‘Scene At A Dive Bar:Cut-Up Experiment #3’ by Ahmed Nader Gretly

It made her think of her life, with nothing but pitiless indifference as she cleansed her groin from all the menstrual discharge she’s been having for the past three days. But at times, she was helpless with tears of sorrow running down her face, in an upstairs bedroom which was subjected to fire damage. For six months, she had noticed by continues investigations of the world around her that the age of innocence was long gone.

“I will write all your names, all your sins, and I will flush them down the toilet.” Little Mary said as she joined our table in the Myxoedematous dive bar, where everyone got drunk on cheap piss beer, served by one-eyed, toothless, drooling, limping, farting, shitting, vomiting waitresses running around with infants slug on their backs like ancient Indian or Asian mothers. Our party consisted of Little Mary, the Doctor, the Ape-man, good ol’Steve Miller, and yours truly. At the arrival of sweet Mary, I was trying to explain to the Doctor how an expert like himself should advise patients to take poems  orally, anally or through injections before and after admission into the Cesspool Mental Asylum, for they are usually rather preoccupied with simplicity and utter psychosis. Steve Miller was eyeing beautiful angel-headed Mary, his phallus out under the table, giving it a little wank or two. Right then, the doctor took out some junk and handed it to me, announcing it being the best of the best. I snatched that shit, and stuck the needle right in my neck.  Mary watched with glossy eyes, and Steve Miller was about to ejaculate. I felt the rush shoot right in the middle of my brain ending with an explosion, and for a second, the lights were out. When they came back, I saw Mary struggling to get away from the Ape-man, her breasts hanging out. The Doctor was talking to a patient, explaining to him why particles have mass, and why each time the people begin to understand or gain knowledge, he takes an equal amount of methamphetamine every two hours to let them get beat, kicked, and fucked up by applying a ritualistic formula that would send bare-bottomed wild monkeys to rip them apart. He continued by saying that he found pleasure in dismantling and destroying art and literature, for they were essential for man’s journey out of the immense milky way. Mary was being ridden by the good-for-nothing hypnotizing Ape-man, who had fleas and lice crawling on his fur. Steve Miller ejaculated Twelve hundred and seventy-five times, he was probably dead.

“I want to believe in angels!” Someone screamed from behind, it was that painter I met once in some other bar in another shitty town. He was experimenting with some kind of new powder which made me feel retarded. Alternatively, he had enough data to rule out the existence of the universe, but he was too mad and too high to go with it. He walked to me with a sly smile on his empty face. I stopped breathing for a few seconds, and tried to remember the lesson I forgot, which was taught to me by the surface of the sun, its light hitting the world with such angle that made everything seem transparent, and smooth, and magnificent, and magically beautiful. I looked away from the void painter, and peered at the fabric of time that glimmered saying how fucking sick it’s been of being inside its own screaming silence. I took out my colt revolver and shot the Ape-man’s head clean off, painting the walls of the bar with his grayish brain and dark blood, I took the painter out after that. No one commented on this, the Doctor giggled, and Mary just stared, still nude, with tears in her eyes. The intensity of the hallucinations I was experiencing were beyond lucidity, I could see the particles in the wind which defied any logic. Some guy in a black suit claiming to be from the Federal Bureau of Self-Molestation came in looking all sharp, took Steve Millers body that was cover in dried up seamen, and dragged it out of the bar, probably set it one fire later on. The infants dropped off their mothers’ backs and crawled to the remains of the Ape-man’s body, and began devouring it with razor-edged teeth. To have this egocentric need goes beyond ideas, occurrences, and images encountered by believing or knowing some kind of truth that would generate or influence man’s rampage to dominate everything and everyone. Masses of erotic birds and erogenous butterflies entered the room made everyone go utterly insane, running, bleeding from the eyes, shrieking madness, then the swarms disappeared as abruptly as they had entered.

“I’m sorry; I couldn’t help it,” Mary whimpered “I wasn’t myself, something controlled my actions, but it wasn’t me, please forgive me, please.”

“Sinner!” the Doctor yelled at her with a crimson face then looking at me “Forget ‘bout dat filthy whore, slut, cunt, bitch!”

I shot the doctor twice, once in the crotch, and once in the head. Sweet Mary stood by my side as we both observed the massacre, and then we walked outside to go hang out in another bar, with the Doctor, Steve Miller, the Ape-man, and probably the Painter.


About Ahmed Gretly

Ahmed Nader Gretly. Construction/Site Engineer, fiction writer, poet, psychopath, researcher, a book addict, and a daydreamer from Cairo, Egypt. Currently doing Construction Project Management, MSc, at Heriot-Watt University, Edinburgh.
This entry was posted in Chronicles Of A Twisted Mind, Prose and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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