This is in remembrance and memories of the young 32-years old Pakistani Karate champion, who served in the city of Jeddah since many years. He risked his life to max, to rescue the drowning people in Recent Jeddah flood. He rescued 14 people al’hamdulillah, and whilst trying to rescue the 15th person, he himself slipped and was taken away by the wild flushes of flood.
I grazell, I pop, sucked down the way cement street like, fourth to the corner before breaky came right across upsetting the momentum. On a box, nattered, scrawed out. Leapt hep and wry. Florid tones and matters of decorative sashay, flailing violet. Active knuckles scabbed and bruised. ‘Ye fuckin’ mope,’ boy screamed gnarly and gravel. Spit rocks, tar sludged his shirt. ‘Don’t touch the bling shifty’: my reply. ‘Dandy loo! Dandy loo!’ He cawed back so I popped him twice in the nosepiece. Made blood. Further strides—s’like a damn warzone hereabouts now what with all the dims and suckers and rot—leaping and gallivanting spitshined shoes skipping over mudsopped roads.
Trembling mouse still behind, vulture fingers rattling ducktails, the crab pinched and pinched and pinched. Adjusting my tie, I turned round and bashed the boy twice, hard down on his head stuffing Jack back in the box. Neck all springy and hazy, moonbeams shone bright from cat eyes green with mischief and wet gold. The doodling freak’s dripping tongue lashed crosses on my eyelids, blinding me in fagspeak and wizardry: ‘Savoy Medved, champion of balls, lurker of worlds, cock-chomper magic man. Grab yer sack, ba-ba-ba-Benny, the time is come.’ Lights opened and shone bright, spotting out a mugged Inca attended by feral kitties and bloated spew. The lanky goat spoke thus:
We are the People of the Mountain, children of the wild forest, and for these reason they are going to have to take our lives.
Jumpin jiminy I thunk to myself, looking at this cawed Indian chirping lights out on the dais. Who for wherewhy and whatnot. I popped the icebox and pulled out some chixbits to nosh on, meditative like, when I grew surrounded by a further mass of Injuns, streetshit and Eurotwots looking up at the yapping Madonna. They spilled and shifted over themselves, all swooning milkshakes, boners and thumbed clits. My muddy shoes collecting their spill, tux trousers clouded with firing eggs, urethra juices and miscellany. A stirred ocean of fishfuck collected and crashed on the shore. The chant rose up akin a malodorous soup: NO MAS SECUESTROS, NO MAS MENTIRAS, NO MAS MUERTES!
He’ll fuck you. He’s a fucking barbarian. He comes from Vikings fucking. Make you wear a collar and tie you up the yard.
—UFC announcer Joe Rogan describing then UFC heavyweight champion Brock Lesner
Amidst the fractious row, sorrowful elves waded through running effluvial rivers that washed the street. Fur-covered nipping Ishmaels rode the planks of dead crates filled with savage carrots, escaping the delerium that dripped from every misbegotten soul and collected around the Indian sage. My trousers torn, lost a paw. Some young snapper stomped my toe and I’d put the hammerlock on him as payback, snapped his twiggy snapper neck, left him to the mercy of the crawling lobsters that amassed in the mess of cum and ladycum that was by now three feet deep.
Midgets and rectors shouted, holding aloft books as signage. A headless sphinx unfurled a papyrus: ‘Everything in this world is a system that controls our lives,’ it read. ‘Rules were meant to be followed.’ Then took her head from the sack hung around her neck, replaced it, and bit into an apple.
A trembling youngster stepped out of the fray, cherubic and blushing. He spoke in a quivering string tone: ‘The Pakastanis have now shut down a TV station in their country. These TV channels are damaging our young generation and keep our young generation away from getting education. The TV channels should train the young boys how a school is built and how to fix a punctured bicycle.’ Then kneeling on the ground, he made demonstration on his limping encumbrance.
Nine women lit themselves aflame, three died of shame. Herat Province hospital officials named this week the Week of Women's Self-Immolation. Fifty prisoners sewed their lips shut in protest and another week was named. A suicide bomber exploded the gates and the prisoners quietly escaped. A prisoner, Kamil, thanked the delegation earnestly.
One day I come home from Quranic school and I found our house had been hit by mortar shell. The house is pulverized. My mother and father are killed. I think my four brothers killed as well – I saw pieces of hands and legs near the part of the house we used for resting. I am in such shock I barely know who I am.
—Abdi
Guy answers the phone about a job. He pushes up the brim of his baseball cap, pulls back his lips. His voice is wanting through yellow brown teeth: I can be there at eight. What time you want me to be there? Anytime. I’m real interested!
He questions each reply: The bus goes there? Close? I can walk?
He hands the phone to his wife. She’s elegant as could be with silver streaks in her long black hair. She speaks staccato: I can vouch for him for sure. He cleans real good. Trying to get a steady job. Buy a car.
Guy takes the phone back earnest: I need this work, I need this work so bad.
Earlier this month, the insurgent group organized a Koran recital competition for youths in Kismayu and awarded the 17-year-old winner an AK-47 rifle, two hand grenades, a computer and an anti-tank mine as prizes.
—Daily Nation, Kenya, 25 October
Author’s note: I once attended a World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) show at Madison Square Garden in New York City. My friend Craig scored the tickets through some acquaintance of his who was somehow acquainted to Stephanie McMahon, daughter of WWE impresario Vince McMahon, whose wife, Linda McMahon, was once a Republican candidate for United States senator representing the state of Connecticut. The night was a rousing success. We had wonderful seats, enjoyed the festivities, and afterwards, in a nearby gin joint, I got to make out with one of the hot chicks who graciously accompanied us. The highlight, however, was the sign I spent many hours constructing earlier that afternoon and then held proudly aloft during much of the show. Left amidst the litter of spilled beer, popcorn, and less clever signage, my sign, dedicated to Brock Lesner—proto-human beast man and later Ultimate Fighting Championship title-holder—read simply “BROCK AND BALLS.”
*This impressionistic fiction piece was originally published in Mount Island #2 in 2015 in a slightly different form.