There is a small room. Old, renovated and fully furnished. Visitors are led to it. He walks on stolid grounds a trail leading to that place of shelter; the temperatures soaring, on hot-baked soils. Reaching deep his buggy trouser pockets he shovels a rusty bunch of keys. On the corroded buckle it reads "ROOM 6." Through the webbed and hideous keyhole he unsuccessfully peeps, and acknowledging his failure he unreels, unfolds and; tilting it through the keyhole bangs the door open. He forces his way in and stands aghast, hands akimbo and mouth agape, cogitating sagaciously the delightful wonders within. But for a time he is interrupted and frightened, as the wooden door makes a creak-creaky sound and with the rush of a mighty tempest slums neat into its frame sockets. He shakes it off, and letting down his travelling bag to the floor, braces himself to excite his senses by making himself familiar with the incessant wonders of the seeming small compartment now turned, in a blink, into an immense Disney wonderland...
He sleeps on the tomb thinking he lies on an ivory bed. He drinks from a straw in a coconut calabash, pure fruit juice he thinks; not realising he drinks human blood from a human skull. As he turns and unwinds from his head and blankets, little does he note of the expectations and anticipations of a billion souls underneath. For every tilt and turn he makes, however slight though it may be, unbalances that vessel of hell floating on a fiery sea of molten lava and burning sulphur. As the vehicle of damnation swings of the see-saw of destiny, those disembodied lost souls shift from a gleam of hope to eternal desperation as the forces of nature that spell fortune and good luck pend on the scale of fate. There is no rest.
Not acknowledging his fortune or privileges of having been a guest in this magnificent world of the living, even his bed of supposed rest and refreshment defines rebellion. Besides him lies a feminine nude figure, not his wife. He has strangled her for requesting the sum of her services rendered in cash and full as agreed previously. Mushrooms of smoke escape his mouth shaped In the V shape of woe, enveloping the surrounding space in a sheet of haze. His stereo-type radio adds to the hellish scene the ghostly character of inaudible nuisance. This organised noise, passed through the refinery studio unit, he calls music. And he bends down to reach for a glass of whisky adding to the gruesome temperament of this man-made inferno.
Only if he had the rare fortune of sliding from his bed unsinkable, for a while, to the world under; and have the terrible experience of observing and noting...what lies beneath!
When you pass through the central state cemetery, entering through the Cross gate, turn left. Throw your eyes a whole six yards. A tombstone in white terrazzo encased with glittering germs; and huge black characters on its epitaph spells "General Eduardo Gaul." That's me. I was great in the land of the living, more than some of you still living. I do not have to recite my story or rewrite my history here. The war cemetery where the richest and distinguished in patriotism and genius are enshrined, the title that comes before my name and the rich history assembled and embedded into the rich veins of our national archives and libraries; these shall prove a nourishing source to the curious and enquiring mind. This testimony written on flesh of human corpses and a pen of blood is meant to warn the careless living of my unfortunate fate and their impending doom. You can be sure that,
"As you are so once was I. As i am so soon you shall be."
The only difference being, as long as you live there is probation. When you are finally dead, it's all over. You deeds follow you.A brave warrior in the Second World War I was awarded the iron cross. Cursing and swearing, bottles and women, and violence that mostly define a soldiers way of life, desensitised by opium, bloodshed and related abuses that disorient the human psych; all these were not only a habit but a sacrament of life.
Left homeland with hope. Fought for the freedom of mankind from the terrors of one ruffian's dream of welding hellish monarchy over an unbounded dominion; where one super-race dictates to the world like a helpless sex slave whose master's cruelty know no restraint. Good fight and noble course indeed .we passed through the garrison, down the helicopters and doing infantry, facing the ardent belligerent. Sometimes chuckling at the canteen. Stampeding, with the sound of rifles and gunshot. Days of smoke and manmade storms through the inventive trickery of technology, and nights lit by the fireworks of artificial-volcanic eruptions; whose ferocious heat and ash crusted our skin texture and so hardened and deaden our hearts of all human feeling or sympathy. Until the murders of soldiery become a joyous duty and torture and the witness of suffering a pleasure.In the battle line, no bullet touched me. No enemy however clever or strong could bayonet me. The rage and madness of warfare never completely ruined the human soul in me. I could still experience the phases and cycles of thought, ambition, happiness and sorrow. Still possessed the capacity to love and be loved. And as long as I had my way, no hatred or hate broke loose. The fame and popularity that accompanies greatness offered me unbounded opportunities to sin; and accord myself the chief of it. Maybe, this is what brought my downfall.
This night I chose myself a different drinking pub. A retired soldier's retreat. A decent place in the country. Some sprinkling showers after the heavy rains and now and then lightening would split the dark skies; and take a quick snapshot of the gloom earth humble by the incessant downpour. Appearing as the all-seeing eye recording the final account of a human legend on an unerring photographic plate. And the poor mortal never knew but that he was performing his final act in his brief episode of life. The very last frames that would be the decider. In a grey combat gear, military boots and a brown Chicago Bulls cap, I jumped from my Range Rover. Without a rain coat, and fumbled for the entertainment unit. This day it was entertaining indeed, very.
Stepping up the steps to the door into the sinner's paradise, my sight was startled and my way blocked. In the fog that emanated from hence stood a human figure, like a female figurine. So obscure was the sight you can understand, was not drunk though, but the strength of my vision could be excused at my age. It was a human angel but wingless. The type that just keeps you busy and takes you nowhere; as I came to understand through the drainage of years. But this time I was too willing to re-experiment and out date the wisdom and knowledge of ages.
Leaning on the doorpost on a shoulder, she was a marvel to behold. Beginning from the sandaled feet with silver plaited nails supporting the fleshy and tender muscle of the biceps never failed exciting some libido having injected in me a whiz of foot fetish. This morphological wonder run all through her tempting framework, her massive thighs that fit into those curvy hip sockets; hidden but by some few centimetres of a miniskirt that denied me progress into her secrets. Even by this time my head had already lost all sensibility and the seat of reason and judgment was ultimately dethroned. Passion held sway and the bodily reactions and jostling of hormones could be felt. For a time madness became my frontal lobe.
She turned me on. And when she walked toward me with all that body language and facial expressions, oh my word, I was enraptured by the sight. She touched me on the hip on the border of my belt as she turned in a circle and embraced me; smiling challengingly as she pulled me against her. The showers that began to strengthen fell down her flowing hair reaching down her shoulders, as some meander down her face. Splitting on the ridge of her nose, round and down the drainage of her mouth to her smooth sharp chin that smelled a billion kisses; and finally leaped like a torrent to her bare chest and trickled down amidst her breast. Wetting her flowery blouse made of light fabric whose shrinking property combined with the adhesive power of water gave one stout and stubborn projection to her breast and nipples; making my temptations irresistible and self control a zillion times impossible. And the irrational decision that followed can be excused at the inspiration of the hour.
All of us wet and drenched, submerged in an ocean of borrowed passionate affection, rushed back to the van. She dictated every move as we opened the front door of that military car at snail's pace as we gormandized in an erotic fester. The General and international hero of world war now under the command of a tantalising tart in an overwhelming female domination scene. Thrown on the rear seat, tied to the seatbelt and to the steering wheel by my own belt, I lay prostrate like a helpless baby; as she climbed over my lap. Running her electrifying fingers zigzagging my belly she began unbuttoning my shirt, as she bent over to offer me a taste of her lip succulents, before I doused my tongue in her juices.
Lying like that I closed my eyes to receive her and feel her passion. And so lying straight like that, with my eyes eternally closed to the land of the living, is the tombstone you see. Six feet deep, encased in a coffin, are the skeletal remains of once the greats of earth. And beyond those immutable evidence of an almost forgotten and lost civilisation is the soul of one wishing and ever crying out loud, begging the mercies of gods unseen of a second chance. One second chance which shall never be granted, as one last eyeball of mine gets gouged by the intense heat of the inferno down here; ready to fall out at any moment. To enter into the very dark and dismal land of shadows like three quarters of friends around me. So warn that careless soul.
...and this was my testimony.