THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 6

Continued from PART 5

I was drawn by a table of assorted laminated posters of varying quality. Some were laid out in an organized line, and others were just thrown on top of each other as if the stall owner had given up the fight to maintain order. One poster showed the Serenity Boy meditating, with his eyes closed, under a tree; I recognized the image was a frame taken from the famous internet video and blown up so it was slightly pixelated. Under the image in a thick black Gothic style lettering were the words, “Believe in peace”.

A hand flicked a different poster into my line of vision, “This one also good!”, said a high toned voice. I swung my head up to see a frail topless man in his early thirties, a cigarette hung from his lower lip. He dropped the poster in front of me, “Buy two get one free!”

This time it was a cartoon print of the Serenity Boy, again in the meditative position, floating in outer space among the stars with a rainbow aura around him, the slogan read, “Reach your goals!” There was a black speck on the poster among the bright colours, at first I thought it was a printing error, but upon closer inspection I noticed that a small fruit fly had been squashed under the plastic laminate. I couldn't be bothered to look at the others, so I smiled at the man, and moved on.

The next table was stacked with DVDs and music recordings that had nothing to do with the Serenity boy. I picked up a DVD case and examined the sleeve, the printout was quite blurry to read as it looked as if someone had printed them on their own cheap home computer printer, there were three translations from the original language, the English text read “This awe inspiring, raw and unedited two hour video captures the world famous Serenity Boy practicing his meditation.” Several similar screen shots accompanied the description. I flipped the case around in my hand, repeatedly checking the front and back of the cover as if it would improve my chances of enjoying the movie.

“It's a hard choice, ain't it?” chirped a voice from behind my shoulder.

“Huh?”

“They're all really good,” replied the voice excitedly, “I have the one that you're holding, bought it the other day – watch it on my portable DVD player.”

“I don't know, they all look rather …” I turned my head to land my gaze upon a chubby, child-like adult male face. I could feel his warm breath on my face, it stank of stale milk, “… boring.” The fat man seemed to have a fixed grinned, he leaned towards the table and with his fat hand procured a red cover DVD, he lifted it to the side of his sweat covered face, and his pupils gestured towards its cover. The halitosis was becoming unbearable to be around, I had to lower my head slightly to point my nostrils away from the smell, and I hated the stranger for testing the limits of my civility. This beast of a man had invaded my personal space, a biological stink factory which oozed with bacteria infested slime; I was trapped, he did not smell bad enough to cause me to gag, although I wish that he did, then my body would have no choice but to pull me away from this wretched situation and revive me with glorious clean and unadulterated fresh, delicious, life preserving air! Instead, I just stood there and smiled, taking in as little air as possible, trying to time it so I wasn't inhaling on his exhale.

“I think you will like this one, it's very good, not boring at all.” Particles of spittle launched out of his mouth onto my face as he spoke. He dabbed his leathery double chin with a handkerchief, “Phew, those steps, eh?” Out of courtesy, I looked at the DVD he held in his hand. I smiled, nodded, and blinked – mechanically, in that order whilst trying hard to conserve the oxygen in my bloodstream. “So you wanna go for a few beers later?” The guy was lonely, I could see that he wanted company, and he found it in these ridiculous DVDs.

“I gotta get going ... before it gets too late ... for the ... things!” I pointed randomly, away from him, and my hand walked me backwards, away from him. Fresh air! I breathed and let out a sigh of relief as I waved, his shoulders slumped as he waved his handkerchief back at me; I felt like a ship leaving port, no longer moored to the quay. I walked towards a path that led into the grove.

To be continued ...

Do Slow People Annoy You ???

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 5

Continued from PART 4

Once we landed, it took three weeks of exhausting camel-back travel through the dry Zombabi desert and its overly social sandstorms to get to the medium sized town; I wouldn't have bothered if I had known that there was a train that could have taken me to the heart of Buckaboo in just a day. In the end, it was trivial, or it will be trivial, because life is very much like that: a journey not a destination – we're all headed to the same place, but we'll do so at our own pace in the style that suits us best, because that is the only way we know how to.

There is a forest in Buckaboo, can you believe a forest on the edge of the desert! Buckaboo started life as an oasis, an oasis in life for many of the tourists who pilgrim there for spiritual enlightenment. People are often drawn to things that are out of the ordinary, that lift them out of the mundane tar pit called everyday life. “What to do in Buckaboo?” sing the locals, while enjoying a beer with the neighbours, after selling crappy souvenirs to visitors all day long. I wasn't even sure what the dominant religion of the area was, but I bought a hand-painted wood-carved donkey with its tongue sticking out, the corners of its mouth freakishly turned upwards like a clown – I hated it, but it was a souvenir, and you're supposed to have some kind of unconditional love for souvenirs, so I handed the cash over to the vendor who greedily snatched it away from me, avoiding skin contact with him as he did so, then wrapped my arm around the ugly abomination and set off to see the notorious “serenity boy” at the boundary of the town.

The Serenity Boy is the sensation of Buckaboo, a celeb in his own right. I remember watching videos of him on the internet, five years ago; they showed a fourteen year old boy meditating under a tree, perfectly motionless, his eyelids closed, the villagers who lived nearby claimed that he hadn't moved for several months; he didn't drink water and he didn't need to eat. Word got out about this mysterious boy, and people came from far and wide to see this child and hope that he might bless them in some way, for they believed that he was the reincarnation of the Great Burrah who also grew up in the region.

I climbed the steep stone steps that led to the top of the hill where a small forest grew. On the way up, I encountered various beggars, each one bearing some kind of disfigurement - they smiled at me with an outstretched palm as I approached, then snarled at me as I strode past, hissing with dissatisfaction at the way I averted my gaze. I examined each one that I passed, each consecutive face appearing less abused, the higher up I went, the more improved the condition of the beggar - I came to the conclusion that eventually I would meet a beggar who was in mint condition. A fruit tree was perched at the top by the side of the steps, an array of golden ripe yellow fruit dangled like precious jewelery from a branch. I paused for a second to feel a breeze, raising my arms to cool my armpits and take some of the sweat away from my chest, the sunlight twinkling leaves rustled as the air moved, then a sudden gust. A spherical fruit fell onto the carved stone block, some of its juice sprayed me, then it began rolling down the steps, leaving a trail of torn skin and wet prints.

There were already people here, tourists and locals mingled among the tall spindly trees. Wooden trestle tables had been placed along the boundary of the grove, there were piles upon piles of souvenirs and memorabilia, from t-shirts to CDs. By the side of one of the tables, some midde-aged women were cooking, plumes of ashy smoke churned the smell of charred meats into the air. The object that they were poking at looked like the head of a goat, “You want eat meat?”, the voice came from behind the veil of fumes. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to eat, but the thought of plunging my teeth into the flesh of a burnt animal carcass did indeed sound tempting; images of me running naked through a tall grass field while chasing a cute four legged creature with a fork flashed through my mind. A plump face with rosy balloon cheeks emerged from the smoke, “You want eat some?” I peered back at the woman, her features appeared to grow and swallow up my vision; her pockmarked skin creased unevenly as her mouth unskillfully sculpted a grin to expose blackened and decaying teeth. Her eyes motioned towards the sizzling body part, she prodded it with a stick and some juice poured out of the eye sockets, I licked my lips then quickly walked away to look at the other things that yearned to be consumed by my ravenous wallet.

To be continued ...

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 4

Continued from PART 3

There were a couple of other passengers like me aboard, one was a slightly chubby lip ringed, dreadlocked girl who liked to watch the sea while listening to her headphones, the other was Jason, a tall, lanky guy with greasy shoulder-length hair who liked to burn incense in the cabin we shared. Both were in their twenties and often shared whiny conversations about the environment, mixing the smell of marijuana smoke with the diesel fumes, discussing things that – out here - only existed in their minds, as they stared across the yonder less rippling water.

If there are to be serious parts to this book, then let it begin here: three weeks into the sea trip, The Forsaken Joy and its crew were put to the test, as the weather made a turn for the worse. Shortly after dinner, the boat began to rock, more than usual, and the wind got louder as it lashed the deck with rain and bits of ocean. Guitar chords reverberated against the toilet door; I sat on the bed with hands on my knees, waiting for Jason to finish nature's bidding. Suddenly, the boat lurched to the side, the toilet door threw itself wide open; yellow light from a sixty watt light bulb spilled into the room. Jason hugged his guitar, and screamed in a high pitched voice. Disconnected, I watched him like a late night television talk show rerun. He struggled to rise off the seat, knobbly knees creaking like the timber around him; I didn't aid him, not even with my eyes. He dug his claws into the walls, his fingers screeched as they fought to maintain their grip, once again the boat rocked: this time towards the stern, intuitively, Jason grabbed his guitar before it slid to the ground, as he straightened his knees to balance. The next part was horrible, as my visual cortex could only digest the action in glorious slow motion: just when it seemed that Jason had won the bout - as if in retaliation - the boat began to rock from port to starboard, batting Jason from wall to wall, his arse clapping against the walls like a ping-pong ball in a frenzied game of table tennis. An unexplainable force seized me, and I heard myself yell hoarsely at him, “Stop messing about and get your pants on!”, the neck of the guitar snapped as it caught the wall with his weight behind it, instrument and man collapsed into a pile with a clang, “Hurry up for god's sake!”

I got up to the cabin, a large fish thumped the window as another wave washed over the boat, Jason appeared a little while later. Curvey was wrestling with the helm like a rampaging ape. The wind roared outside, and we grabbed onto whatever was available to stop ourselves from being thrown about. “I've had it with this,” shouted Curvey at the front pane of cabin glass, as he rolled his fat arms around the wheel, “I'm retiring as soon as we dock.”

To be continued ...

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 3

Continued from PART 2

“Have you ever been to Buckaboo? One thing about Buckaboo, is that it's fun!” That's what the convincing strap line in the brochure claimed, the one that I picked up at the travel agency when I went into town to pick up some toilet paper and some curry powder; yes, I remember vividly because being the environmentally friendly kind, I didn't want the plastic carrier, so I squashed, with all my might, the packet of curry powder into my back pocket and threaded my belt through the handle of the toilet paper package so it hung in front of my crotch – this simple set up allowed me to browse the large selection of printed travel information, which for a species in this time period, is the easiest way to absorb data.

“I'm interested in going to Buckaboo.” I stretched my mouth into a jittery grin to bare my flesh munching equipment to the travel agent who sat like a damp piece of cardboard, staring out of the store window, some drool glistened at the corner of his slightly agape mouth, as if it was the most fanciful part of his personality. His eyeballs swivelled towards me, then his body reluctantly followed suit and moved from a slouchy position to a less slouchy position. He gestured to the chair with his hand while he nodded his head, I didn't like the way he did it, it made me think of the cool kids at school who now ended up in boring dead end jobs. He was the king of travel agency land and I was one of his lowly, dirty, ground-hugging subjects.

POP! That was the sound of the bag of curry powder exploding, then it hissed a cloud of spicy brown dust into the air – I had forgotten about the condiment in my back pocket. I knew what had happened, but the travel agent didn't, I watched him become startled in slow motion, his eyes suddenly becoming wide and alert, his body tensed like a steel coil for action, ready to perform like a soldier in the heat of battle, as the adrenaline coursed through his atrophied muscles that hadn't seen action since the glory days of the proud school sports team; for a moment, he did look worthy of the mental crown jewels he adorned his head, but then the curry powder was too intense, too overwhelming for his biologically unfit body, it usurped the throne from right beneath him, as it flitted with great gusto- that all the other curry powder brands would have been proud of- into his nasal cavities, causing him to sneeze and evict some unwelcome tenants. I opened the bag of toilet tissue and handed him a roll; he took it humbly.

The first part of the journey, involved spending one month on a tugboat, The Forsaken Joy. It was an old rusting seafaring lump of metal whose decay was visibly active during the day, and at night, while most of the crew were asleep, pieces of the boat, like handles and railings, would decide to retire from the boating business and say “bon voyage!” with a splash into the inky waters. The captain who was also the owner of the vessel went by the name, Curvey – Captain Curvey; a stout middle-aged man who nurtured a garden of unkempt, greying facial hair, and lugged a generous belly around. The ship did runs, back and forth, between several countries, with its cargo of passengers and exotic spices that kept it in business. Although the crew showed little enthusiasm for the jobs that they were paid to do, they were a merry bunch who enjoyed entertaining the visitors as if the boat was a fairground ride.

To be continued ...

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 2

Continued from PART 1

Here I am, sitting at this machine, hammering these words onto the page, putting over a decades worth of thoughts onto paper; sometimes, however hard I try to suppress it, I wake up and catch the trail end of a conversation, my own voice, as thoughts evaporating from the surface of my mind. I don't like to plagiarize from real life, but everything that I am about to tell you is completely true, all the character and place names are imaginary; I couldn't take the credit for somebody else's work – it really isn't me, and as my teacher from school used to say, 'by copying your friend's homework, you're only cheating yourself!' The other reason that I don't use names from real life is because I have a terrible memory for them – you see, the only reason why you would need to remember names is for reference within a conversation to another person, and since I haven't had the need to talk to another person for over ten years, I've lost the ability to remember places and faces.

So I shall begin by creating the room we are in, oh yes, you are in my book Mr. Publisher! The room will have four white walls, one kilometre in every direction, a white floor and a white ceiling. It will be evenly lit so you cannot see the boundaries of the room. By the way, I never said that I had a good imagination. There is a white round table in the centre of the room, surrounded by three white chairs. Everything has been recently painted, so you can still smell the paint fumes – it isn't pleasant, but bearable. How shall I describe you? I've never seen a publisher in real life so I'll assume you're a large guy with a roundish belly and a moustache, your skin is shiny and flecked with red from years of alcohol abuse, I'll put a cigar in your hand and a daisy in the pocket of your cheap green polyester suit which makes a static noise whenever you move and explains why the few hairs that remain on your head rebel when you comb them down with your podgy sausage fingers.

Dotted around the room are people holding glasses of champagne, these are the representatives of all the future readers of this unpublished novel, they are the jury and you are the judge. Take a seat Mister Publisher, plonk your bubbling fat arse on the chair! I take a seat next to you and pour you glass of champagne, you hear my nose wheeze as I do so because I'm allergic to some chemical in the cheap paint. Let me introduce you to the person in the third chair on this table, his name is Robert Dalmatian, a fictional name of course, but a person that exists in everyone's lives; he is crucial to the plot of the story that I am about to tell, so remember his face. He sits like a swan in the chair, poised perfectly and not slouching like you. If he were a colour, he would be blue; cool and calm like the sea on a clear day, even an ocean liner could not disturb what lies in his depths. His features, perfect, like chiselled granite. What is there not to love about this man? - oh, what there is to hate! He was a straight A student through school, graduated university with a first and quickly moved up his career ladder. Anyway, enough about him, for now. “Glass of champagne, Mister Dalmatian?”

Note to myself: this chapter may need a rewrite; Mister Publisher does not look too amused, but perhaps he will keep reading ...

To be continued ... PART 3

THE HUNGRY MAN CHRONICLES: PART 1

Dear mister publisher man, thank you for giving this cover letter your undivided attention. It has been a long journey for me to bring this manuscript to you, and I don't mean that in a philosophical way, but in the sense that I had to sit on a cramped bus, next to some dried vomit, for two and a half hours, then walk for an hour (because I got lost) to hand-deliver my precious work to you. I hope you have your hot cup of tea ready on your desk with your favourite crunchy snacks, because the story is about to begin ...

I am in no way an enlightened man, but I believe that only an unenlightened man can enlighten himself, and he can either choose to do it the hard way or let some idiot do it for him; I hope to enlighten myself, and perhaps others, by writing this book. Like other homo sapiens, beyond being just a skin bag of sticky red goo with some miscellaneous – but otherwise useful - lumps floating about inside, I have something to say. Some people have a lot to say, but their words carry little meaning, while others have very little to say, although their words convey a fathomless depth of wisdom and knowledge. I sit hunched at the keyboard, occasionally scratching my head and catching a poignant whiff of greasy, stinky hair, typing the novel that will be the last step of my journey towards enlightenment.

It is some time in the early morning, and the sun creeps cautiously above the horizon, as I tap at the oily dandruff covered keys, periodically turning my head to check if the door behind is still shut. Should someone walk in and surprise me, left without any option, I would toss the laptop out of the open window like a snot embalmed tissue, pretend to notice some cobwebs on the stone ceiling, and hope the machine did not smash a passerby's head down below. But back to the point, before you tear the remaining strands of hair out from your shiny balding head – I haven't spoken a single word for eleven years.

To be continued ... PART 2

Sarah Jessica Parker... the Incredible Hulk's long lost twin?

I was casually surfing the net when I stumbled upon a poster image for the movie, 'Did You Hear About the Morgans?', starring Hugh Grant and Sarah Jessica Parker.

Is it just me, or does anyone else think that Sarah Jessica Parker bears an uncanny resemblance to Lou Ferrigno as the Incredible Hulk?

If they ever decide to do a remake of the original 70s Incredible Hulk television series, then Sarah Jessica Parker should be waiting with her phone in one hand and a can of green spray paint in the other.

Please post your answers in the comments below!