.

Right from the get go things got weird. Dream like, time shifting kind of weird. I was pretty sure I got in the front seat with her, but I found myself in the back. And she wasn't alone. There were two of them. They were on me immediately with their hands and their lips. Breasts were coming out everywhere. The other breasts were black... with incredibly large nipples. I kept my mouth full for a long time. I closed my eyes for just a moment…

I woke up in a very chromish bedroom. I was on my back and naked, but covered past the waist with white silk sheets and propped against two oversized, velvety pillows. I had that just showered feeling and I was completely sober. I've never woken up like this before after consuming even half that amount of alcohol the previous evening. The room was pleasantly cool. Something was humming... like a computer, or an air conditioner. I had a craving for Eggs Benedict.

That's when I heard her voice again, "Hungry tiger?" She was walking in with a breakfast tray containing orange juice, coffee, and… Eggs Benedict! And as sober as I was, she was still one fine looking woman. Close to six feet tall and nothing but curves. Lips that I couldn't believe.

Right behind her was the other one. Just as tall, even more curves, and it was when I saw her lips again that I began to remember… Saturday morning and Saturday night, Sunday morning and Sunday night, Monday morning and Monday night. It was Thursday, or Friday again already.

They had been having sex with me for almost a week now. Coaxing me to ejaculate in every moist orifice they owned. They were expert at it too, incredibly good. So nothing to complain about here right? Two goddesses of sex dressed in very little silk, sliding into bed on either side of me. No problems here right?

But now I remembered more. I realized that for the last five or six days I wasn’t totally conscious. Each orgasm was the first. Each peeled grape they fed me was the first. Nothing registered from one moment to the next until now. Now my brain was starting to click.

Somehow I now knew why. It was something in their breasts. Some kind of a drug. A sedative of sorts that I had been sucking at for almost a week. But it wasn’t affecting me now. Perhaps I had finally built up immunity.

Now in bed as the one fed me alternately with the Eggs Benedict and her delicious lips, while the other one fondled me erect and then had her own version of breakfast, it was like coming out of a fog. I slowly realized who they really were; saw them for what they really were. I saw the blue-green tentacles like so many pachyderm snouts, reaching for me, caressing me. One sucking on my penis!

I scrambled backwards in the bed, my arms and legs flailing and slipping on the sheets. Juice and coffee and eggs were flying everywhere. When I found myself erect against the headboard I looked down to find a half dozen snake-like snouts curled back and looking up at me. I leapt to the floor. Still too shocked to scream, too horrified, too repulsed... I ran out of the chrome bedroom but stopped short, face to face with a little grey man with a turnip shaped head and large black eyes. And when I say black, I mean black – nothing but pupil. He seemed to smile a very friendly smile, and though his thin grey lips never moved, I heard him say right inside my head, with a very familiar European like accent, “I see you’re ready to leave.”

I kind of remember him waving something resembling a hand in my face. I got dizzy and dark, and my legs got all jelly like. I woke up outside the seedy booze can and it was 4am Saturday morning. There was a cockroach coming out of a crack in a brick. But it was one week later, and I soon found out I had lost my job.

So tell me my friend, am I mad? What happened to that week?

[KilgoreTrout]

Giggles and the Red-Assed Baboon


Giggles was a circus clown. A circus clown is a grown man who rubs paint on his face and wears a bright wig and strange clothing. They do this to terrorize small children. Giggles was not really Giggles’s real name. Giggles was the pretend name of a man named Bob. Bob became Giggles when he rubbed paint on his face and wore a bright wig and strange clothing to terrorize small children. Here is a picture of Bob as Giggles:


People paid money to Giggles to terrorize children. The people who paid money to Giggles did not intend for Giggles to terrorize children, but that’s what Giggles did. He terrorized the snot out of them.

He did the terrorizing by bending balloons he blew up with his own mouth into obscene shapes that were supposed to look like wild animals. Wild animals are beasts that human beings cannot control. Obscene shapes are shapes that look like genitals. Children are terrorized by genitals because they haven’t figured out how to use them for their intended purpose yet. That happens later, when they stop being children and evolve into wild animals called adolescents.

On Saturdays Giggles worked at a zoo where he handed balloons bent into obscene shapes to terrorized children. A zoo is a prison for wild animals. People take their children to zoos to laugh at the wild animals imprisoned there.

There were different kinds of wild animals imprisoned in the zoo where Giggles worked. There were lions imprisoned there. There were giraffes imprisoned there. There were geese imprisoned there. And there were red-assed baboons imprisoned there.

Lions are the wild animal version of cats, except that lions are nine feet long and weigh five hundred pounds and eat meat. The lions imprisoned at the zoo where Giggles worked on Saturdays would be happy if a terrorized child fell into their pen.

Giraffes are wild animals that have a ridiculously long neck. They have their ridiculously long neck because people like to laugh at ridiculous looking wild animals.

Geese are wild animals that float on the water and drop feces on the grass. They do this because people like to watch wild animals defecate.

Red-assed baboons are wild animals whose faces look like a clown’s face and whose asses are swollen and red. Here is what a red-assed baboon looks like:


Red-assed baboons have clown’s faces and red asses to communicate with other red-assed baboons. The redness of the red-assed baboon’s ass communicates a red-assed baboon’s readiness for sexy time. A red-assed baboon’s face also communicates readiness for sexy time.

Red-assed baboons also communicate with other red-assed baboons by using their voices. A red-assed baboon’s voice is both squeaky and gruff. A squeaky red-assed baboon’s voice is a sign of trouble. A gruff red-assed baboon’s voice is a sign of trouble, too. Red-assed baboons are only interested in trouble and in sexy time.

One Saturday when Giggles was terrorizing children with obscenely shaped balloons at the zoo, Giggles ripped the seat of his clown pants. Human beings become ashamed if other human beings can see their naked ass. It is considered impolite for one human being to show his ass to another human being that he has no intention of rubbing genitals with. This is because showing one’s ass is a form of nudity. Nudity leads to the rubbing of genitals.

Giggles was ashamed that his ass was being exposed to human beings he had no intention of rubbing genitals with. He used his bright wig to cover his naked ass and started for the parking lot. A group of nuns stood between him and the parking lot. A parking lot is an area of pavement where human beings leave their mechanical transportation devices when not in use. A nun is a female human being who wears a costume and is not allowed to rub genitals with anybody. Here is what a group of nuns looks like:



Here is another picture of nuns:



Giggles wanted to hide because he did not want the group of nuns to see his naked ass. He climbed over a fence into one of the wild animal pens to hide from the group of nuns. Inside the wild animal pen were red-assed baboons.

This is what the red-assed baboons looked like inside their wild animal pen:



The red-assed baboons looked at Giggles. Giggles looked at the red-assed baboons. The red-assed baboons saw a clown face and a red ass. Giggles saw a red-assed baboon with an erection. An erection is a physical condition in which blood rushes into the genitals to get them ready for rubbing.

Here is the look that was on Giggles’s face:



Here is the look on the red-assed baboon with an erection’s face:



Giggles survived his encounter with the red-assed baboon and learned an important lesson that day. The lesson he learned was this: Never [censored] with wild animals.

[Dane S]

The Émigré

There was once a man, not old, not young, who became disaffected with his life, and with humanity as a whole. He resolved to remove himself from other people’s worries and affairs. He would strive, whenever possible, to make his behavior utterly strange and incomprehensible to others. This, he felt, would protect him.

The man suddenly vanished from the small town of his childhood, and from his beautiful wife and family, without a word of goodbye or any clues about how to reach him. He only left a note that said, “I am leaving now, and you shall never see me again. I cannot explain. No one is in any danger.” He signed it “Love, Daddy” and that was it.

He moved to another country where he knew no one and understood nothing because no one in the country spoke his language, and he spoke none of theirs. He used false papers to leave his home country and to enter his new one, but none of the border employees of either country thought to question him. It wouldn’t have made any sense for a well-to-do man (judged by his clothing and neat appearance), a not old man of able body, of a secure and prosperous country, to emigrate for a poor and war-torn nation by way of false documents. No check was deemed necessary.

He moved to the largest city of his new country and once there, set about learning the language. It didn’t take him long. He practiced phrases at the market and at restaurants and anywhere else an exchange was required. After he learned enough for basic conversation, he started walking to a worn down park several blocks away from his apartment each morning. There he would sit beside old derelicts on the benches and try to engage them in conversation for hours at a time. Some of the men were happy to babble endlessly, not caring a bit that their listener understood perhaps a tenth of what they spoke. Others were silent and disdainful, either perceiving the foreigner’s advances as mockery, or else were simply irritated by the encroachment on the usual peace, but there were enough willing talkers to keep the man’s progress rapid, so that before a few months passed he had achieved near fluency in the tongue.

He walked some of the city’s most dangerous areas late into the nights, to familiarize himself with all of its parts. Bands of wild young men would shout threats from stoops. Some formed large groups on the sidewalk that blocked the man’s path. He would look straight ahead and walk through the centers of the groups, provoking odd stares from all around, his face passing inches from other fierce, rigid faces. He could feel and smell the heavy anger that settled around him in such moments, but he could also feel confusion--cold, incredulous eyes searching among their ranks for some consensus, a spark of galvanization, but finding none before the strange ghost had vanished from their midst. In all his nights of roaming, he was never assaulted, or even touched.

Instead of locking up his apartment, he left the door opened wide at all times and was never disturbed, even though he read in the local paper that burglary was a major problem across the city, worst of all in his upscale neighborhood.

When a building in some part of the city was bombed by a rebel group, the man would spend all his time for the next few weeks in that part, eating in empty cafés, shopping at empty markets, walking the empty rubble sprayed streets, until the next bombing occurred. Then he moved on.

One of the old men at the park who he got along well with once asked him, “Why did you choose this city and this country to come live in, of all the cities and countries in the world?”

The man replied after a short pause for thought: “My favorite writer, who is the only person whose opinions I trust, though he is dead, spent most of his life traveling the earth extensively, and in one of his final works, a novel, he attested through a character that of all the cities and countries in the world, the people of this city in this country are the absolute cleverest.”

The old man nodded his agreement with the writer’s statement but held his head in drooping sadness instead of pride. “It is true we are a clever bunch, but are we not twice as ugly as we are clever? Some fortune. Look at the country that borders us to the south: beautiful and stupid are the people there, and so happy, while we roll in the muck of war and misery that our so-called cleverness brings. I could tell a gorgeous young girl from that southern land that I am rich and charming and handsome and she will be mine for life. They are far too stupid to consider that a man might lie, and similarly too stupid to create lies of their own. Why do you think they have closed their border to us? Took the fools four centuries of having their prettiest girls snatched away at seventeen before they finally wizened up. If you are unfettered by love or obligation, why wouldn’t you choose to go live in such a paradise instead of this rubbish heap which surrounds us, this rubbish heap that is the product of our so-called cleverness?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Are you aware that in the country you so admire, a person is put to death when his or her beauty fades? Each birthday is spent nude under meticulous scrutiny by a government council, and the tiniest imperfection is met by poisonous injection the very same day. The average lifespan is thirty-one years, which doesn’t account for even one of the uncountable infants who are discarded at birth.”

The man broke in. “You think that I am better off? At least their short existences are worth something. Their lives command the awe and jealousy of the entire earth, and before these perfect lives can be gnawed away by ugliness and awkwardness and ridicule, they are mercifully snuffed out. Give me thirty-one perfect years, please. I’ll gladly trade my eighty bad ones.”

The man shrugged. “Such a declaration is made much more easily at eighty than it is at thirty-one.”

The old man stared ahead for a moment while he thought of continuing the argument, but decided against it. He rose with a sigh and, before turning to leave, looked at the émigré with a mixture of disgust and sympathy and said, “I wish you luck then, though I fear no amount of luck will help you if you continue to live your life in such a stubbornly foolish manner.” Then he limped away, muttering to the dirt.

The younger man shrugged again, this time to himself. He stretched out on the dirty bench and had a long midmorning nap. He was left unmolested by the hundreds and hundreds of gangsters, drug runners, terrorists, hungry bums, and petty thieves who circled him again and again during his tranquil sleep.

[thatpfunk]

That Someone Should Care

“Debit or credit?” the transvestite asks.

“Credit,” I mumble. I feel someone staring at me so I glance towards the ATM and the two pretty girls. The one staring at my back is blond and has an average body. Her jeans are tight and her yellow shirt is cut low. I stop staring when Rachel gives me the receipt. I sign it sloppily and take the case of beer and cigarettes and walk to the exit towards the girls. The one who had been staring at me whispers something to the other who is taking out money. She has a nice ass and I glance at it as I walk past. She turns her head slightly and looks at me like I know her and it makes me pause in the doorway of the convenience store. She has a very pretty face, thin, pouty almost, and I wonder what actress she reminds me of. Her mouth moves and I have no idea if she is even talking to me but I pause, holding the case of beer, looking at her and waiting. “Huh?” I finally ask, sounding dumb, and she turns to her friend and hands her the money from the ATM and takes a step towards me.

“Did you go to Mission High?” she asks again. She is deeply tanned and her tight pink tank top shows off a chest that looks plastic.

“Yes?” I panic and wish that I had not stopped at all. I don’t remember her from any classes and my mind races and I need to remember who she is because she is really attractive and I wonder if she thought I was an [censored] or maybe she was just a cheerleader or something.

“How are you Nick?” she asks sweetly. She licks her lips and the lip gloss she is wearing shines and I wonder what it tastes like.

“I’m good,” I answer tentatively. Before she has the chance to trap me I blurt, “Do I, uh, know you?”

“Ashley,” she states expectantly. I stare at her. “We went to prom together.”

“Um, wow. I didn’t even recognize you.” She is hotter than she used to be. Her hair used to be blond. I wonder about her natural hair color. “So what are you up to?”

“Nothing much. We’re just headed down to The Tavern. What about you?” I remember her lying on the cheap hotel bed asking me why I didn’t want to make love to her anymore, not knowing that I already came, and I just ignored her phone calls after that night until she stopped calling two and a half months later. Her father had abandoned her mom, her wheelchair-bound brother, and herself when she was seven. I blamed him for her obsessive qualities.

“Uh nothing. Just hanging out. I live right next door actually.” I shift the beer uncomfortably and look towards my house.

“Oh, that’s cool.” We stare at each other awkwardly.

“So, um, what are you doing nowadays?” I wonder if she still wants to [censored] me.

“I’m going to State. Working. That kind of thing.” Her friend finishes buying their cigarettes and sugar-free Redbulls and walks towards us.

“So, uh, do you want to come have a drink or something? I honestly live right next door.” I motion my head towards my house again and she smiles.

“Yeah, sure. That sounds cool, I guess.” She talks to her friend and I realize I should be listening but I’m not. Her friend asks me where they should park. I tell her somewhere down the street. She walks towards the car and Ashley follows me towards the house. We walk past the white picket fence, through the gate, and in to the front door that I left open. The house is messy, empty beer bottles are scattered on the living room table, and I’m embarrassed, but only briefly. Kill Bill I is playing on one of the movie channels. I mute it and grab the I-pod, searching for something. I put on an Outkast album while she stares at my back. I offer her a beer that she accepts and I wish I wasn’t as sober as I was. She sits on the couch, observing the house and asks me who else lives here. I explain that one of my roommates just flew home to the East coast and the other is over at a friend’s house. He started sleeping with a girl that he works with and has been spending a lot of nights over there recently, I explain. I answer Ashley’s questions while drinking my beer. I admire her body. It is tan and thin. Her friend walks in and I get up from the couch and extend my hand, asking her name.

“Oh, sorry, I’m Sarah.” Ashley is better looking than Sarah but I think Sarah would probably more fun to [censored]. She looks slutty, adventurous. I think about Ashley being in my house and I blink quickly a few times, suddenly surprised at the random meeting. Four years is plenty to forgive I think. I suddenly have the urge to shout “So are you still an emotionally unstable psycho?” but don’t and instead chatter with them about school and jobs and my lack of plans after graduation. They both laugh at my jokes and I offer them the half bottle of cheap rum that has been laying in our freezer for a month and a half. They both give in and we walk in to the kitchen and take a shot and chase it with flat Pepsi. I think am the only one that grimaces after the shot.

The girls walk back towards the living room, both holding their beers, and step slowly with the beat of the older Outkast song. I admire both of their asses while they dance. I sit back down on the couch. They start to gossip about a girl that I don’t know and I feel myself zoning out and quickly finish the remainder of my beer. I get up and grab another, offering each of them another drink but they both decline. I stand in the kitchen alone, breathing shallowly, and close my eyes to stop the wave of nostalgia that I write off as pointless and trite: Ashley, top off, room darkened, licking her lips, grabbing at my back. She joins me in the kitchen again and dances next me briefly, laughing, flirting, and I grab her hand and spin her playfully.

She walks me back towards the living room and the music. Her friend starts laughing at her and I wonder how much she drank before she drove down here. I sit on the love seat and laugh at Ashley and she lays next to me. She sings softly into my ear while her friend changes the channel of the muted TV. She stops and suddenly yells, “Lets take another shot,” towards Sarah. I look up and it is surreal because I am 17 again and she smelled like tangerines and the ocean and when she kisses my neck and jumps up, running towards the kitchen, I am back in the living room and the Bud Light is cold in my hand.

The throw up in my mouth is swallowed and I grab the sink after the third shot. The girls are yelling and I wonder if they notice my hands, white knuckled and gripping the sink. I don’t think they do because Ashley grabs my hip and pulls me towards her and runs her hand up my stomach. Sarah steps in front of me and grabs my ass, pulling me towards her and grinds down my leg to the beat of the faint Outkast song and they start laughing and I swallow again. They are talking about how crazy they are and I am between them and they scream playfully again.

We are watching Sportscenter and it is muted and the music is still playing. Ashley gets up, putting her hand on my leg and she says that she is going to the bathroom. Sarah starts laughing and when Ashley looks back at me I ask myself, “why tonight?” I get up and follow her. She stops in my roommate’s doorway and asks me if some of her friends that she is supposed to meet at the bar can come and stop by the house. I am leaning close to her and kiss her neck and whisper “yes” in her ear. She lets me kiss her, running my hand up her back while she opens her phone. She backs away from me, in to the room and begins to give directions to her friend.

The light is off and I am on top of her, hand under her shirt, tongue in her mouth, when I stop and turn on the light and grab a drink from my beer that I had placed on the floor. She looks at me briefly, confused, and I ask her if she parties. She shakes her head slowly so I ask her if she wants a line. She stares at me, gets up, and walks slowly towards me. She kisses me but when I don’t respond she says slowly, “yes” so I reach in my pocket for the small baggy and clumsily cut out four lines on the desk. I take a $20 out of my wallet and roll it quickly and tightly.

She inhales slowly and I hope she finishes at least one line. She hands me the $20, head tilted backwards, sniffing, and I do the three remaining lines quickly. She is drinking my beer and I want a cigarette but she kisses me and I taste her lip gloss, tangerines, and it mixes with the drip of the cocaine in my throat and I kiss her back, taking my beer from her hand.

I hear voices in the other room so I stop kissing her and smile to myself. I need a cigarette so I leave. Ashley stays laying down on my roommates bed. I walk up to one of the guys, mildly surprised, and introduce myself. I pick the pack of Marlboro Lights up from the table and walk outside. On the front porch, through the open door, I watch Ashley walk out of the darkened room and hug Darren, the dude I had just met. She holds his hand and walks him out towards me. I inhale deeply on the cigarette and she asks sweetly, “Nick, did you get a chance to meet my boyfriend, Darren?”

I’m really high so I don’t miss a beat when I shake his hand for the second time and say “Nice to meet you again, Dude,” and I laugh drunkenly. My hands are shaking with paranoia or anxiety or adrenaline or something and I can’t believe she has a boyfriend and I suddenly need to do a lot more coke but I drag on the cigarette and gulp my now-warm beer. Ashley and Darren walk back inside, holding hands, and go towards the refrigerator. She gives him one of my beers and I close my eyes and lean back against the porch railing. Outkast is still playing and I finger my cell phone in my front jean pocket. I call Rob and calmly ask him what he is doing tonight. He tells me that he is probably going to crash at the chicks house. “Cool,” I say flatly. “Um, cool. I guess will see you tomorrow.”

My hands are still shaking and I wonder if this chick is [censored] crazy and I taste the acid from the throw up and I drag on the cigarette. I am really [censored] scared about the situation, momentarily, and then I wonder if it is just the coke and maybe I am just overreacting. I finish the cigarette, throw it over the fence and walk through the door. Everyone is talking and I am glad that no one is paying attention to me. I walk towards the I-pod and put on the best of The Smiths and grab a chair from out of the kitchen, get another beer, and sit in the living room. I watch everyone talking and drinking and I drink fast. The new beer is cold and I concentrate on Sportscenter. I hear Ashley shriek playfully and turn to watch her slap Darren, clutching her chest, laughing. She tells Darren “You are such a [censored] pervert,” too loudly, looking at me, and I see Jorge Posada win a game for the Yankees. They are only a half game back.

I can’t stop shaking my foot and I am getting pissed that Ashley is talking so loud, so exaggerated, that I get up and walk towards the bathroom. I lock the door and cut two lines on the counter of the sink when I hear someone approach the door. I pause quietly while rolling up the $20 again. I don’t hear anything so I do the first line slowly. I pause, rub my nose and finish what is on the counter. I turn on the hot water and take a piss. I can feel someone leaning on the door and I wash my hands, sniffing warm water to soothe my nose.

I unlock the door and Ashley pushes the door into me and I fall back, drunk and staggering, and she locks it quickly behind her. I really wish that it was a dream and that I wasn’t drunk or high and I taste tangerines again. I return the kiss, tasting her, and stop. “What the [censored] are you doing?” I whisper.

“Nothing.” She begins kissing my neck, rubbing her hand over my jeans. Even though I’m high, my dick starts getting hard and I kiss her back. She grabs at my belt, and almost panics when it gets caught in my shirt and now her hand is inside my jeans, going slowly up and down on my dick and she is licking my ear when I push her off me.

“Dude?” I ask seriously. She is staring back at me. “What are you trying to do?”

“Nothing,” she whines sexily and tries to kiss me again. I want a cigarette and I need silence and she won’t stop and I think the lights are blinding and I need the cigarette so I walk past her, unlocking the door, and walk, stopping on the front porch.

I hear her crying and Darren is getting up, asking her something, “What’s wrong” and she’s crying out again, and my hands are shaking and I can’t light the cigarette and the front gate is open and I consider just leaving the house when I hear “rape.” I exhale the cigarette slowly, staring at the white picket fence and the palm trees that line the street when I feel my shirt being yanked and I am falling back in to the living room.

The lights are bright and Morrissey sings, “You shut your mouth / how can you say / I go about things the wrong way? / I am human and I need to be loved / just like everybody else does,” and a shoe connect with my ribs. I see Darren’s face over me, it’s all I see, and he looks like Woody Harrelson in Natural Born Killer, not from the slicked back hair or glasses or anything, but the expression on his face and I wonder if I am going to die. I’m not sure if it is Darren or his friend kicking me now, I feel my lip split in half as blood fills my mouth and I realize that Darren is dragging me across the living room floor by my hair, hitting me in the face. As three knuckles connect to my upper lip and nose I feel a foot connect with my testicles and I wonder when the human body goes into shock. I don’t even feel it when my nose breaks but I roll over when I start to choke on the blood running down the back of my throat.

I try to protect myself and look over, head pressed hard against the living room rug, and I can see Ashley and Sarah yelling. I can barely hear them both screaming in a panic, wondering if they are killing me, and loudly a fist connects with my cheek. It is hard and wet and slow. My tongue, covered in blood and acid and saliva, feels around my mouth, confirming that I haven’t lost any teeth yet. The kicking stops and I continue coughing, spitting blood on the carpet. I hear Darren’s fist hit the back of my head. He curses loudly and I can hear him jumping, grabbing his broken hand in pain. He kicks me in frustration and connects with the side of my torso and my breath explodes again.

The girls are shouting at the guys and the guys are screaming at me and I am coughing violently on the floor. “I would go out tonight / but I haven't got a stitch to wear / this man said / ‘It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care.’" The speakers are screaming at me now. I breathe in heavily but an artery has been severed in my nose and I sneeze and cough blood and it makes me dry heave. I am on the ground now, writhing, and a low dull noise is escaping from my mouth in between coughing fits. Blood is slick over the hardwood floors and rug and my hair is wet and matted with it. When I look up I can see that I have somehow sprayed blood all over the TV, Playstation, I-pod, speakers, wall.

“You killed him,” Ashley is screaming over and over again. Darren grabs her arm and begins to drag her out the door. I am on my hands and knees, crawling, and I start to fall and instead try to roll over but my face lands in blood and carpet and I am blind. I lay drunkenly, needing another line, peering through the blood, and begin to throw up while Darren drags Ashley from the house. Sarah and the guy who had been kicking me are already outside. I cough blood, arching this time, and Ashley doesn’t notice me staring at her as she is carried down the porch steps.

I try to slow my breathing, letting the cool wetness of the rug calm me. I take a deep breath and don’t cough. I blink slowly, feeling the carpet, my puke, saliva, a beer that had been thrown at me, blood. There is nothing until my eyes are opened again. I let it disappear again and I put my hand to my lip and wipe away some of the blood and taste its metallic saltiness and underneath, tangerine, and then Ashley is underneath me and I am seventeen and she is telling me she is going to miss me so I kiss her neck and she smells like the ocean.

[Coffee]

Vespers

Darren McAllen sat in the waiting room. Although he was dressed casually, the collar he wore around his neck identified him as a man of the cloth. He was used to people’s stares and glances. He imagined that he was something of a community celebrity, in that everyone recognized him to be a Catholic priest. In fact, he was the senior priest at St. Michael’s Catholic Church. He had been in that position for six years, and a priest for thirty.

Darren never liked doctors. When he was younger, he was unafraid of getting sick or, much less, dying. The immortality of youth gave him a feeling of invincibility. He combined that feeling with his faith, a constant in his life, to form a potent distrust of the medical profession as a whole. He reasoned that people should not be too concerned with their physical health, and that God would take them when He chose, so people shouldn’t bother so much with doctors. Besides, he hated being undressed in a bright room.

Darren, before he was Father McAllen, was the son of Alice and Edward McAllen. Ed McAllen had been the owner of a small coffee shop that had managed to provide a fairly comfortable life for his family. Unlike many fathers, Ed had never maintained that either of his sons, Darren or Jeff, follow in his footsteps. Since Ed had been an entrepreneur and struck out on his own, he was conscious of the fact that his boys needed to be able to decide their own paths in life. Both Ed and Alice took great pains to instill this sense in their children, tying everything in with a refrain of, “You can do anything you want to do.”

For Darren’s brother Jeff, doing anything he wanted to do was a problem, because Jeff soon discovered that the only thing he really wanted to do was drink large quantities of alcohol. The first time Jeff tasted whiskey, he felt a strange excitement about the sting and tickle he felt in his throat and nose. He began consuming Crown Royal, Jim Beam, Glenlivet, Jack Daniels, and any other kind of whiskey, bourbon, or scotch he could get his hands on. The McAllens, with their Scotch-Irish background, certainly had a predisposition to alcoholism. Darren’s uncle on his father’s side had been an alcoholic, and Ed himself had only escaped this trap when Alice put her foot down about it. Unfortunately, neither Ed nor Alice could save their older son from the liquid trap in which he was ensnared, and he died of cirrhosis of the liver at the age of forty-three.

Watching his brother’s long, drawn-out death had changed Darren’s perspective. He felt something different, and he would not have called it fear, but that is what it was. For the first time in his life, at age thirty-eight, Darren, Catholic priest, discovered that, although he felt sure of his salvation in the afterlife, he was afraid of the actual process of dying. He was afraid of the tubes, the smells, the pain, and the loss of control.

When the headaches had begun seven months ago, Darren had taken some Advil and kept moving. They hurt, but he really did not pay much attention to them because he had been mired in the haggling over the price of the renovation of St. Michael’s. The church’s choir loft was on the verge of being condemned, and several of the walls and struts looked very questionable. At first, it had looked as though the renovations would be done fairly cheaply, but the contractor had apparently undergone a change of heart and decided that St. Peter would not particularly care about this virtual act of charity on Judgement Day. The contractor reneged on the price of the repairs, asking for the price that he would normally charge. Since Darren and the contractor, a disagreeable man named Arthur Jameson, had only had a verbal contract, the only recourse he had was to engage in several extremely heated discussions with Jameson, who finally agreed to the deal at a price halfway between the original and the new price.

Darren supposed that he ignored the headaches for three months, until he noticed that he was taking Advil twice a day, and in increasing doses. When he first went to his internist, a man he blessed in church almost every Sunday, the doctor had simply given him a prescription for the pain, diagnosing them as migraines. It was only at his physical two months later that the doctor became concerned. He referred Darren to another doctor named Jerome Emmons. Emmons, although a Protestant, was, and is, one of the city’s top oncologists. Needless to say, Darren was worried.

Emmons had run an absolute battery of tests on Father McAllen. MRI, PET scan, CT, X-ray, and various other acronyms were all performed on Darren. Darren had only gotten through those two harrowing days because of nearly-constant internal prayer for strength and composure. At the end of the second of two of the longest days of McAllen’s life, Emmons had prescribed him some unpronounceable pain medication and had sent him on his way. The doctor had said that the tests would take a few weeks to process, and in the midst of that, Darren had a church to run. So, he was overdue on the appointment for which he found himself in this waiting room.

He supposed that he should have brought someone along. Darren had never been a very social individual. When he was eighteen, he had elected not to attend his senior prom simply because he was too shy to ask any girl to with him. His associate, David Franks, who went by the nickname of “Father D,” was probably the closest thing Darren had to a best friend. However, Darren had not told anyone about his headaches, and Father D was the only person who probably suspected something was wrong. In the end, he had come by himself because he just didn’t want to go to anymore trouble than he had to.

Two Hispanic women were subtly eyeballing him. He imagined that it was because of the collar, and soon, as the patient’s name was called and she passed by him, they both tilted their heads slightly toward him and said, “Padre.” He returned their nod, almost as if in a dream. In places like this, Darren sometimes forgot that he was a priest. He felt like he was a man first, Darren second, and Father McAllen third. He supposed that this was a trifle blasphemous, but in his study of God, he had come to believe, or at least, hope that the God he worships is completely understanding, being omniscient.

When the nurse called his name, she said all three of his names.

“Darren Michael McAllen.” Darren never liked this very much, but not because he didn’t like his name. For one thing, as with many children, this was the address that was used when they were in trouble. Darren associated the use of his full name with some very long nights, filled with scoldings and an occasional sore bottom.

For another thing, during the course of his priesthood Darren had ministered to some death row convicts. On four or five occasions, he had served as spiritual adviser to the men in their last hours (this was before his brother had died and his feelings about death were clearer). When he read about the executions later in the newspaper or heard about them on television, the journalists would always use the full names of the convicts. Darren never could shake the way it echoed in his head that this had been a living being a few hours earlier.

Darren got up from his chair and walked toward the nurse standing in the open doorway. The nurse held a thick packet in her arm, which was obviously the charts and results and write-ups that Darren had accumulated. Darren marveled that only two days could produce that much paperwork.

The nurse led him to Exam Room 2. The room had the standard leather bound examining table, a counter with a sink and numerous bottles of disinfecting hand soap, and a light board to illuminate X-rays. There was a magazine rack on the wall, filled with out-of-date magazines that were at least six months late.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked, automatically.

“Fine,” he answered, equally automatically.

“Are you still having those headaches?”

“Off and on,” Darren said, reflecting that there was a level of deceit to this answer, in that when he said “off and on,” he was referring to the fact that his headaches came and went several times each day. He also had lied to the doctor earlier about the blurring of his vision that was taking place periodically, but he figured that the doctor was a smart man and did not need that much extra help, being such a hotshot oncologist.

“Okay, Mr. McAllen, well, the doctor will be in shortly,” the nurse said, and then walked outside the room, pausing to place his chart in the rack by the door, and then she closed the door.

Darren sat on the examining table, looking quizzically around the room. He hoped that heaven would be as bright as the examining room, but not smell quite so much like disinfectant. His big toe on his right foot twitched, and he contemplated this foot for a moment. His shoes were very simple, black, and cheap. Darren figured that nearly every priest in America had a pair of these shoes. He referred to them as his “priesters.” He thought that he should perhaps get a new pair soon, since these were really beginning to look bad, but that they could wait at least another week or so.

Darren looked at himself in the floor-length mirror on the wall. He regarded the old man looking back at him, and said his full name aloud.

“Father Darren Michael McAllen.” The old man staring back at him had perfectly mimicked him, but it didn’t seem to be mocking. Darren never thought that the path of his life would have ever led him where it did. He had always thought that his life, the life he had chosen, would have turned out differently. He always thought...

Dr. Jerome Emmons strode into the exam room. He had Darren’s file tucked under his arm. He almost hid the worried expression on his face, but Darren saw it before it was replaced with the doctor’s bedside-manner smile. Darren liked Emmons, but could never quite trust him.

“Hullo, Darren,” Emmons said. “How are we feeling today?”

“Fine, Jerome, fine,” Darren said.

“Have you been taking the pills I prescribed?” Emmons asked.

“Yes, I have, but I have to confess that I may have missed a dose or two recently. They interfere with my ability to give sermons, and I have to be as sharp as possible for Sunday Mass,”
Darren replied, wishing that he could rationalize lying to the man.

“Be that as it may, Darren, I want to urge you to take the dosage I prescribed as faithfully as possible. Now, I have the results of all those tests we ran on you last week.”

“Uh-huh. What’s the prognosis?” Darren asked, though he already could guess the answer.

“Unfortunately, through the tests we have run we have discovered a malignancy growing in your brain. By our estimates, it has been there for some time now, but its growth was very slow. I’m not entirely sure why the growth rate accelerated recently, but it is no longer a problem that can be ignored,” Emmons said. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, so fire away.”

“What is your recommendation for treatment?” asked Darren, feeling strangely calm. He had imagined that he would lose control of himself when his suspicions were confirmed, but for some reason, he felt more inquisitive than anything else.

“Well, I know that we can try a course or two of radiation treatment, and see if that will slow the growth of the tumor, and there may be another treatment or two we can suggest. Beyond that, I don’t know. Um... ”

“Jerome, tell me the truth about what is in my head. Am I going to die?” Darren asked, already knowing the answer, but needing to hear it.

“Yes. To be honest, the chemo may slow it, but not very much. The tumor began in your frontal lobe, but has spread beyond it into other regions of the brain. There’s really not much that can be done. I’m sorry, Darren, but this one is going to be the last,” Emmons said.

Darren nodded, and then said, “What kinds of symptoms can I expect?”

“Well, the headaches will continue and worsen. You may begin finding your memory lapsing, as well as some reasoning problems. In some rare cases, people experience some hallucinations. All of these symptoms will gradually worsen, and you will probably not be able to function very much longer. I don’t believe you have very much time left. I’m sorry, Darren. Is there someone that I can call for you? Do you have someone who can help you?”

Darren thought for a minute. He considered having Emmons call Father D. Father D could come down to the doctor’s office, pick him up, and then they could go to the coffee shop down the street from St. Michael’s. Darren could tell Father D the truth about the headaches, and what it would mean to St. Michael’s, and about a dozen other things that would be necessary. The more Darren thought about it, the more he just wanted to walk back to his church, and let that be it.

“I have God, Dr. Emmons. He’s all the help anyone needs,” Darren said. Emmons looked pained, but then muttered his leave and left the room. Darren looked at himself in the mirror. He looked at the section of his head where the tumor was located. His head didn’t look any different than usual. The hair was still black with a spritz of grey, and it still had that same coarse texture that had always frustrated him in his earlier years when he still was trying to be attractive to women. He tapped the area gently with two fingers. Darren thought about how many times he had touched that part of his head, absentmindedly. He never imagined that the seed of his end would be planted there.

“Better place than others, I guess,” Darren said aloud. “Better place than others.” He opened the door, and walked out into the hallway, making his way toward the reception desk. The receptionist was a forty-ish woman with pictures of her kids set in frames on her desk. McAllen handed his chart to her, she smiled, printed out a receipt, and then handed it to him with the automatic “Thankshaveaniceday.” Darren took the receipt, smiled back briefly, then went out the door of the office.

Darren left the office of Jerome Emmons for the last time. It was a lovely spring day, with a slight breeze and a nip in the air as the sun began to fade behind the rotating earth. He began the trek back home, slowly and deliberately, savoring the dying of the light.

He walked for a minute or two without a thought in his head. He just slightly glanced at the heavens above him as he ambled toward St. Michael’s, his home for the last six years. He could see its spire from where he was, but it was still several blocks away.

The clouds formed wisps of grey. The sky had settled into a salmon-pink. There were hints of stars to the east. He was in no hurry.

[Teh1337zor]

What It Do Kid: From the King of the trap, To the King of Rap

The sirens rang in his ears and the metallic taste of blood lingered in his mouth as he lay on the cold concrete, rain pounding rhythmically along with his heart. A voice arose from behind him,
“Sir, we would like to apologize for this we have mistaken you for another person, we are extremely sorry for the inconvenience.”
He responded with an unshaken voice “You mean you got my [censored] green lion fur jacket dirty for nothing?”
“Sir, again we apologize for the inconvenience”
He rose from the ground brushing himself off and laughing.
“What it do [censored]?” he asked.
“What does what do sir?”
With that he grabbed for his waste band and two shots rang out into the crisp night air.
“Neva [censored] with a cold blooded [censored] ho, besides I wanted a new whip anyway”
He emptied the officer’s pockets to find a wallet and car keys. He got in the car and began driving with no particular destination in mind. As he cruised down the highway he opened the wallet, and was sorely disappointed.
“Eleven dollars, broke ass [censored].” He exclaimed
As he dug further into the wallet he came across a white card with an address scribbled across it. Naturally, having just killed a police officer, he thought it was wise to lay low. The young man drove to the address on the card to spend the next couple of nights. As he rolled into the driveway he was let down by the small house of the police officer.
“Knew this [censored] was broke” He mumbled.
Never the less he realized a place to sleep is a place to sleep. He fumbled through the keys attached to the car keys and eventually opened the door. Making himself comfortable he walked into the bedroom and began watching TV when he heard a feint voice. He very slightly turned down the volume of the television and heard
“Honey are you home?”
He did not know what to do so he chose to remain silent. The voice became clearer and cleared when without warning the bedroom door swung open. There in the door stood the most beautiful lady he had ever seen. She gasped when she saw the unknown man laying down on her bed.
“Wh, wh, who are you?” she stammered.
Not wanting to give away his name he thought and quickly a name arose in his head.
“Bitch, you can call me What it do Kid.”
“Wheres my husband?” She asked half scared, half in awe of the aura that surrounded the What it do Kid
“Dude didn’t know what it do”
She gasped in horror, here she was in the house with the man that had murdered her husband. However she found herself attracted to What it do Kid.
“That was my man” She said in a very angry tone.
The What it do Kid responded calmly
“Nah you my bitch now”
The woman could not help herself she found herself falling in love with the man that had murdered her husband. She sat down on the bed next to him and began to talk only to be interrupted.
“You know I’ve always had a thing for bad m-“
“Bitch shutup you gonna give my brain or what” said What It Do Kid in disgust.
Within minutes the woman’s dream was a reality. What It Do Kid made her feel in ways she never felt before. After their night of fun both were extremely drained and decided to go to sleep. What It Do Kid however had other plans, he left while the woman was still asleep leaving nothing but the card with the address on it, however on the backside something new was written, “What it do?”

What It Do Kid proceeded to roll to the trap in his police cruiser. People bolted like lightning as they saw the car pull through, after all these people made their career selling drugs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his best friend, Loc. He pulled over to talk to Loc and set up shop.
“What it do Loc?”
“Nothin mayne what it do?” Loc replied
“ Im just tryna make that paper dog” What It Do Kid said
“ Homie how you gonna sell anything when you posted up next to a cop car” Loc questioned
“Cause I’m the king of the trap.” What It Do Kid said with authority.

Within a half hour What It Do Kid had made 140k and proved Loc wrong.

“I told you Loc, I’m the king of the trap!” He yelled.

All of the sudden What It Do Kid was hit from behind by an extremely large man. What It Do Kid, while getting helped up by Loc, saw who the man was.

“The [censored] you hit me for TxRedman?” What it Do Kid said with not an ounce of fear in his voice.

“I heard you saying you were the king of the trap and that’s [censored] homie I am” Said the man who was clearly on steroids.

What It Do Kid immediately began to reach for his gun when TxRedman spoke again.

“What It Do Kid, I know you can kill me if you want to but I wanted to test your skills at something else, rapping.”

What It Do Kid laughed,

“[censored] what it do?” he said.

With that the contest was on. Thousands of people gathered to see who would win the title of “King of the trap”. The atmosphere was electric.

Out of no where TxRedMan kicked the first verse.

“what it do kid get the [censored] off my stage
before i triple barrell bluff with my roid induced rage
i dont give a [censored] if you're gettin head or gettin brain
and up until today i never even heard of your name
i'll introduce that diamond plated grill to the front of my car
and take all your monies like your name was grimstarr
seriously, dawg, i'll drop a drama bomb on you
straight from the streets of [censored] twoplustwo
you keep steppin to the mike like one day you gonna fly
but you're a gimmick account, and gimmick account gotta die
i'll throw a left hook of sklansky
and i'll upper cut you with brandi
and if you put the two together
you've got the [censored] manson family
dum diddy dum what it do BBV?
who it be kid? Yo gildy check the IP
your rhymes are busto, and my rhymes are sick
but only time will tell if i can avoid the ban stick
you better call me your brother or your friend when you rhyme
because every rappers favorite word is a BBV crime
insta, i mean perma, foreva gettin banned
if you say the word *****, even if you're afri-can
BBV has a cake, and the mods like to eat it too
straight from the PC department of motha [censored] twoplustwo
it's been a while kid, let me bring you up to date
we used to love vig, but now he's the object of our hate
oh noez! my girls got cancer!
where oh where will i find the answer!
should i sell baby vigs body and make her the first toddler-booty dancer?
wait oh wait, i know what i'll do!
i'll develop a little reputation on good old twoplustwo!
they'll think i'm just a nice guy
who one day will fly
except they'll give me cancer monies
so i can gambool really high!
lol @ BBV, you got vigged you silly rabbits
but i'll just laugh and deny that i've got this gambling habit
uh oh, what's that? i better answer the phone
because i'm twenty two years old and still live in my parents home
hello? who is this?
BBV? who is that?
oh, you mean the forum i scammed like a worthless dirty rat?
how did you get this number? why do you want to speak to my mom?
i guess i better forge some screen shots and hurry up and log on
i promise i didn't steal the money sir, please dont slander my name
i'm trying to start a prop bet escrow service, oh noez the shame!!!
what it do kid do us all a favor
we'd like a side of vigorish marinated for extra flavor”

The crowd went crazy, the roars could be heard from all over the ATL.

What It Do Kid remained stolid and started his verse.

“tonight it was only ok for me dog
while the thread gives love to a [censored] with a blog?
you motherfcckers forgot who up and gave you the sickest shtt
people say my name every day, don't pretend you aint witnessed it
it seems every thread i check its like all i see
is another clown sayin "what it do bbv"
dont forget who brought that shtt and gave it to yall
taught you how to represent, taught you how to ball
i got that old school shtt you only wish you could [censored] with
you rhyme the same shtt twice and think we aint gon notice?
motherfccker whos the gimmick? is it you or me?
you're a roided out fatass, im a real OG
stop and look at yourself, youll see it couldnt be clearer
youre taking half naked pictures of yourself in the mirror
those are some sexy poses, Tex, are you the Next Top Model?
[censored] with me, you'll be the color of a Hpnotiq bottle
so what exactly are you on Tex? the clear or the cream?
my fans know what im on, Monster and Player's Extreme
you run with bbv noobs while i got Loc in my gang
you all in those tighty whities, while i let my nuts hang.
my shtt hangs to the ground, when it hits youll feel the earth quake
im as hard as a rock, youre soft as a strawberry milkshake
"I will fly one day"? I cant believe my eyes,
is the next line you say "oops pow, surprise!"?
people are screamin for my shtt, they keep gettin new cravings
youre shtt is straight out the past... did you forget daylight savings?
but im sick of this shtt, thats all i got to say to you
you cant even see me tex, motherfccker what it do”

For a split second there was silence, however no fear crept into What It Do Kid’s soul. People were in shock, they had never heard a verse so pure. The crowd erupted and started chanting “Hail the king!”. Out of the crowd emerged a man named Al Sharpton. He was the owner of a record company and he happened to be in the trap, buying crack. Sharpton offered a record deal to What It Do Kid, and the rest is history.

[diebitter]

This is an entry pmed me. Not sure if entrant wants to remain anonymous, but here it is:



CHEAP DIGS





Impoverished Scholar’s First Rule of Travel: For a college student on holiday, cheap is usually best. The exceptions are the vices: pay top dollar, ruble, euro, pound or yen for your cigarettes and beer, and everything else will take care of itself.



I’ve tried to live by the rule, and my efforts have led to some interesting consequences as I’ve wandered through Europe, well stocked with Camel Lights and Guinness, but otherwise unfed, unwashed, and (sometimes) unclothed.



The following is an example of the kind of mischief an itinerant student can land in if he’s determined to travel cheap...



I had hitchhiked from Dublin to Galway through a nasty storm. Storms are a huge help in catching a ride; when the rain is slanting hard into the windshield, even the most callous drivers can’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy at the sight of a bedraggled, dripping wayfarer humping a soggy backpack through the downpour. Sounds masochistic, I know, but it’s a companionable way to travel – and it beats bus fares by a country mile.



Galway is an extremely friendly town on the west coast of Ireland, brimming with college students, hospitable natives, and cozy pubs (does there exist a more irresistible combination? I think not!). I enjoyed the scene there for three or four nights until wanderlust set in again, whereupon I caught a ride out of town.



I wasn’t as lucky as on the way in. My driver, a charming old guy who thoroughly enjoyed recounting his exploits in a sport called ‘hurling,’ let me off a bit north of Ennis before he turned back west toward Killkee. I spent most of the rest of the day hoofing it to the nearest town, Kinvara – no storm, no ride (or “lift” as the Irish say). I was headed for Limerick but not on a deadline, so even so I wasn’t put out by the layover.



There was another reason I didn’t mind the delay. I had heard stories of a local site that I thought might be worth checking out; called the Burren, it was described to me as a rustic area filled with old megaliths, jutting hills, and impressive natural scenery. Also, the night before I had departed Galway, a half-drunk acquaintance had proclaimed over a pint that that the Burren might be the best day hike in all of Ireland. It had sounded pretty cool, so now that I found myself so close by, I decided to take a look.



In Kinvara, I arranged a room at a hostel and then located a nice pub with Guinness and good trad (traditional Irish music), and then I whiled away the rest of the evening in a pleasant haze.



The next morning I woke early, aspirined my headache, found a bike rental shop, and cheerfully pedaled off for a sunny day of exploration. At the trail marker that indicated the entrance to the Burren, I chained my bike to a young poplar and set off on foot along the thistle-encroached northbound path. A mile or two later, I wandered offtrail into the hills to the west, having met my third, and – I was determined – last fellow traveler. In my experience, the best touring is usually where there are the least tourists.



I’ll spare you several pages here of cataloguing all the wonders I stumbled onto in the Burren: stone circles, deserted old shanties, ruined churches and the like. If you’ve ever been there yourself, you’ll understand how easy it was to get distracted and lost. If not, you’ll just have to take my word for it.



Sometime around dusk, I turned around to head back to town, but nothing told me which way to walk in order to get there. Landmarks often look different from behind, unfortunately for me, and the shadows had already grown long. Not that I was concerned, of course; the trail would be somewhere east of me, and when I reached it, I could just head back south to find my rented bike.



With this in mind, I started walking. I think I had taken about three optimistic steps when I spotted a light not far off to my left, dim but promising. It glowed invitingly part way up the side of a wooded hill, a smidgen flickery but definitely not moving. Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned and was on my way toward it. Having become well acquainted with Irish hospitality over the last few weeks, I had no doubt that I would be spending the night with a roof over my head – and likely without even paying for the privilege.



Not a hundred yards later, I came upon a narrow, neglected-looking path leading up the hill. I followed it, and shortly found myself at the door of a dilapidated but habitable little hut. I knocked at the door. To my surprise, it opened immediately, almost as if I had been expected.



The wizened old woman holding open the door was less than five feet tall, stooped and grizzled. She was also incredibly ugly, enough so that I briefly wondered why she wasn’t on exhibit someplace. Two beady little eyes – one crusted over with a milky old cataract – looked me over, then peered past me into the gloom from above an impossibly long nose, which to my revolted amazement, was graced by a horny, hair-adorned wart growing almost from the tip. Her blackened lips, pulled back in what might have been a smile, revealed earth-toned teeth as craggy as the surrounding hills. This was as foul-looking a crone as ever there was.



Hoping my disgust hadn’t shown itself too plainly, I started to make a lame excuse about coming to the wrong address, but the hag interrupted me in an incongruously sweet Irish voice, so musical and lilting it shocked me into silence.



“Nonsense, nonsense! Wander the Burren at this hour? Come in for a bit! I’ve had but few visitors since my dear son Shamus, bless his soul, passed.”



Slightly ashamed at my unkind initial reaction, I realized that this old woman must get awfully lonesome, living so isolated from her fellow man. Thinking I might be doing her as much of a favor as she was doing me, I allowed her to take my arm and usher me inside. All the while I berated myself for the thoughts of Black Annis that had risen in my mind when I first laid eyes on her.



By the light of a few candles and the fire in the hearth (over which a sturdy iron cauldron hung suspended), I saw that the hovel, if small, was comfortable. A wooden table and two chairs sat near the fireplace atop a worn gray throw rug. An unlit lantern stood beside a thick book that lay open on the tabletop. The simple room’s contents were rounded out by a rickety bookcase, a plump couch with tufts of stuffing coming out of a rip in the side, and two goggling human skulls which stared at me from atop the mantelpiece.



That’s exactly how I absorbed my surroundings, calmly like that. It took me a second to register the skulls. The hag had turned toward the couch, but now her head swiveled back around to regard me. The gesture called to mind thoughts of an ancient, predatory barn owl studying a doomed field mouse. She chuckled evilly and grinned a rictus grin.



I spun for the door but then froze, my motion arrested by a hideous gurgling sound which erupted from the cauldron hanging over the fire. The hag lurched toward it muttering something reproachful, then jabbed a bony finger into the steaming, bubbling liquid it contained – and then the focus of my entire being locked onto the two distinct clicks I heard behind me. I looked at the door, knowing beforehand what I would see, and of course my dread was confirmed. The exit had double locked itself behind me.



Terrified, I looked back at the witch, who had started eyeing me in a disconcertingly hungry sort of way.



“I don’t supposed you’d like to let me go?” I asked, in a quaking voice that I hoped at least sounded like it was quaking in a cool, rational way.



“I was thinking I’d rather eat ye,” said she, and all the sweetness had drained from her voice. What remained was a raspy Irish brogue that reminded me that I needed a cigarette, badly.



“Could we compromise?” I asked, realizing as I said it how ridiculous it must sound. What was she going to do, eat half of me?



“Hmm,” she hmmed. “Perhaps we can, just perhaps. Do ye know the riddle game?”



I swallowed thickly and nodded.



“Good. Maybe you’ll see the light of day anon, then. Here are the only terms I’ll brook: If ye ask me a riddle that I can’t solve, I’ll let ye go,” she said “But if I ask ye a riddle and ye can’t answer, well...” Menace crackled in the air as she spoke. “The consequences don’t really bear mention, do they?” Then she licked her lips with an evil gleam in her eye, and the effect on my psyche was almost worse than if she had just come right out and said it.



Thrilled at this (possibly brief) reprieve from being dined upon, I babbled my agreement. After a moment or two, my spirit rallied a bit, though to this day I have no idea how. It’s hard to drum up much optimism with the prospect of being eaten looming large on your short term horizon.



“Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked. Despite everything my voice sounded better now. At least, I think it was less squeaky.



“I cook my food, young man. Ye’ll smoke soon enough.”



At these reassuring words, I took out a Camel and lit up.



With no further preamble, she said,

“Always do I follow ye

Until the darkest night,

Whereupon I’ll swallow ye

Until ye find the light.”



Paralyzed, all I could think of was what a stupid riddle this was to get eaten over. It was five minutes of sweating in that ill lit, claustrophobic little hut before the answer literally flashed before my eyes.



“Shadow!” I shouted, my life saved by the dancing firelight.



She looked disgruntled. This was not a pretty sight, and a soot covered window pane on the wall opposite her, cracked.



“Now ye ask,” she commanded.



Fear swept through me, and it was some time before I could think of anything. I’m good under pressure though – philosophy term papers do have their uses – and I finally said,

“I hold men before the law

But my twofold nature is my flaw:

Though the prisoner’s death is oft my end,

When he’s in the Tower I’m his best friend.”



She answered instantly, almost before I was finished talking, and I knew I’d have to do better than that if I was going to escape alive. “Rope”, she said, then followed with this:

“I hold king and serf and reeve

They’ve done no crime

But serve their time

In me, a prison they’ll not leave.”



I lit another smoke and thought about this for a while. Finally, I had an answer that I thought was suitably dark, and gave my response. “The grave.”



Again she looked unhappy and clutched her claw-like fingers, but she had to nod assent at last. Exhaling a cloud of smoke that glowed a dull blue in the firelight, I countered:

“My center can never be found, for though I seem round,

My edge is unwound, and so knows no bound.”



To my credit, she had to think about this for quite a while, which did wonders for my morale. When she finally responded, even though she had solved it correctly, I was a new man.



“Spiral.”



“Right,” I said boldly. “Ask another.”



She growled irritably at my show of courage, then said:

“Burned or bred or bled alone

Alive or dead or turned to stone

I do not pine for time my own

For though my killers won’t atone

They often make me feel at home.”



So much for my newfound confidence. I must have puzzled over this for half an hour before I had my epiphany. When I said, “Tree,” the witch merely shrugged and inclined her grotesque head slightly. She had obviously settled in for the long haul. Fearing she would become impatient, I offered the first thing that came to mind.

“I light the night

But I hide in bright light,

For in my quiet flight,

I abide not its sight.”



She snorted insultingly before answering, and again I knew that I had better start coming up with some tougher questions.



“Star,” she said, then asked this:

“Child of the sun,

I’m the thief of its light

When I come I bring darkness

And leaving leave night.”



My own riddle was interfering with this one, trying to merge with it in my mind. With effort, I cleared my thoughts, lit a cigarette, and the answer came to me.



“It’s twilight,” I announced.



“Damn college kids,” she snarled. Irritated that she somehow knew this about me, I asked a college riddle:

“A sideways look at infinity,

I am vastly less in entirety.”



Now it was she who had to think for a while, at least two or three cigs worth of thinking, with pauses in between. I was cheerfully puffing away at another Camel, trying to blow smoke rings actually, to shake her confidence – when she interrupted my thoughts of freedom, sadly, with the correct response.



“Eight, ye mean, the number eight.”



“Damn evil man-eating hags,” was my jaunty reply.



“Watch your tongue or I’ll have it out!” She shrilled at me. Her next riddle followed promptly:

“When I sing madly, grown men die.

When I sing sadly, women cry.

When I sing gladly, children fly.

I’m not a banshee, who am I?”



“A nasty old witch,” I almost said, but stopped myself just in time, biting off the angry reply. No doubt she would have used it as an excuse to eat me for a wrong answer.



It was the “children fly” part that gave me real trouble, but a chance cloud, shaped like a diamond and scudding low across the moon, caught my eye. It looked like nothing so much as a kite, and I suddenly had my answer.



“Wind!”



She looked even more peeved than before, so I gave her my next riddle quickly:

“I can be long of tooth or short, and this is my plight:

That which I chew never feeds me, but only dulls my bite.”



She ran her black tongue along her brown teeth, drooled a bit, and thought. She leaned back in her chair with a creak, thinking. She thought and thought, each minute giving me new hope. Finally, realization dawned in her eyes and I knew that she knew. “Saw,” she barked, then said,

“I flame and flicker, burn and die

And my birth and death both make folk cry.”



I naturally tried thinking of unpleasant things, but none of them seemed to fit. I pondered a long time, but nothing that fit would come to mind. She heaved herself up from her chair, and had begun waddling toward me like a giant, evil penguin when inspiration struck. She was using psychology against me.



“Sit down, woman!” I cried. “The answer’s love.”



Hatefully she stared at me, wanting to rend me limb from limb. Finally, quivering with effort at self-control, she said, “Ask me three more riddles in a row. If I guess all three, I win. If not, ye go free.”



I was terrified anew. I’m better at solving riddles than making them up. Besides, the fact that she had changed the rules of the game midstream made me doubt whether she would honor the result even if I did manage to stump her. Still, since she didn’t seem to be able (or at any rate willing) to eat me until the game was over, and because I knew I couldn’t get past the locked door without her help, I had no choice but to go along with her.



I said, under horrible pressure,

“Eyes that see not

Met ears that hear not

And battle was quickly brought.

It was quite a sad plight.

With a little foresight,

Each might have profited, in his own right.”



Smirking evilly, she said, “Potatoes and corn in the same field, you’re on about. Crop rotation would have helped them each grow.”



My heart sank. How the hell could she know about crop rotation? But there was nothing for it, so I asked my next riddle as gamely as I could.

“Old man, white hair, stony-faced, seated there.

His hardened heart, which lacks life’s flames

Will never move what’s in his veins.”



Her evil smirk deepening, she said, “A mountain, ore-veined, an’ capped with snow.”



Now I almost despaired. Two riddles down and one to go. I tried hard to come up with a good riddle, but could not. Lighting what I was sure would be the last Camel of my too-short life, I inhaled... and then, an idea struck me. Thank you Mister G., I thought, filled with sudden gratitude for a certain high-school English teacher of mine.



Trying not to shake with fear, I asked my final riddle.

“This thing all things devours:

Birds, beasts, trees, flowers.

Gnaws iron, bites steel,

Grinds hard stones to meal

Slays king, ruins town,

And beats high mountain down.”



The witch cackled hideously. “I’ve read it too, you young fool!” She cried with sadistic glee. “The answer is time.”



“Wrong!” I yelled, springing back away from her.



“What!?” She shouted, furious. “It’s ‘time!’”



And it was. At that moment, the first rays of dawn shined through the broken window onto the door, breaking the witch’s spell and the locks opened with a double snap. I bounded to the door, threw it open, and galloped down the path, sprinting toward the rising sun. In daylight, it took less than an hour to find my original trail and jog back to the bike. As I sat down on the seat and started pedaling back toward Kinvara, I turned back toward the Burren and quietly called out, “Corporate strip-mining.”



A distant howl of fury seemed to echo back to me from across the hills.



I still travel Europe when I have time in the summer, and I still love Ireland, but I’ve never been back to the Burren.



I may not ever make it back, in fact.



I admit it: cheap digs aren’t always best.

[adsman]

Desperation by Degree

He had emailed the head guide from Peru. Wrote that he would be arriving in a few days, wanted a job, would see him when he got there. Hadn’t waited for a reply. He’d had enough of South America. Sick of being constantly ripped off, treated like an ignorant gringo. Except when they needed him. Then he was their greatest friend. He had just enough money for the airfare, was an old mate of the guide who was running things in Uganda. He figured that if he arrived on their doorstep then they’d have to give him a job. The only thing he knew he’d miss would be the coke.

He was right about the job. The company didn’t need him but they slung him on anyway, his connections and experience giving him the go. They’d only started rafting the White Nile the previous year, but the company were predicting that things would pick up. He didn’t care what their market projections were, as long as he was paid enough to get off his dial every night of the week. He was soon sampling the many varied establishments that Kampala had to offer, learning some of the language, and sleeping with as many locals as he could.

They began the rafting trip a few kilometers downstream of the dam that held Lake Victoria in place. Before the dam was built there had been a series of natural falls that had acted nicely in that capacity, but in dry years they held water back from the turbines, so they were blown up and covered by the rising water. Fifty years later and the dam was visibly leaking. Transpired that they had used the wrong concrete and the structure was beginning to fall to pieces. Rather than repair the existing construction, there was pressure on the government to build another series of dams further downstream. A five hundred million dollar project. The American ambassador had subtly thrown his weight behind the idea. It would be a great benefit to Uganda. It would create jobs and industry. An independent study commissioned by the private company wanting to build the dam stated that less than forty families would be effected by the flooding of a fifteen kilometer stretch of river. A native witch-doctor at a sacred site that was threatened with flooding publicly reversed his opposition to the project after receiving a gift of a mobile phone.

He hated seeing rivers drown, he’d watched too many go under over the years. As he floated across the long pools that separated the rapids, the constant thought of the impending concrete wall nagged at his mind. He didn’t notice the numerous islands with their individual habitats, nor the channels that ran between them creating the impressive cataracts on either side. He saw only a large stagnant lake, the tops of skeletal trees poking sadly from the malarial waters, in whose branches red-tailed monkeys had once stared impassively as his raft floated by. He was disturbed by this, yet whenever he tried to express his thoughts the words came out disjointed. The true meaning of what he wanted to say was lost in his awkward manner and desperation to communicate. He came across as intense, hasty, unconnected. People smiled and nodded and found an excuse to be somewhere else leaving him struggling alone in an isolated world, not knowing what was needed to change about himself, incapable of any act necessary for such a change.
No matter. There was always the bar, the cheap drinks, the hashish, the desperate women who would sell their soul for the chance of a ticket out, unaware that he was more wretched than them.

He was young - mid-twenties or thereabout, but the years of drinking, smoking, drug-taking and eating only as an afterthought had taken their toll. Tall, his face gaunt, burnt out from the tropical sun, he kept his hair shaved close. It was one less thing to smell of the night before. One less reminder when he invariable woke reaching for a joint in the late afternoon. Different guides came and went leaving him a permanent part of the scene, moving from job to job within the company, not able to disappear. Blokes arrived who had known him before Uganda and were quietly shocked at the visible changes. He was constantly coming down with malaria. Three days locked in his room alternating from chills to fever, glimpsing visions that scared him more than he could admit. Then eventually rising from the mattress, shattered, wraith-like, shouting at the house girl to fix him some grub. Anything at all as long as it put some lining on his stomach so he could head back to the bar and drown out the apparitions that sat gleefully on the edges of his increasingly hazy world.

Frozen stares as he leant over the pool table. The night-fighters dotted around the room like flies on a summer wall. He despised them. They could act tough now, but if he flicked his finger in a splash of neon light, any one of them would follow him out the door. The familiar routine and their vague hope that maybe this time it would be different and they’d get something good out of it.

He was playing pool with an Australian, a guy named Hughie who was in Uganda for a break from drilling in Nigeria. He hadn’t held a cue for some time due to the lack of a decent challenge. They had played each other for the last three nights, only stopping when the sun had risen over Kampala and the rafting bus had pulled up outside, one of the lads running in to get him.
He had asked Hughie if he wanted a free trip down the river but his opponent had politely declined.

“I don’t want to give you a chance at getting back at me for whipping you so many times at pool,” he’d said.

“You’d be wearing a lifejacket. You’d be right.” He stared incredulously at the shot the Australian had just made.

Hughie leaned up from the table. “You look like an idiot wearing one of those lifejackets.”

“You’d be dead without it.”

Hughie grinned. “Mate, I get enough excitement in Nigeria. I’m here for some relaxation that won’t follow me back there. Going down that river, that don’t look like relaxation to me.”

He rubbed some chalk on his cue, blew away the excess and gave the hooker who was standing too close a threatening look. “Trust me, on this river you want a jacket.” The whore glared at him and sauntered away. “Why do you think we always see so many dead fishermen at the bottom of the rapids?”

“Bet your customers love seeing that.”

“You’ve got to point in the opposite direction and say, ‘look at the elephant!’ Even then they look the wrong way and see the floater.”

Hughie missed a shot and sipped his whiskey. “How do they die?”

“How do you think? They fall out of their little wooden canoes and drown. Even at a spot that looks like a ripple there are huge forces working.” He shook his head. “Look at what you’ve left me here. What am I supposed to do with this?”

“How long have you been in Uganda?” Hughie asked.

“A long time.”

“Thought about going home?”

“Not much.”

“Why not?” Hughie asked.

He stared at the guy for a little while. “No reason.”

“Because you can’t function back in the real world anymore?”

“I reckon,” he replied, after some deliberation. “Been here too long. Here I’m not just some deadbeat in a bar, you know? I’m still kind of above it all. Back home I’d just be another loser.”

“I’ve got this sister back in Brisbane,” Hughie said. “Worships the ground I walk on. Rest of the family are a bunch of dead-beats, but my sister is getting her act together. Studying at university and escaping form all the family nonsense. I send her money. It lets her study without her having to get a job packing groceries or something.”

“What’s the point?”

Hughie stared at him across the green felt going grey from tobacco smoke. “It keeps me sane.”

He nodded his head, bent down and violently suck the black into the far pocket.



He was slouched in the front of the bus, drinking a beer and carelessly watching the sun set in a haze if purple and red. One of the punters approached him.

“Is this the best river you’ve rafted on?” the guy asked, sitting down beside him.

“Best I’ve seen,” he answered, trying to keep it short.

“Yeah, they sure were great rapids today. I had a fantastic time.”

He knew the guy wanted to be accepted. Thought that one days rafting might qualify him for the same status that the riverguides held. He identified that standing with adventure and mystery, an absence of responsibility. An ability to sleep with desirable women.
“It’s not just the rapids, man”

The tourist appeared confused. “What do you mean?”

“The river you rafted on today. It’s the Nile, man. The White Nile. Think about it. They talked about this river in the bible. They sent expeditions to find the source. The Egyptians, the Romans, all of them. None of them could find it. The Romans lost a whole legion in the Sudd. And today you floated down the very spot they were searching for, man. A hundred years ago the world knew more about the surface of the moon than this river. There’s ten thousand years of human history connected with this spot.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” the tourist agreed. “I didn’t consider that.”

He drank deeply from his bottle of beer and looked at the guy with disdain. “You lot just don’t get it. It’s not the stupid rapids. It’s the environment, the history, all of it.”

The customer nodded, collected a bottle of beer and hurried back to his friends.


He was off the booze, had cut down on the hash. He’d grabbed one of the other guides and explained what needed to be done if he was seen in the bar. Drag him out of there, get him home no matter what he said or did. Stick him in his room and lock the door.
He started getting some enthusiasm back for the river. He still thought that the punters were useless morons but he made more of an effort. He pointed things out on the trip, told them some relevant stories, didn’t just sit in the back of the raft and scowl at them all day. He still smoked hash but only to get to sleep. He knew that if he went on a completely dry run his body would rebel and he wouldn’t be able to take the consequences.

They were getting the punters kitted up for a trip when the head guide got a call on the mobile. He watched him walk away for a couple of minutes and then come back looking like a bloke who had received a positive test for the slimming disease.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

“The governments done a turn around. They signed the final approval for the dam this morning. The bastards finally figured out who they needed to bribe. It won’t be built for years, but now we know. It’s all gonna go.”

The two of them stood at the top of the hill, gazing in silence at the doomed river cutting a noble path between islands sagging beneath the weight of their own vegetation.
He didn’t talk much to his punters that day.


They were coming home after a day on the river, driving down the road which led to the guide-house on Lake Victoria, when he told the driver to stop. He jumped out, crossed the busy street into the bar, disappearing into the murky gloom, a glass of gin in his hand and his name scrawled on the board for his turn at the table. Next in line after the hooker that signed herself, “HIV+”.
The bus had driven off into the evening, the other guides not saying a word, not inclined to attempt the impossible after a long day on the river.

He planned it with care, didn’t want to be a nuisance. Spread a large tarpaulin over the bed so they could wrap his body up. No mess. The boys thought he had got malaria again, figured that was why he wasn’t coming out of his room. Until somebody took a look inside the first-aid kit and discovered all the valium was missing. They found him on the mattress, soiled and stinking, staring at the ceiling as if willing his soul to fly away. He vaguely heard them arguing, they didn’t know what to do, didn’t want this problem. Too much to deal with as it was. When you live and work together you’ve got to get on, got to have a bit of give and take, a degree of respect for each others moods. Now they were living with a suicidal loony and being expected to not only deal with the situation, but to somehow fix it as well. They cleaned him up and managed to get him functioning again. Sent for the only decent white doctor in town who prescribed him some drugs to keep him calm. He listened with disinterest as the doctor told the others that the best idea would be to get him out of Africa.
“Oh sure, mate”, one of the boys said. “We’ll just stick him on a plane and hope for the best.”

The little pills allowed him to cope with day to day life, but they also gave him a glimpse into his disturbed mind, something that he was not prepared to confront. His colleagues noticed that he took longer to respond to simple questions. If somebody told a joke he’d nod and laugh out loud a few minutes after the fact. Sitting on the balcony looking over the lake, a cigarette fixed between his trembling fingers as he drooled into a bowl of cereal, he couldn’t remember if he had just got up or if it was time to go to bed. His sneer went from disdainful to hostile, his contempt for those around him unparalleled in his own history. The other guides began to sleep behind locked doors, unsure of which way he was falling. Would he go quietly or would he try and take everyone with him?

Things seemed to be improving until he attacked the house-girl with a pen. One minute he was eating some food that she had prepared, and then they were having to drag him off her as she crouched whimpering in the corner with her hands over her head. He was screaming obscenities at her, about the way that she skulked around the house, about the things that she stole, how she whispered to the other house-staff behind his back. He knew that they all talked about him, he knew how much they hated him. No stupid black bitch was going to plot and scheme in his house. She was nothing, not worth crapping on, not worth the measly money that they paid her every month. If he had his way he’d fire all the house-staff every six months. Keep them on their toes, show them who was boss.
It took three of them to restrain him, tie him to a chair, while the others calmed down the help. The woman he attacked was staunch. No mad whitey was going to reduce her to tears, not after what she’d seen in her life. Got back to her work as they arranged an emergency flight, drove him out the gate, down the road past the bar with the girls arrayed around the pool table, desperate for a ticket out.