by Frank J. Eliot
Fuck. It’s another wasted evening and we encounter again the dirty rotten neon sign luring the lurking crowds into the densest den of the incoherent monstrosity that devours blocks, streets, buildings in its grayish and ferocious pharynx. my brain numbed to be functional. Finally the greetings are exchanged.
Thud Thud Thud Thud Thud Thud Thud. Bang Bang Banging, Fuck Fuck Fucking, hammering the fucking shit out of my ears. I mean honestly, what is it with this plastic electronic trash these days? Take a bit of good old Beethoven, mix it with a little Bach, stir the stew while adding some Van Halen and a pinch of Elvis – there you go, shredding the gems in a mighty machine spitting out acoustic thumps and bytes. I know it’s not my time to be nostalgic, yet, or in any way reminiscently hankering after ….whatever, but something smells particularly rotten these days.
John finally produces the stash. Pregaming. Damn, it’s freezing out here. Untypically cold for spring season. – April.
“There you go bitches. This is the elixir! – Getting you ruthlessly fucked like your lousy mothers!” - ruthless. always ruthless. John.
“Woooohaaa, letz rock, bitches! Tonight’s gonna be deeestruction!!!” – Let’s rock? Pink Floyd’s rock, Led Zeppelin’s rock, The Doors are ROCK, …but this… music inevitably doomed in favor of Stone Age rituals – well no – fuck that – even that was better music than the ‘stepping in the dub’ or the ‘bassing on the drum’. Culture – what is culture anyway? … sickness slowly rising. I’m not used to this anymore. Carpe noctem, quam minimam credula posterae.
“Luke, what’s the fucking matter with you?” I poke him in the side with my frozen elbow.
“Dude, leave him alone”, Matt intervenes.
“Some cunt ungracefully dumped his sorry ass.”, John says. – God I fucking love swearwords. cunt. cunt. cunt. but what’s so fascinating about it? Everyone says it – no one shrinks back when it’s uttered anymore…well – except for cunts.
“Fuck Christ, you couldn’t show more empathy could you?”, I interject.
“Come on, you know exactly what I mean”, John replies. “The more you try to ignore it, the more it fucks you up. Steer into the fucking skid! Be a fucking man for once! I mean, that’s the thing about bitches: when a bitch slides on frozen ground with her car, she screams while hitting the brakes, whereas a man is biologically apt to keep calm in the very same situation. That’s quite similar to what this Dorvin-guy says, or whatever.”
Medieval misogyny – almost politically correct in dull days like these. The modern misogynistic alpha-male does not insult, he invests, he steals, he fucks his neighbors, making sure that the glass ceiling is bulletproof once and for all, only mirroring the estranged and grotesque faces of narcissistic nihilists. Does that make John … a feminist? degredior ad absurdum.
The smells start to rise. A Strong stench of alcohol produces its protective clouds without silver linings above the waiting line that forms up like a violently voluptuous serpent in front of the dirty stairs that promiscuously lure us down into the Babylon Club, down to the ancient lake.
Sweat – already perceivable in the open air, prophesying a stifling experience. Thump Thump Thump. seven flourishes :
keep your hands up in the air! keep your hands up in the air! keep your hands up in the air! keep your hands up in the air! keep your hands up in the air! keep your hands up in the air! keep your hands up in the air!
Again thumping, thudding, thrashing monotonously the weary, yet delirious minds of worn out customers - consumers. Still, I do not criticize, I observe – I do not judge, I watch – I do not command, I comment – comment on fucking everything. Voyeur and commentator, the quintessential bond of our time: status updated: gonna be a long nite – john being “ruthless” again^^ : three likes in an instant.
At the same time I ask myself why I did that. Ennui. For what reason or purpose? Number of likes rising up to 7:
Hypocrite lecteurs, - mes semblables, - mes frères.
Inside. dancing shadows moving under a shrouded sky. the starring glance of the basilisk snuffing out contours, sense, meaning.
reductio ad absurdum.
Lights flickering nervously, piercing through my eyes – a kaleidoscopic cornucopia of gold, silver, green, vermillion. I lost sight of my fellow companions, but I don’t care. drink – I need a drink. I order a glass of red wine (Merlot, dry), whereupon the barman seems to frown upon my apparently odd request. people are strange… He pours me a glass of it anyway while Nancy Sinatra is being shamelessly raped by David Guetta. A soothing river of fire is running down my esophagus. “Please barman, can I have some more?” Now he’s obviously being pissed-off.
Sweaty shoulders to my left, sweaty shoulders to my right. trapped. I feel an abrupt percussion. red fluid spattering the floor like blood splashing on the battlegrounds in a Zack Snyder-movie. glass bursting on the floor:
Fragments of a world lying shattered in pieces. no gravity, no roof, no nutshell holding them together. I see a distorted reflection of lights mirrored by the splinters of glass, but eye can’t see me. We celebrate diversity without letting it into our hearts – constantly confined by the inexhaustible variety of infinite options, narcissistically obsessed with and convinced of our own self-inflicted nihilism. degredior ad absurdum.
My imparted view slowly pans towards a young girl who dances promiscuously in the center of the dance-floor. Meanwhile, the DJ abuses The White Stripes with his huge computer cock – a ‘one nation army’ sneaking up Jack White’s innocent butthole. She seems to be too young to be here, too young to wear lipstick like that, and yes – too young to reveal a cleavage like that, and yes her voluptuous mouth seems to promise oral gratification to at least ten horny suckers swaying their threatening bodies against the rhythm very close to her. She doesn’t seem to be scared, clinging to her large Touchdown cocktail, confidently playing her well-rehearsed role – a role she had been forced into a long time before she was born. furtive male glances stripping her naked. burn her. pierce through her flesh. She disappears behind a wall of predators.
blur. light. scattered voices shouting, pointing, waving. I feel elbows, hands, bones in my sides. my vision still blurred. a motionless sweaty body lifted up above the wild ocean of the crowd which gradually ceases its raving. the girl. mouth wide open, eyes closed, crowd-surfing towards the Exit-sign. her large breasts flapping like the broken wings of a dove. prey to the stifling air.
Outside. Costumers, owners, barkeepers, bouncers and the predators form a circle around the still motionless body. Suddenly everyone seems to care. Everyone pretends to have a personal stake in the girl’s life. The music’s over. No thudding, thumping or thrashing anymore. I feel dizzy. I want to go home. The gloomy silhouettes of the great monstrosity fade against the fiery sky of dawn.
The girl was dead.
Publication Date: 09-21-2015
All Rights Reserved
Gewidmet ist diese Geschichte, wie alles was ich noch schreiben werde, meiner wunderbaren Frau, die mich täglich inspiriert.