Brown Waters Pt. 4

The devil fucks with you, so, whenever possible, you fuck the devil. Fuck him hard, screw the motherfucker and pin him to the toilet floor. That was logic, that was a conviction. For him, it was that simple. Then he realized that the damn bastard was just another actor in this fucked up game called life, albeit the one in possession of the entire cheat codes within his tablet device.

However, new epiphanies appeared. He realized that the devil was not the root of all evil. He believed that the poor bastard had been victimized by the abominable bipedal who call themselves human. Later he realized that it wasn’t even victimization at all, it was simply a play of words, to sell chocolates. Fucking chocolates. Indonesian chocolates, 15 percent sugar, 10 percent coloring agent, and 75 percent marketing campaign.

Since that day Agam had been trying to float around and about the devil makers who -at the same time – sell evil-repellent chocolates. The realization was a refreshing experience for him, it was refreshing to see that the world is actually nothing but a barren landscape where people, not the devil, just simply fuck each other.

The sound of the adhan began to fill his head now. The driver left the car a few minutes ago, that was quite punctual. Men walked in and out of the mosque, not many, but some. No women. It’s one of the most terrible adhan he had ever heard, the voice of an old guy, squealing like a woman stepping on shit.

Some kids were playing around a new scooter by the side of a provincial road, a small road that would only fit 2 trucks. Some of these kids would die, way before the legal age of riding a motorcycle, when cars hit their small hyperactive bodies.  Keeping them from being the banes of the world.

The scooter will be destroyed, some female breeders would cry and be angry, yelling like banshees calling other banshees and hell hounds to come and rip their victims to shreds, body and soul. The male breeders will extort. Some of the the weak drivers will spend whatever left of their miserable life sodomized by inmates and bribing guards for some decent food.

There they will learn that an intercity commute should never exceed the speed logic of the breeders, even if it means 30 kilometers per hour. Some other drivers will come back with some lawyers, and then it will become a little bit more complicated, with all of those pesky blood suckers throwing themselves head on into the mix.

Let them who fuck better win.

He fished his cam out, pushed the shutter button twice, and put it back again. He didn’t know why he took the pictures, but he just did. New digital trashes virtually materialized. None of it mattered.

Like this small town, and everything within it.

Like the woman who waited by the road side, waiting for a bus to take her away, toward the provincial capital. Tight jeans, turquoise t-shirt with golden cat on it, blue jeans jacket under the hot afternoon sun. A red duffel bag, in front  of his feet, apparently not full. Shutting off the world with her I-Phone, which was most probably fake.

Like the old men who were sitting in front of abandoned shop houses, some just sat looking at the road, some had some heated debate, perhaps about local or national politic.

Like the housewives who gathered around row of huts where some fishermen just sprawled their assorted goods.

Like the occasional passing of the cars and trucks.

Like the shadows these creatures made on the dusty soil by the roadside. Like the sun heating the very fiber of the doors and walls of the lonely and faded wooden houses.

Like the sound of the waves from the seaside, with the gleams that could be seen through the random rows of coconut trees.

Like the lovers, soon to be breeders, cruising slowly on their scooters, smooching under mortal sense of promises and happiness.

Like the impending dark cloud in the distance.

None of these mattered anymore.

There was a dead body with questions and no answers, two idiotic rush seekers with ugly scar tissues on the entirety of their backs and an entire region of flocks to be butchered, so that some assholes can freely suck on the rich milk of Kalimantan’s busty tits.

The final note of the adhan had passed, some mumbling ensued. A few moments later, the driver appeared on the terrace of the mosque, casually and cordially talking with his fellow believers. Agam fished out his cigarette, burned it and inhaled. The German looked at him, disapprovingly. But the windows were opened, and they weren’t in a client-contractors term, so he gave no shit.

The driver approached the car, but not alone. Following him were 2 men, one with full religious attire, and one with local civil servant uniform as well as some boys, tall, dark, skinny and menacing. The driver hopped in “they saw you and want to ask you some questions.” he said to the German gladly with the confidence of an annoying match maker. “Ok…” the German said, which sounded more like a question rather than an affirmation.

Then they barraged him with broken English, shouts of “mister”, and laughs. It didn’t sound like they are laughing together with their object of curiosity, it sounded like the laughs of people seeing monkeys in a zoo. “What religion? Agama! You mister!” the man in the uniform demanded. It struck a cord, the German obviously sounded displeased. “No, it’s my private business!” They pushed on. The German tapped on the driver’s shoulder “I think we can go now, or we might be late!” The driver looked at him with the obvious disappointed look that his mobile zoo would come to a close. The driver turned on the car, and said some parting words. The small crowd was protesting. The next minutes, the German turned to his notes, suppressing his anger. The driver lightly turned on the audio playing some religious songs from his attached flash drive… and Agam continued smoking, imagining the humid flesh of that woman with the turquoise t-shirt.

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