Machine gun Road (short story)

Fiction is fact distilled into truth.
~ Edward Albee

INTRO

Dark. Damp. Cold.
London?
Can’t be! I don’t have a passport.
Time? Feels like midnight to my aching bones.
Can’t be! The stereo is playing loudly.
Our neighbors hate music at night.
Well, They hate it all the time.
Maybe they hate our music because they can’t understand it?
Maybe it’s us they hate? our freedom?
The local police also hate our music and us.
They’ll hate us more if they were to find all this shit lying around in the flat. She would not play music this loudly if it were midnight with all this shit we have.
Can’t be midnight for sure!
Now waking up and looking at the clock won’t do me any good as it’s been dead for months.
Can the clock run backwards if the batteries are reversed?
Can it go back in time to the day I set my foot in this den for the first time?
Will that do me any good?
Perhaps no.
She is not bad after all.
The only woman I’ve known.
The only woman I’ve loved.
Where the hell is she?
May be gone out to get us some food?
Junk food for the junkies.
No one is a born junkie, she said.
Chance meeting of incompatible sperm and egg.
Born in mediocre times.
Born to be taught by mediocre teachers.
Born to be entertained by mediocre artists.
Born to be ruled by mediocre politicians.
Born to be part of mediocre societies.
Yet expected to be a genius!
Not a junkie!
I hate it!
I hate rains!
Rains laced with gases and chemicals.
Rains pouring misery, confusion and depression on the ground.
Dark. Damp. Cold.
London must be the junkie capitol of the world.

OUTRO

“B.I.T.C.H.”
“Get your gator ass off the sofa!”

Time?
Dazed and confused.
What is the fucking time?
Dazed and confused.
Stop the fucking song please! I hate Zeppelin! Bitch loves them!
Is the song really on?
Is it playing in my head?
Dazed and confused. I really hate Zeppelin!

“What is the time?”
“It’s evening my brain damaged gator boy and we gotta go.”

Evening?
It means I missed my afternoon practical class. Again! Fuck!
Did we shoot Madhubala in the morning?
Dazed and confused.

“I missed my fucking practicals because of you!”
“Really? Fuck you!”
“Fuck you!”
“We did that in the morning and it was bad as fuck my gator boy.”

Did I have sex with her today?
Dazed and confused.

“Stop that fucking song please!”
“What song? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Fuck!
The fucking thing has been fucking playing in my fucking head! Fucking Led fucking Zeppelin!

“Where are you going?”
“We are going. Machine gun Road. Mali’s place.”

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She is an angel. Especially when she is driving. Angel of death. While driving she only deals in millimeters. Millimeters away from vehicles. Millimeters away from accidents. Millimeters away from certain death.

“The fucking thing only has two wheels and it can’t fucking fly!”
“Mama’s gator boy is scared! I hope baby gator’s got his diapers on!”

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“Fuck! My fucking tongue!”
“The tea is hot gator boy.”
“Where the hell is Mali the motherfucker?”
“He’ll be here soon, don’t worry.”

Mali the peddler. Mali the gimp. I hate the motherfucker but circumstances in which I get to meet him makes him look like a limping angel slowly limping his way across the street towards the tea stall where we are sitting. Mali the gimp I love him!

“What do you mean you don’t have Madhubala? Don’t play games with me Mali! Didn’t I pay you upfront?”

What? No Madhubala? Mali the gimp! I hate this bastard! He likes to brag how a police bullet is the reason for his limp but in reality his wife broke his leg after catching him in bed with her own mother. How wonderful it would have been had she broken his other leg too! Wait! How would Mali supply us without a single leg? No! No! That can’t be! Mali is an okay mother-in-law-fucker. He has a sense of humor too. Madhubala for heroin, Coca Cola for cocaine, Machine gun Road for A.K. Road. Mali the gimp I love him!

“Okay then, fix us some Coca Cola for now and make sure you get us Madhubala by the weekend.”

What? No Madhubala till the weekend! The whole fucking week is jam-packed with practical classes! How will I survive without Madhubala?

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“Fuck!”
“Sorry about that gator boy! I didn’t see that fucking pothole!”
“Why are we stopping?”
“Gotta get us some food. Aren’t you hungry?”
“I need Madhubala!”
“Gotta do with Coca Cola for now gator boy. I’m ordering sandwiches for us.”

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Lines. Holy lines. Five of them. Five lines and two persons? Three for me and two for her? Or Three for her and two for me? I hate fucking math!

“What are you doing? We are not snorting before sandwiches. I’m going for a quick shower so you be a good gator baby and wait for me.”

She has a habit of singing and humming while taking a shower and her voice is good too. My bird for sure can sing!

“What song is that?”
“Dazed and confused. Zeppelin.”

Fuck!
You not only share drugs, booze, body, food, joy, sorrow in love; you also share gremlins.

“Do you know where Machine gun Road begins?”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you why but, you tell me first.”
“It begins near Mali’s stall, doesn’t it?”
“Right! But, do you know where does it end?”
“Nope! I have absolutely no idea!”
“Well, it literally ends up at a crematorium!”
“B.I.T.C.H.”


 Date: January 23, 2019
 Tags:  story original
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