Chapter 4 - "One Hell Of A Cigarette"
The madman could see his motion for prayer was enough to send shivers down my spine, but not enough to send me running away screaming. My fear was now mingling with a rage of my own.
I suddenly realized I was still smoking what could be my last cigarette. I guess if I was to die by the gun in a lonely African town, I might as well smoke the hell out of this last cigarette; for all it’s worth.
After pointing his semi-automatic at me once more, he slid his thumb against his throat with his other hand. His final warning had been made. I was going to die.
Still, shock kept my feet glued to the pavement. Where was the rest of my company? Where were the police? Was I really that cursed that I was the only one in the parking lot with this terrorist? I looked around to see if anyone could see what was about to happen. Nothing; there was nobody in sight.
“Of course,” I thought. It was only a few parked cars and shopping carts.
The madman started to shout at me again. This time louder and with less patience. I couldn’t help but notice the harsh rasp in his voice. He could be fucked on crack for all I know. He could have lost the woman of his dreams today, or turned his back on his religion. No sense in talking about it. In fact, there was no sense in running away screaming either. It’s either he shoots me or I walk away.
Life is wild in this way. I’ve experienced many conflicts in my life. Most of them get resolved through careful communication or a fight, be it verbal or physical. I’ve been in predicaments where my life was on the line. Every time it hasn’t been my decision whether I would live or die.
Two weeks prior to this predicament I was hopelessly surrounded by lions in a tent, far away from a gun or even a knife. That night I experienced true terror. I could hear the menacing growls of these fierce predators circling the campsite and around my tent. It was like I had to suffocate myself for fear of making the slightest sound. I had to hold still and remain frozen for hours. I don’t know if they weren’t interested in man flesh that night, or whether the embers of the dim campfire began to mysteriously burn into a flame, scaring them away. I know I pissed in my sleeping bag that night.
That was a horrifying experience. Africa was turning out to be what I might have been looking for. It was dangerous, and it was an adventure to say the least. I knew I had changed significantly in the short time I was here.
However, now as I stared into the barrel of the gun, none of these experiences or realizations truly mattered. What mattered were the last puff of my cigarette and the next few seconds of my fragile life which was currently held in the hands of a madman.
I exhaled that last bit of smoke as I looked him in the eyes. It was death looking back at me, grinning with flattery. I paid no more attention to him as I turned around and walked away, flicking my cigarette into the wind.
...and that's all folks...
Showing posts with label cigarettes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cigarettes. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
The House
The house stood alone on a country road outside of town. Its bright red steel roof was visible from miles away and if you were to look at it from the south side you could see the jumbo size poster of a disfigured teeny-bop pop star stuck to the roof from the highway.
Behind the house was an abandoned shed standing crooked as if it would fall with the next push of a prairie wind. Inside it was an old rusted ’54 Chevy pickup all together forgotten. Sticking out of the tall neglected grass were couches, hockey sticks and half-burnt bookshelves.
The garage was filled with the stench of a pool sized garbage pile rotting beside the door and beside it firewood littered everywhere on the cracked floor. Two sparrows had flown in and out as they fed their nest perched up in the rafters.
When entering the house you would have to read the black graffiti message sprayed on the door, “Hey there” and a post-it note stuck on the window saying, “You are the party.”
The foyer floor was a layer of dirt, dust, and dozens of random shoes kicking around. Looking through the foyer and into the dining room dividing wall was a fruit basket lodged into the wall, holding an overused ashtray.
Upon entering the dining room you could smell the history of debauchery in the form of hundreds of beer cans, whiskey bottles riddled with mould and ash, cupboards filled with old bread and bowls of half-eaten macaroni and cheese, with the lingering scent of marijuana smoke living in the couches. Christmas lights and sticky notes with subliminal party messages cluttered the walls.
The “dining room” table top was a collage of melted crayons, party signatures, and faces burnt in the wood with Bic lighters. Walking through the chaos was like stepping on a piece of gum as the floor was permeated with beer; subjected to the fate of being sticky. The dividing wall was half covered with boxes of empties,
To the right was the kitchen fridge, masked with waxed on t-shirt logos and angry faces. The counters held mostly beer cans and looked abused and hostile as there was no room to rest an arm.
If you were to waltz through the first phase you were sure to pass out in the second as your eyes would meet with a broken mirror staring back at you asking if you wanted a shot of whiskey. The living room was the resting place of the junkies that lived there. Four or five ashtrays full of garbage, cigarettes and anything else small enough to fit in an ash tray would fill the trays. Drugs and booze covered the coffee table. Two TV’s sat in the corner where teeny-bop pop star used to hang. Behind the coffee table were two couches stacked on top of each other as if to accommodate those who wanted to sit in a higher place. The chandelier looked down upon the garbage ridden floor, usually holding up a hat, Christmas lights, and more random objects.
Beyond the dividing wall was a place of musical treachery. All instruments lay there to rest. A fire place beaten to it's naked state with a hammer and axe was situated in the wall. Above the Christmas stockings read a white spray on Christmas wish, "Happy Fvkcin' Xmas."
The basement was truly hell. Hundred's of broken bottles carpeted the floor. The air down there was a mouthful of choking fire extinguisher dust and dry-wall debris. The walls were beautified with drunken p-art-y work or hacked to pieces with the household hatchet. It was a crime scene.
The bedroom's could look better or worse. You couldn't know until the morning.
The house was a place of art in the form of debauchery. This is where I lived for close to a year with my dearest brother's of rock 'n' roll hellfire, and I miss it a little.
Behind the house was an abandoned shed standing crooked as if it would fall with the next push of a prairie wind. Inside it was an old rusted ’54 Chevy pickup all together forgotten. Sticking out of the tall neglected grass were couches, hockey sticks and half-burnt bookshelves.
The garage was filled with the stench of a pool sized garbage pile rotting beside the door and beside it firewood littered everywhere on the cracked floor. Two sparrows had flown in and out as they fed their nest perched up in the rafters.
When entering the house you would have to read the black graffiti message sprayed on the door, “Hey there” and a post-it note stuck on the window saying, “You are the party.”
The foyer floor was a layer of dirt, dust, and dozens of random shoes kicking around. Looking through the foyer and into the dining room dividing wall was a fruit basket lodged into the wall, holding an overused ashtray.
Upon entering the dining room you could smell the history of debauchery in the form of hundreds of beer cans, whiskey bottles riddled with mould and ash, cupboards filled with old bread and bowls of half-eaten macaroni and cheese, with the lingering scent of marijuana smoke living in the couches. Christmas lights and sticky notes with subliminal party messages cluttered the walls.
The “dining room” table top was a collage of melted crayons, party signatures, and faces burnt in the wood with Bic lighters. Walking through the chaos was like stepping on a piece of gum as the floor was permeated with beer; subjected to the fate of being sticky. The dividing wall was half covered with boxes of empties,
To the right was the kitchen fridge, masked with waxed on t-shirt logos and angry faces. The counters held mostly beer cans and looked abused and hostile as there was no room to rest an arm.
If you were to waltz through the first phase you were sure to pass out in the second as your eyes would meet with a broken mirror staring back at you asking if you wanted a shot of whiskey. The living room was the resting place of the junkies that lived there. Four or five ashtrays full of garbage, cigarettes and anything else small enough to fit in an ash tray would fill the trays. Drugs and booze covered the coffee table. Two TV’s sat in the corner where teeny-bop pop star used to hang. Behind the coffee table were two couches stacked on top of each other as if to accommodate those who wanted to sit in a higher place. The chandelier looked down upon the garbage ridden floor, usually holding up a hat, Christmas lights, and more random objects.
Beyond the dividing wall was a place of musical treachery. All instruments lay there to rest. A fire place beaten to it's naked state with a hammer and axe was situated in the wall. Above the Christmas stockings read a white spray on Christmas wish, "Happy Fvkcin' Xmas."
The basement was truly hell. Hundred's of broken bottles carpeted the floor. The air down there was a mouthful of choking fire extinguisher dust and dry-wall debris. The walls were beautified with drunken p-art-y work or hacked to pieces with the household hatchet. It was a crime scene.
The bedroom's could look better or worse. You couldn't know until the morning.
The house was a place of art in the form of debauchery. This is where I lived for close to a year with my dearest brother's of rock 'n' roll hellfire, and I miss it a little.
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