I found Pedro smoking in the garden. He didn’t smoke often, and when he did he only smoked opium, so I could probably stand to be around him, at least until the dragon ran away and the hysterics started again.
He waved slowly in front of a snotty lobotomy grin and I headed over. He was being talked at by a mutual acquaintance who was already far too drunk for polite setting.
He was one of those successful, good looking, well presented rich guys. He holidays in Marbella and attends champagne spraying parties. He is a tool. Everyone hates him. I certainly do.
I could see the eyes dotted around the garden staring at his loud lush exclamations, just waiting for an opportunity to call him a cunt. And who could blame them.
He ignored me and resumed barking, spitting clouds of jack Daniels and Ice chips over everyone within range.
I downed my drink and moved on to the bottle. There was a lot there. If the night runs too long I’ll just stick my fingers down my throat and move on to the whiskey.
He knew I didn’t care. He knew I wasn’t listening, but he steamrolled on anyway.
A barrage of tuts and tsks were bouncing around us from all corners of the garden, directed at the seemingly never-ending river of epithets, borderline jokes, and out and out offensive comments being imparted upon me. Recounted txt one liners about missing children, anecdotes about Mexican donkey shows and a myriad of jokes with punchlines of simply “rape”. It all came to a head when he began discussing the old funeral topic of conversation standard: racial extermination.
“…they did tests on it! they measured skulls! turns out black people actually ARE a different species!…”
unbelievable.
“…Im not saying we HAVE to kill them all, why cant we give them an island where they cant bother us…”
Pedro had fallen asleep standing up, and the social hand grenade lush’s eyes were glassily trying to bore through mine. I needed to escape.
“…not even just the blacks, all of them! The pakis, the Jews, those slopes from the other side of the world. Put them on an island and let them all fight over a bone, like the good old days. Its their heritage…”
He just continued, talking and spewing, and I couldn’t actually bring myself to walk away. It was fascinating. A journey into a truly scrambled mind. It created very surreal counterpoint to the rest of the mourners forced discussions about the weather, and as they got louder and louder trying to zone out these incredible statements, he got louder and louder, trying to tell me in no uncertain terms, exactly what was wrong with the world, and what the easiest option would be to sort it all out.
“…although, if Hitler hadn’t gotten lazy because of that Braun bitch, he might have had that all sorted out for us, and we wouldn’t even be in this mess…”
“…excuse me,”
A small voice had sidled up next to me. a sweet old lady was staring deep towards the ethanol soaked antagonist and with burning anger through polite facade said
“…but I find what you are saying to be extremely offensive.”
He was incredulous. Drunkenly indignant. my muscles wanted to move but my eyes and brain wouldn’t let them.
“OH MY GOD! in this day and age, a man cant even express an opinion without some overly PC old wench getting offended! who’s the real fascist here? The Nazis or you?”
She did exceptionally well at staying cool in the face of overwhelming obnoxiousness. she continued;
“true you are entitled to your opinion, but its just that my father was shot by the Nazis during the war. He was unarmed and they….
He cut in across her like a swaying, swivelling eyed reflex.
“Well, maybe he should have armed himself then…”
There were a few seconds of silence as the old lady just stared in shock, completely reeling from such a comment. Her eyes narrowed and the silence was broken by an almighty slap across the face of the useless lush.
He contorted to a carbon copy of the initial shocked expression, as smugness wiped the appalled look from her face, and after a few more seconds of silence, he lunged in with a headbutt right to the bridge of her nose.
Blood flicked across the crowd of deathly quiet onlookers. The lady let out a quick wail and slumped to the floor, sobbing.
More silence. Nobody knew quite how to react. I wanted to laugh. the attacker stood upright, wobbled for a second and grinned like a shiteater as burgundy streaks ran down his forehead, looking around for nods of approval, and lauds of “yeah, you sure showed that bitch”
Still more silence.
Two hulking beasts of grandsons appeared from nowhere and flanked us while a third cracked knuckles and stared daggers through sneers and wells of water on his eyelids. a middle aged woman tended screaming to the fallen crusader for social justice. Reality sobered up the tool like a sea breeze, and his knees started shaking from the adrenaline. He tried to speak but they didn’t want to hear it. They grabbed him and dragged him through a side gate, out front. Out onto the cobbles. Out into the street. Out into the wilderness, where animals destroy each other for minor infractions, and the savage is king.
I used the opportunity to detach myself completely from this argument. I wasn’t getting too involved. I was already too involved. I had to escape the immediate vicinity. I didn’t want to get too involved.
******
I went into the front room to view the ensuing carnage, safely through a window.
Two of the burlies were holding his arms behind his back, while a third took alternating shots through streams of tears at face, then gut, then solar plexus.
Truly amazing people.
Sharp suited gorillas that occupy the middle ground between human scum and salt of the earth. Such intense violence can be justified by the fact that they are defending an elderly relative’s honour.
They have no words or logic. They have hands that could crush a mans skull like a grape, and the same hands that are now gathering small brooks and rivers of coagulating blood in the grooves on their knuckles, also smell like chlorophyll from the bunch of posies they clutched all the way to grandmas house for morning tea, so swinging them wildly with intent to cave in eye sockets and detach jaws is perfectly rational behaviour at this point.
It wasn’t long before a cricket bat had been tossed into the arena by a braying crowd of local schoolchildren, who had gathered and were all screaming for human blood.
Team retribution let their prey slide to the floor like he had no bones, and one of them grabbed the bat.
High overhead arcs of wood came smashing down on the breaking, bluing bundle of rags, and his wails of “No, I’m sorry, I’ve had enough, Please!” became more and more muffled as his ribs folded inwards, his gums shed shattered teeth and his mouth filled with claret jack Daniels bile.
I missed the rest.
I had to step away from the buffet. The smell of the egg mayonnaise sandwiches was making me feel sick.
I moved back to the lounge. When I arrived the congregation had moved on from badly played piano, to drums skinned with pig bladders and had daubed themselves in warpaint. They were still passing the corpse around, slower now, and his head was bobbing and lolling rhythmically to the sub throb of the drums. A combination of spring heat and worthless pickled onion embalming techniques meant that Edgars nose was flaking off his face, there was an eyeball in an ashtray, and the place stunk of vinegar and something unimaginable, but still he was being sent round the room like a Mexican wave.
It wouldn’t be long before they began feasting on the flesh. I heard someone mention earlier how they do things in New Guinea. The seeds had already been planted. I could see in their eyes just from glancing around the room that they were about three drinks and just a few mushy old anecdotes from cracking his cranium like a boiled egg and sucking his brains and devouring any remnants of his soul.
Anyone here could argue that its their prerogative. They are grieving. Would you like to try to stop them?
I decided at that point that it was time to leave. No made excuses, no embraces, No goodbyes or well wishes, i just had to fucking leave. Valium can only do so much, i didn’t want to ruin my whole week.
I turned away from the carnage and headed for the door, thankfully still emotionally numb and buzzing from the drinks.
I had wasted the last few hours of my life amongst people I didn’t know or care for, and stolen their drinks, and had made only two minor reflections on mortality:
Firstly; that life itself isn’t all wine and blowjobs, and if you make it far enough you will just end up a burden to anyone who loved or cared for you, and if you don’t make it far enough you will be ever remembered (however unintentionally) as a bitter disappointment to everyone who wanted five more minutes of your presence.
and secondly, that after a whole life of events, doing speaking, being, you could have a million mourners, been revered deity like in life by many and even have God or the Devil come down to personally escort you by hand to the afterlife, but there will always be someone who walks away from your final send off scornfully squinting at the people you’ve left behind, or derisively laughing at whatever you’ve achieved.
or worse still and as evidenced by myself, they could walk away and resume their life just not giving a shit
