The God Remote

Open your mind up to new possiblities

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 7

Continued from PART 6

Trees lined the edge of well worn path. A group of skimpily dressed ladies stood at the base of one of the taller trees with a larger girth than the others, chatting and giggling to themselves. When I walked past, they all winked and smiled at me. “Wanna good time?” asked one of the girls as she stroked the bark and fluttered her long dark eyelashes at me.

“Actually, I don't, I'm having a good time as it is.” In that instant, I felt something was missing; I couldn't think what it was. I patted my pockets, and my wallet was still there. Ahh, I had left my wooden donkey at the DVD stall: I had placed it on the floor at my feet. I thought about going back to get it, but decided against that idea as the fat man was probably still there, waiting for me, knowing that I had left my donkey there, and would likely return to pick it up – then, he would try and befriend me, say that he kept an eye on it for me, and then I would owe him a favour ... I would be his bitch. No, I firmly stood my ground, and decided that the donkey would have to be sacrificed for my sanity. The women were staring at me, their eyebrows twisted quizzically, had I done something strange? – I must have temporarily entered a trance to replay the what ifs of going back for that stupid souvenir and ended up looking bizarre, how does one react to bizarre behaviour, let alone try to understand it? I took a bow and carried on down the path, now I was conscious of the missing item, I felt lighter and walked with a bounce in my step, whistling to myself.

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It was early in the evening, and the sun was already beginning to sink low in the sky, throwing long shadows of the trunks of trees into the clearing of the grove. People stood around a perimeter fence made of wire and pikes in the ground. A stall at one end was selling pre-packed popcorn.

Suddenly the loud boom of a drum commanded the silence of those in attendance. It was succeeded by two short booms as if to underline the message of the first, then the rhythm looped. A gate opened, and the crowd parted. A dark-skinned torch bearer emerged, marching to the drumbeat (as a frog would march) towards the centre of the empty space. He was a scrawny man covered in tribal tattoos, with bony limbs, knobbly knees, large protruding eyeballs, buckteeth and horribly big feet. Following closely was somebody costumed as a grey bunny rabbit with oversized head and paws, the fur was filthy and matted, it struck a drum that dangled around its midriff. Next, four men entered the arena carrying a large box with the letters “W.O.W” stencilled in red paint on the side. It was suspended from bamboo sticks on their shoulders. They set the box down and the drumming ceased abruptly. The crowd gazed.

The torch bearer scuttled around the edge of the arena, taking pauses to wag his tongue and make a shrieking noise at the crowd. The bunny stepped forward, and struck the drum. Boom. A chorus of kazoos ra-pa-pummed. Boom. The torch bearer danced around the box, and began chanting. I looked at my watch: quarter to seven. He waved the torch frantically in the air, the kazoos wailed, louder and louder ... Boom. The torch ignited the box – flames shot up to the forest canopy, shadows were pushed back and faces lit up, I recognized Jason in the crowd, eyes wide and fixated on the show like an idiot. He wasn't the only one, others also wore that mesmerized expression, the reflections of dancing fire in their eyes. I looked back at the show, the sides of the box had collapsed onto the floor, some threads must have held them in place until they got cooked off. The crowd had begun cheering loudly, the kazoos and drumming had gone free-form: a chaotic scrambling for volume. A skinhead male painted entirely purple stood on the collapsed box, arms elevated towards the skies, and spurring on the excitement of the people, making them clamour louder. I know that it had been a few years since his internet video appearance, and things change in that time, but surely, I hoped in my heart, that what stood before me and this wild audience, was not the serenity boy ... or was it?

To be continued ...

Crazy Peep Hole Exhibition

FOOD FOR THOUGHT