"A one-one, two one two
On & on & on & on
Wake the fuck up 'cause its been too damn long" - Erykah Badu
On & on & on & on
Wake the fuck up 'cause its been too damn long" - Erykah Badu
After what seemed like an eternity, I saw WP… I watched as They pulled him out of the dirt and rubble of the uncaring and constantly surging continuum of Time and Space that had struck us all without warning. Chalk white, rugged and with a strangely savage glint in the eye… it was a shiny speck of incomprehension. It was a sight you could find nowhere else but in similar Madness … in the eyes of those who stepped out of the cement, steel beams and concrete blocks that once was Haiti, in the eyes of half burned human beings presented in Eldoret churches as unwilling offerings to God so that He could help us decide who had won the 2007 elections…and WP smelled like them too… he smelled like carbon, carbon on fire. Smelled like the Mau. Smelled like a dead thing despite the shocking Cyclopean glow of the eyes that gaze incessantly at the azure sky as if in search of an answer to an unmentioned question. He then suddenly began to speak, nay, scream with all the remaining strength he had in himself:
“Lay me down you blithering bastards…lay me down! Cant you see I have no time?”
They tried to inform him of his present condition, that They needed to get him to the nearest specialised help as soon as possible, but he would have none of that. They had to skirt around the destroyed Storylines and piles upon piles of Dramatis Personae, who had been tortured, systematically raped and eventually murdered (actually beheaded with machetes like chicken, or thrown into pools of jet fuel and set alight) the previous night, for flat ground to lay this mad man. They finally found a spot in what was formerly a collection point of a paper recycling-cum-toilet paper making plant. Perfect. Right in the thick of shit is where WP had always wanted to be, so he felt at more at home among the strewn porn magazines soaked in all sorts of unmentionable body fluids, discarded recipes of making Vodka taste like Black Ice and forged receipts from the Ministry of Education, more at home than he would ever feel in the back of a vehicle with its sirens screaming. There he was, screaming like banshee:
“Get me something to write on you lame fucks, get me something to write on! AARGH!!! Get me something to write on before I curse the seed of your children and your children’s children. STUPID!!!”
They fumbled around the rubbish and found and empty ledger book page and Someone volunteered Her pack of crayons which was erstwhile destined for Her four year old Daughter. The sacrifice of a pack of crayola was much better than risking herpes infested descendants by any standards. In this Day and Age Everyone knew better than to take Threats anything but seriously. They watched with curious silence as WP scribbled pensively away, just the way a Parent would as the Child wrote His or Her first words or rather what would curiously turn out to look like a chicken mating. Youth sans Innocence. But what We had Before Us here was The Return To Innocence Lost. Those closest strained to make out each letter created by the friction between paper and colour.
WILL…
A will? Really? In all the Loss and Destruction visited upon Us Yesterday, all this wanker could think about was proprietary rights? Everybody had lost everything, Everyone had lost their Someone. Certainly all the Perks and Favours he had amassed from his past life of bounty hunting for Kwani? and the BBC and editorial boards of several educational institutions counted for nothing more than the dust and ash floating all around. He was more of a nothing than most of Us really. I mean, what has he done in the past few months? Getting drunk every single night and doing Freestyles and intrusive pieces on sex scandals, that’s what.
WILL…
I CANT WRITE,
BUT I CAN STILL HAVE ERECTIONS…
Often WP had said that writing had something significant to do with having erections. The stiffer, the longer the better. And of what use was a hard on, if one had no clue on how to use it, he used to ask? Of what use was a hard on confined within boxer shorts and jeans? Of what use was an art form covered up unless the cover itself was an art form? A bulging trouser said nothing of art but repressed hormones…
WILL…
I CANT WRITE,
BUT I CAN STILL HAVE ERECTIONS…
SO WATCH MY
BLOOD FLOW,
HOPE IT WILL IMPRESS
PRESS…
Who would have anticipated the next 33 seconds? Nobody, not even WP himself. The sodding bastard pulls out a neat .45 and aims at his chest. It looks all childish at first, just like the crayons and scribbled writing, being blown away by a sudden burst of wind. Then three loud claps rip through the air in 2 second intervals followed by the distinct smell of gun smoke. It was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen. Three red dots across WP’s chest spewing forth red ink downwards in a steady flow, down to his torso, down to his legs, past Our feet and past the fast gathering crowd, down the road & on & on & on it went, disappearing beyond horizons. His eyes, now devoid of their glow, seemed to follow the red on its unopposed path into the unknown. On… & On … & On…& On…
“Nothing thrills us anymore
No one kills us anymore
Life is such a chore
When its…
Boring” – The Pierces
