Archive for the ‘The Diarrhea of a Midnight Crawler’ Category

It has been a while since I paid Mike Midnight a visit.

As always he was at his old office in Al Balad’s Shabsough area. The above illustration is the result of an hour and a half meeting with him. Love him or hate him the man has stripped this concrete jungle down to its bare iron bones revealing an underground growth of human monsters accompanied by a host of vicious cockroaches intent on mischief.

If you want to get inside this Gumshoe’s head here is a useful entrance:

Mind you he has a vicious tongue and his words are not suitable for the faint of heart!

– Usually not suitable for the faint of heart but this post is okay –

The year 2048.

It was a rather surreal moment.

The aircraft slowed down until it was parallel to the alien vehicle. “It is now or never,” Midnight said to himself, as he rolled down the window before incessantly pressing, with the back of his palm, the horn. The leader of the alien aircraft adjusted his position in order to catch glimpse of the driver of the speeding vehicle that was now so close to his.

“Jama suity chewiebacca fala fel hom-ass. Kala wata wati tito teezak ya ghabi homara pota!” Midnight yelled as he flipped the birdie at the shocked alien, “and as we say in earth lingo: Screw you you idiot. Lose the license to ill and stop driving. Piece of shit specimen!”
Midnight then hastily pressed the TBNICOPAA (short for Turbo Booster Now In Case of Potential Alien Attack) hoping to disappear into the horizon, especially that the angry alien armed its aircraft weapons.

While some enjoy the warmth of their beds at 6:00 a.m. in the morning one man is always out there; roaming the badlands of Planet Jordania: Midnight V, the solitary asphalt-farer.

To be continued or not …

Everything was on the wrong side especially sound. His fingers pressed tighter on the steering wheel. He wanted to affirm the fact that he was in control and not the entity.

“I am in control therefore I exist. Fuck you Descarte!”

A car shot past him. “The sound came from the right yet the car was to the left of my vehicle. Shit!”

Led Zeppelin’s That’s the Way was playing on the radio by an obscure presenter. With a single glance that scanned the vehicle’s three mirrors he eyed the fading road behind, and was able to see the entity approaching like a beast salivating after a prey.

His heart sunk and so did his foot, pushing the pedal to the metal.

He is in for quite a ride, and if all goes as planned, so is that vicious entity that is trying to engulf his being.

– Usually not suitable for the faint of heart but this post is okay –

The fiery flow in the unfathomed depths is rising. The acidic vomit has reached the esophagus. Weighed down by the bills of reality he is unable to move freely in the imaginary world.
Tired the writer decides to drink rum with his favorite author and journalist. He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a  water pistol that he safely tacks in his overcoat’s right pocket.
“You never know what might show up in those dark cerebral alleys!” he says to himself. Locking the doors he presses the lift’s button. Nothing! The elevator’s prehistoric engine doesn’t whir its usual symphony compliments of screechy cogs and oiled leather belts.
“Stuck again! Damn!”
With steps that are more like leaps he reaches the entrance of the old building that resembles the facade of a run down theatre in Al Balad (Down Town).
Spitting the gum, that lost its taste, the same way the memory of a teenage summer camp love affair fades in time, out of his mouth into the rat and cockroach infested drain he heads out to a pub not far away in his mind. After few minutes walk he finds himself in front of a shady establishment in Havana, Cuba.
The street sign reads, El Gato Loco. The moment he pulls the entrance handle fog-like smoke streams out the door.
There he is. His friend. Sitting with all the worries of the world buried deep in a young mind trapped in an old man’s body. He doesn’t show it. He will go out to the sea in about an hour or two.
His right muscled and hairy forearm is laid on the old wooden edge of the bar, inviting strangers to a manly game of arm wrestling, while his left arm is wrapped around the waist of a beautiful mulata.
He hasn’t shaven for a while. He is grumpy yet of jolly disposition that is obvious to everyone present. If life’s force was visible one would have been able to see it coming out of his pores and dripping from his furrowed brow.
He was talking out loud.
“Your sensibilities do not concern me. True one has to write for the ordinary reader but one must not relinquish his/her self while doing so. Writing is art reflective of one’s soul. You not only put your words on that piece of paper; you put yourself. You don’t see people complaining about paintings they do not understand. They simply refuse to talk about such paintings because they are afraid of being mistaken for idiots. Anyone can write and paint simple and that’s what gets them excited; a language they understand and that will move their swollen lips. Well, maybe they are idiots for not wanting to understand … a man’s effort, work, life … etc …etc … bullshit!” Hemingway barks.
His heartily laugh echoes across the stuffy room that smells of burnt out cigars, alcohol, cheap aftershave and delicious perfume.
“Welcome Mike! What brings you to Havana tonight? Have you seen Nick on the way here? You look thirsty dear boy. How about a drink of rum?”
I smile, take up the glass from his shaky hand, down its contents and go back to work. On the way back to my office I think to myself, “ADD is a bitch especially when you end up writing pieces of fragmented fiction instead of work! “

To be continued or not …

Blog art:

L’assassin  (Ink on A4 paper, canon scanner and Photoshop CS3) by SARDINE (Mike V. Derderian)

By Homo sapien …. .. ………

– Not suitable for the faint of heart –

Lately I’ve been hitting the bottle a lot. I hit so many bottles last month my knuckles started to ache. Broken glass is never good for your skin, or bones for that matter, especially if you are not wearing gloves.

You’d think I am a boxer!

Well I am not! I am a disillusioned son-of-a-bitch-writer who has been writing for the past six years for an invisible crowd. Does it matter who reads these words? A social media pundit would say yes. I say I don’t know or I don’t give a shit!

For six years he typed words on a slow processor in a disorganized half-empty office. Everyday and like an eager housewife he poured the words that were inside his head, with the visuals he collected from his daily Down Town Amman walks, inside that processor to create the stuffing for meaty stories.

In the end three colleagues moved on, one died from cancer and a broken heart, and he stayed. He stayed there until the very end. It was a great job with great people but he was tired of writing about other people. He simply wanted to write about characters.

Two years ago that journalist decided to pull the plug and flush a six year career down the toilet in pursuit of a Black and White rainbow(C). He didn’t want the pot of gold he just wanted the rainbow; whatever that meant!

Mutual friends tell me that he is still typing words on his spare time; not like before though. Got a call from him the other day; a one minute call.

“How is the bitch – life – treating you?” I asked.

“I have a steady job and that’s something,” he answered.

“So do you have any regrets?” I shoot another question.

“A few … maybe … but you know something Midnight every now and then I’d meet someone who’d faintly remembers my name by association. If you ask me I still can’t get around writing for free. Not that anyone is asking me to write for free, and if they do they want me to write about current affairs, politics and blah blah. Anyway listen I have to hung up! Take care,” he concluded.

I haven’t heard from him since!

“Name by association …” That’s great if you are living on Planet Nepotism a.k.a Amman, Jordan!

Enough talk about writers! Heading to work today I came across what seemed to be an alcohol orgy that was probably organized by two under-aged dipsomaniacs who probably think pleasure and machismo come from the confines of a labeled phallic shaped-glass container the contents of which they swallow like eager prostitutes. A half full beer bottle stood tall next to two empty gin bottles.

Unlike young men whose nights are haunted by Jinn and tonic my nights are haunted by words and sentences.

If you think hitting the bottle is bad for your knuckles think again compadre! Well, if I’ve learned anything from this cruel city in the past few months it is: Excess love and respect are as bad. Don’t love or respect those walking and talking vermin that sell you love and respect between the lines with SpongeBob googly eyes. Bastards! How will you spot them? Don’t worry they will spot you first!

[He lets the cigarette fall to the ground. With the heel of his eroded sole he extinguishes what was the only light in the dark corner of that night.]

To be continued or not …

By Homo sapien …. .. ………

– Not suitable for the faint of heart –

Another notch on the wall. Another cockroach dead. Shit happens especially if you have six feet, a crusty body and can fit under the sole of a shoe. Try to evolve before the next century!

Long time I know. Well I still haven’t found the answer to that cursed question: Why would a cockroach go into a bathroom? Any clue … Thought so! But if you have an idea feel free to interrupt me.

I don’t have a thing against this city: My city. I have a thing against its people. The Japanese are breathing life into electronic chips and here in this part of the world people still argue if the channel settings on your magic box, that keeps you glued to your seat and miss out on the moon, should be in Arabic or English.

Others in this city and very stupidly still play on the race and origins card whenever someone shouts reform. Fuck you you piece of shit lowlife! How dare you play with my birthplace. Who gave you the right to say who stays and who goes you cunt! Born and raised in this city, and in this country, means you are from this city, and from this country. Period! Then again that’s just my opinion and I won’t shove it down one’s throat without a glass of water.

I decided that in order for you to get through this post sane I will limit my word count to 500 words + 100 maybe, more or less. But I won’t exceed 700 words. Don’t want to lose your short attention span.

Yeah I am a self righteous bastard who thinks he knows it all. Me against the world. Well let us say when it comes to the things i know; I know a little but not that much but enough to get me by in this rat and roach infested city.

Woke up the other day feeling squished by the weight of an invisible force. I felt tired and exhausted. For the past few months I was running around like a man standing on a treadmill that refuses to stop. I even stopped using blankets so as to reduce the weight of the dreams that are pinning my head to the dump pillow.

I also placed scissors under my mattress so as to clip the wings of thieving seraphs that dare visit my room in order to take me on a nightly flight. “Away with your gilded dreams of fancy and eternity. Why take me to all these tremendous heights of emotional color and light, at night, when you know you shall bring me down at dawn, and leave me experiencing nothing but mortal misery.”

To be continued or not …

The Midnight Crawler: Just Plain Creepy

By Homo sapien …. .. ………

– Not suitable for the faint of heart –

He could hear it burn. Inhale…exhale. He could hear it as it cracked revealing a gray seam through which a reddish blaze filtered.  Inhale…exhale. The heat coming from it is burning the top of his mouth. After a few minutes it no longer burned.

Fling! A faint thud followed. He can hear a needle fall if he wanted but he never was able to hear the voice of reason that constantly and most devotedly beseeched him to live.

After stepping on the butt of what was once a much sought after cigarette the young man gazed through the iron bars, sighed and headed back to the office.

Cigarettes burn a hole through your pockets! He doesn’t smoke out of fear for his health but out of fear of burning his money. They, health experts and the general surgeon, say cigarettes can cause cancer! So they say yet no one listens!

Years ago and before someone blew the whistle on the cigarette industry a cowboy leaning over a horse offering another cowboy a cigarette was the epitome of cool.

I wanted to be that cowboy when I grew up. What happened? I realized Jordan is filled with sheep.

“Howdee mam! I am Mike Midnight! A Sheepboy from Amman.” Sadly, saying your a Sheepboy is not like saying your a Cowboy! Imagine Kid Rock singing, “Sheepboy Baby!”

No need to read between the lines for this one for I am going to say it bluntly here: Life is filled with backstabbing cowards and cowardly sheep that simply make the lives of decent folk harder!

Cowards like the bastard piece of shit no good for nothing cunt idiot fcuk worthless scum sewage water crap bird shit piss sicko man-bitch whore who published a false story about a man, who just wanted to do his job, on a website that supposedly promotes freedom of speech and professional journalism. I hope satan’s lowliest minion takes him up as his toilet brush in the afterlife.

It’s been a while since I crawled around these parts. Been busy running after rent money! “Them suckers are fast,” a little man wearing a sheepboy hat whispered in my ear. He was referring to the paychecks that one has to rope at the end of each month.

Ever seen an anthropomorphic cockroach sipping Amstel beer on a hot day? Now that’s a sight to see. Don’t mix your booze and drive cause you might end up killing someone. Walk but don’t run. Crawl but don’t walk. Keep on walking. What a brilliant ad! As if an intoxicating drink that is supposed to knock you senseless will allow you to walk.

I am not worried about my receding hairline. I am not worried about my deteriorating body. I am worried about my soul.

Burn baby burn! One way ticket to the blues!

I am not the voice of truth, I am not the voice of reason, I am just a voice echoing across a concrete wilderness! How concrete is that wilderness? Pretty concrete!

I am sickened. This city is more and more sickening me. I love it and I hate it more. The more I live in it the more I love it yet I also hate it the same way an angry child would spend the afternoon hating an angry parent, who just broke his or her favorite toy. It will pass!

I am sick and tired of perfectionists seeking imperfections. I just want to type these words and slice open my paragraphs so that words pour out unto the white screen. Finally some piece of mind. I call it imaginary literary suicide. I am filled with imperfections. They say I am human. I believe them. I try to listen to the wall. Nothing! I try to go through the wall. Nothing! I try to look up! I dare not! The silence is killing me. I know! I know! I know!

The wanabees are in control and the has-beens are more and more having it their way.  Crosses and nails are prepared to those who dare oppose them. What does that leave me with?  Less care. What does that turn me into ? Careless. What will that do to me? I care less. I am sifting through everything. I am thinking of breaking the hourglass to collect the running sand into a leather satchel made out of durable human skin.

Then again maybe not! Who knows when the wind will blow and scatter the pebbles.

In case you’re wondering! I still haven’t found out why a cockroach would venture into your bathroom. Voila. No verdict—for the time being. They seem to be in it just for dabbling in shit.

“Vague were my visual recollections of the vicissitude of thine visage after our first verbal encounter. I realized how vibrant and volatile your character was. However, virulent are my thoughts of that day you referred to me as V as thine vivacious smile overshadowed thine venerable manner. True, at first I was lost by thine velvety long locks that vie with that of fair Venus but no sooner I heard the velocity of thine voice I was left with ease and pleased to have met with thee valiant Evey,” V declares to a distraught Evey Hammond, while they are dancing at the eve of his revolution, at his secret hideout.

I am no Alan Moore. False humility prevents me from declaring that I wrote the above paragraph in one sitting but it does not prevent me from including that previous line, “I wrote the above paragraph in one sitting” here. Confusing right! Ask me to recite it by heart I will tell you to F off. I have a very bad memory. If I had a good memory I would have become a renowned stage actor six years ago.

What was that! A short interlude to allow you to shut your computer screen and go microwave some popcorn, while the bullshit  I write continues a few paragraphs more.

Now to the tragic part of this literary vomit and diarrhea of a midnight crawler!

Why would a Homo sapien put a chair and sit in a bathroom serving other Homo sapiens? Livelihood! A way to become invisible!

People, men and women, alike pass those men whose morbid eyes are focused on the frayed ends of the mop with which they are mopping the wet floor, the shit-covered tissue filled receptacles they are emptying, the soap bottles they are re-filling and the toilet seats and sinks they are cleaning.

Do we greet them or wish them well-being and health? No we pretend like they don’t exist or are part of our lives.

Now that’s a shitty job if you ask me. So here is a line for those who constantly complain about life’s fairness and how their lives are hard and their jobs demanding: Stop bitching about your JD 450 – JD 500 – JD 600 – JD 1000 – JD 1500 desk job you pieces of shit and shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up!

You think your lives suck! Look around and see the hundreds of people who are less fortunate than you and who dabble in shit for less than JD 180 – 200.

You think a hemorrhoids suck just because a doctor gave you the thumb up; well wait until that very same doctor shoves a cold metallic object up your nether hole.

Why would a young man or a woman, more like a teenager, withstand such a situation? He and she probably don’t have much of a choice unlike you, my dear reader, who has the luxury to read this.

If you’ve reached this far I wish to thank you and ask you not to be offended by my words for I assure you that you will be offended more by people you love and care for. It hurts when the knife is pushed by a familiar hand.

Remember the above are the words of an imaginary character living inside the head of a deranged Homo sapien that you most probably don’t know and will never meet.

To be continued or not …