THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 9

Continued from PART 8

The purple man began yelping and swinging his head from side-to-side as if watching a frenetic game of tennis. The kazoos roared in chorus, and the rabbit began to bang the drum again. I walked over to the popcorn vendor who was crouched against a tree smoking a cigarette, vacantly watching the crowd. He saw me approach, “Sorry sir, popcorn sold out!”

I leaned up against the tree, “The Serenity Boy, sure has changed since I last saw him!” I said in a slurred American accent, even though I wasn't American and had never been there, but I have always pictured myself as a cool, suave American tourist whenever I went on holiday. John Wayne, the complete opposite of who I was, but this character appealed to me because his mannerisms seemed to give him the edge in social interaction.

“Ah! You American!”

“Godamn right buddy!” I wondered if I had overdone it this time.

He took a long drag on the cigarette, scrunching an eyebrow and raising the other as he were a movie star, sucking in so his cheek bones surfaced like a pair of submarines. Smoke streamed out of his mouth like a burst pipe as he spoke, “I love Americans!” He catapulted the cigarette butt from his tar stained fingers into the crowd, it crashed into a woman's large behind and splintered amber. “That guy ... up there now ... he ain't the Serenity Boy,” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “That guy, the purple one, he's Purple Haze. They are just a support act, the Serenity Boy is after them.” He coughed then spat phlegm on the ground.
“Thanks for your muthafucking help man!” I highfived him, but missed his hand, so I patted him gently on the head and sauntered away.

Actually, I didn't have a clue where I was going, so I decided to enter the crowd and watch the show. At the front, I saw Purple Haze supporting his entire body in the air with the little finger of his right-hand pressed into the ground while chanting a slow monotonous mumble. I looked around and noticed that I was the only one whose hands weren't clasped together beneath my chin. I didn't want to, but I felt my body yielding under the pressure: my hands trembled momentarily before easing themselves into the universally recognized sign of prayer. Purple shouted something, the rabbit hit the drum, and everybody simultaneously raised their hands over their heads to form a steeple with their fingers; I followed suit.

Several movements later, I did feel something – if, indeed, I was supposed to feel something. What that feeling was, I wasn't quite sure. There was certainly a sense of liberation, when the impression of being the uninvited member of an advanced gym class had faded away. I looked at my fellow beings, in these strange body configurations, as if they were some code that if performed in the correct combination would unlock some hidden mystery. Suddenly, it became clear to me what I felt, it was that warm sensation of belonging, being a part of something greater.

Chanting. Boom. We raised our hands, arms open as if we were hugging the sky. I looked around, everything was beautiful. I caught the eye of another, we connected as if we shared some awesome discovery together. Purple wailed. Boom. Change position. We bent forward, arms and legs as straight as they could. Then it happened … the guy in front released trapped air from his lower intestines into my face.

I was having such a good time. When it happened, it was like being the kid dragged away from the party by the mum who showed up too early, but in this case it was a squelchy rasping sound and a stinky partner in crime. I tried to fight the urge to lose control, accept the challenge as if it was an end of term examination set by the gods. In the end, it knew better. I listened. I believed.

I stared at my cross-training shoes, a brand new pair of Starlight 2000's: rubber arched for extra stability, bevelled heel made from from shock resistant DuperontTM, double stitched patent leather reinforced toe. An idea brewed in my head, I giggled to myself at the wicked genius of the plan. I straightened myself, cracked my knuckles, inhaled, then flung my foot as hard as I could at the man's bulging buttocks. He wobbled from the force, then steadied himself slightly before losing his balance. He tumbled sideways into somebody, as he emitted a garrgghhh sound, then landed on his back with legs in the air. I didn't hang around to check the reaction of people; I just sprinted all the way back to the hotel room.


To be continued ...

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 8

Continued from PART 7

I take a break from my story. Where am I? Am I back in my study or in the white room I have created inside my mind to contain the characters that I have and will encounter. Back in the white room. Having a cigarette break. I can't talk in real life, but this white room is filled with limitless possibilities. What better backdrop for life than a white room filled with an even ambient light, dull but discreet, the people and their details brought out like the objets d'art in a gallery, each to be examined and interacted with.

The publisher sat opposite me, on the other side of the table, fully assimilated into my reality. I watched him light a cigar, brows furrowed in the concentrated effort, swollen hands walled numbly around the object. He puffed a few times, then leant back, as he exhaled a smokey sigh of satisfaction. “So what were you saying?” Smoke tumbled from his bulbous lips, “something about a purple guy?”

“Let me get back to you on that.” I shoved an ashtray in his direction; as if by command, he tapped the ashless cigar over it.

A muffled banging sound came from across the room. Robert Dalmatian straightened up in alertness, “What on earth is that sound?” He anchored an ear in the direction of the noise and looked at the publisher. The fat man adjusted his weight on the chair, his cigar hand quivered on the armrest as he did so and returned the gaze with an eyebrow raised.

“Let's go and investigate!” I sprung from the seat. They rose up cautiously. The sound seemed emanate from within the wall, upon moving closer, we noticed a small door in the wall that clattered every time something hit it. We stood around the entrance and leaned in, faint growls could be heard from the other side.

“There's something inside!” whispered the publisher.

“Whatever it is, it sounds dangerous! We should leave it in there!” Said Robert.

I gestured them closer so I could also whisper without straining my voice too much. “Ahh, that reminds me of something really important I have to tell you.” I watched a bead of sweat make a bid for freedom on the side of the publisher's face. They nodded me to continue. The growling increased in volume slightly and the thumping seemed to get more vicious. “Are you ready to break out of your safety zone?”

The fat man snorted.

“I say that one of us opens the door, while another whacks it hard on the head when it runs out to kill it.” said Robert. “Fattie, you get ready to open the door, and Tog,” he looked towards me, “you go grab something heavy and stand over there!” The publisher advanced hesitantly and positioned his hand over the latch. I didn't move. Robert looked at me, and I ignored him.

“Open the door!” I commanded. The door swung open.

To be continued ...

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.

----------------

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 ...