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codes: M+f+/ SM / humil / viol / caution / anal / nc
Note: This story is a bleak, dark tale, not for the squeamish. So if you’ve already decided to step into this puddle of muck, make sure you’ve got a pair of waders handy – Hip high if you can manage it – because you’re going to need them! Peace, brothers.
--
WARNING: This story delves into aberrant sex practices that might well offend you. So if topics such as Sadism and Masochism, among other deviant practices offend you, do not read this story. Some of the sex depicted is consensual, some not. I don't condone it. I'm not advocating it. I may or may not even like it. It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination, and thus, completely fictitious.
Before you read it, please note the following:
*If you are under eighteen, it is illegal for you to read this story!
*If you have a hard time separating fantasy from reality, do not read this story!
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Hotel Mogadishu
(An Erotic Horror
Story)
By
Hunsi
The
Prelude: Jiib, Somalia,
The Circus Comes To Town
In
Jiib, beneath the swelter, young Banjoko Fasi and his
father labored to get their cart load of dung to market before the sun reached
its passing. The dung fuel was heavy, a labor for oxen, but for the much needed food the
few coins would buy it was also a labor of necessity. It was either bear the yoke, the heat, the
bite of the flies, or spend yet another night suppressing the pangs of hunger.
They
trudged down the lane weaving their way through the pedestrian and motorized
traffic and until they reached the split in the road that skirted the perimeter
of a park. And it was here they came to
a stop. Not by the congestion, but by
the most amazing sight imaginable. A sight seemingly fallen from the heavens,
the likes of which few to none of those living in this desolate desert state
had ever seen before.
Banjoko
stood spellbound, locked to the spot as he watched the jugglers, the
unicyclist, the clowns on stilts stir the laughter of so many. While above, upon the Trapeze, the performers
executed the most perilous acts to stir their awe. The whole of it filled him with a sense of
wonder, and set his imaginings aflame.
Then
too, there was that huge domed tent beyond. The tent where above the entrance
It read, "Le Cirque Français," a gift from
the French to their protectorate in Somaliland.
But
as to what wonders lie within, he hadn't the money for a ticket to know. Nor would he ever, even while the want to
have that which was being denied him would never leave him. All of it going to cause a split within
him. A parting of the ways between that
which lie in his innermost core and the tearful boy, and later, the angry man
who would forever be held captive by his near- manic rage against those who
would deny him anything ever again.
--------- § § § ----------
Page
1
Twenty Years Later . . .
Theodore
Mason slowly awoke to the same rhythmic clattering sounds and the sway of the
cabin that had lulled him into a short, restless sleep. Slowly he became aware of the hot arid air
that filled his lungs, and the sweeping hot arid vista outside the train window
that again greeted his slumbering eyes.
As
he regained his focus he suddenly became aware of a silvery voice seemingly calling
out to him from behind his seat.
"Yes,
Mama, I like the way Mr. Wimsley makes the trip sound so adventurous, such
fun. But this trip isn’t fun, mama. This is terrible. The clatter, the bouncing and the heat, Mama,
the heat, I’m melting. My hair, my
dress, I’m sopping, everything is sticking to me. Why doesn’t he just say riding the train
isn’t always so much fun?”
"I
know, dear," a woman voiced sympathetically. "The heat is simply stifling. If you wish you can unbutton your bib collar
to help air out. There’s no one about so
you won’t be caught unawares.
"Hum,"
Theodore brightened, his interest piqued by something he'd heard. And feeling the need to investigate further,
he picked up his Top Hat and cane before stepping around his seat to confront
the lady and her child.
"Mr.
Wimsley? Did I
hear someone call out for "Mr. Wimsley?” He asked while giving his
curlicue mustache a twist, making a rather garish display of himself.
"Excuse
me!" the woman gasped, startled out of her heat induced malaise.
"The
young lady, madam," he said, pointing at her daughter in the seat beside
her. "I heard the young Miss
mention my name!"
"Sir,
I don't . . . I mean, neither my daughter nor I even know your name."
"The
book she is reading. If you would kindly
take a moment to look in the Preface I’d be much obliged."
“This
book?” she asked, quickly taking possession of the travel guide her daughter
had on her lap. Then opening it up to
the Preface, she found a picture that matched his likeness. The same top hat, the same handlebar
mustache, the same ostentatious display of celebrity in the credits written
below: “Theodore Wimsley, author and
pundit extraordinaire."
"You're
Theodore Wimsley?" She asked.
"At
your service, madam," he replied with a bow and a tip of his hat. At least that’s the name I’m known by when
writing my fabulously wonderful series of 'Wimsley's Globe Trotter's Travel
guides.' Otherwise I'm known by Theodore
Mason of
"Mary! Mary Dunford, and this is my daughter
Abbey," she replied while her daughter responded with a curtsy; a show of
respect for her elders beyond her tender years.
"We
live to the north, in
"Yes,
well, I might ask you the same, Madam."
"Yes,
you might," she replied. "I've
brought my daughter to see her father's last resting place. You see, while piloting his ship though the
"I'm
sorry, madam. You and yours have my
heartfelt sympathy."
"Thank
you, you've very kind, but I believe you have an apology due you."
"For what madam?"
"For my daughter’s unkindly remark."
"Unkindly?"
he said looking down at her daughter with a frown. And then, with a humorous twitch of his upper
lip, he sent his curlicue mustache dancing up and down like fluttering wings,
and in doing so, he nearly crippled young Abbey with laughter. "Mama, Mama, he's so funny!"
"Sheesh!
How rude, I thought I'd taught you better."
"No,
no, please," Theodore replied, righting himself. She meant no harm. Besides, it's easy enough to see that we are
not on an excursion through
"So,
you see Madam, no apologies are necessary.
It simply warms my heart that my personage should delight her so,"
he beamed, directing his word to young Abby.
Then while bowing down to kiss her hand, he took note of the fact that
the 'unbuttoning' she was permitted to help cool her superheated body
didn't just stop at the bib collar. And
as a result, an abundance of her youthfully taut blushing-pink skin, and a good
portion of a peach-size knoll could be seen between the widened seams.
It
was at that moment Theodore heard the screech of the breaks, and felt the
sudden change in momentum that sent him hurling backward, up and over the coach
seat and into the isle that centered the cabin.
Nor
was he the only one to end up smashed to the floor. Fellow passenger where flung about every
which way, including Mary Dunford and her daughter Abbey. The both of whom were wrapped around the back
of their seat, though lucky to have missed smashing into the rear wall of the
cabin immediately behind.
The
train now at a dead stop, he quickly scrambled to his feet and rushed to help
the disheveled pair, taking a glancing look out the window as he did. And a ghastly sight it was too.
Surrounding
the train was a group of armed militiamen counting in the hundreds. And to a one they had machetes hanging about
their hips, and bullet bandoliers strapped about their shoulders to feed the
AK's they had aimed at the train. And
while they all wore red berets, it was that half the misbegotten bunch were
shirtless, and few to none worn desert camouflage pants that had the most to say
about who they were. These were rebels
not government troops, and it was that revelation that caused him to shutter.
Still,
even as unnerved as he felt, he knew he dare not let it show. To add more
consternation to this already hopeless state would have only made things all
the worse, especially for those who were sure to be counting upon for his
help. Like Mary - his new acquaintance –
the self-liberated woman who now stood behind him looking out the window with
an unsettled look in her eyes.
"Ah,
I see that our rescuers have already arrived.
We are quite fortunate indeed!”
He said, turning away from the window.
“Madam,
young Miss, why don't we gather up your belongings to expedite the evacuation
that’s sure to come quite soon."
"How
long will we be gone?” Mary Dunford asked, the unease
in her voice all too evident.
Obviously
he had no way of knowing the answer to that question, but even if he knew, the
last thing he would have wanted to do was further alarm the lady. So instead, with a smile, he directed the
dialogue elsewhere.
"Please,
Mrs. Dunford. In public I prefer Mr.
Wimsley, Mr. Theodore Wimsley. You never
know. It could be that one of the find
young men who have come to our rescue might have read one of my travel
guides," he said with a wink and a smile that infectiously spread to Mary
Dunford as well. "Well then, let's
gather up your things, shell we."
And
that they did, gathering up a full array of petticoats, socks and slipper and a
whole arsenal of lady's apparel to place back into Mary’s travel case, and no
less the arsenal back into Abbey's. That
would include his
“Nonsense,
Madam. It's quite small, near
weightless. And should she enjoy it, I
think it worth the keeping. Besides,
it's quite a charming book. The beauty
of the artistry alone makes it worth the keeping. And that’s not even to mention the silkscreen
prints, each so richly ornate down to the finest detail. Heavens, the book simply begs a child to
share "Maggie's Day at the Circus."
So
they completed the repacking, his own as well, managing it with all with the
expertise of a well traveled man. That
is until the time had come to figure out what to do with the pouches of nuts,
Dates and fruit he'd bought at the
Moments
later, Abbey and Mary with a cautious Mr. Wimsley following, joined the other
passengers standing outside the train warily staring down the barrel of a
Kalashnikov. Looking forward toward the
front of the train he saw a machine gun mounted armored car parked on the
tracks blocking their path. Once more,
the telegraph lines that stretched out beyond had been toppled to the ground for
as far as the eye could see.
It
was at that moment a fully uniformed militiaman stepped forward and began
shouting though a megaphone. But even if
he knew more than a dozen words of Somali and Arabic combined, the man's voice
was so garbled he wouldn't have been able to understand a damn word of it
anyway. But the man standing a few
meters behind him apparently did.
"Abō, he says we go
"Youz ‘undah-stands’(understand) me, Bossman,
huh?” He asked as much with his eyes as he did his uncertain voice. “Teacher say
"Yes,
I understand you," Theodore replied. "You speak English. Though I find myself wondering how I just
happened upon you, the one in a million who speaks anything beyond Camel-
ēze in this god forsaken place."
"My name Saba Mussē.
Nairobi Mission teach Saba Engelish. My Engelish
good, yes?" He asked and
again he beamed with a smile that went on forever. He seemed a pretty cheery fellow. But with
his eyes magnified two fold by the thick-lens glasses he wore, the man with a
watermelon smile looked near dull as a goat.
And it didn’t help much when he thought to add, “
Still,
as dull as he appeared, he could interpret what was being said into a
reasonably coherent form of 'Engelish'. What more did he need.
"Well,
my fine fellow, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said in response while walking
over to shake his hand. “May I ask what
brings you here?"
"
"You're
asking me if I need your help? A man stranded out in the middle of nowhere
with a machinegun pointed at my chest.
You're asking me if I need your help?"
"Yes!"
"Sweet
lord," he marveled, astounded by his luck.
Then smiling like a man blessed, he said to
"Yes,
yes Sam I be, very good," he said, vigorously shaking Theodore’s hand,
nearly pulling him off his feet.
"Yes Sam, very good, indeed.
My fine fellow, you’re now my interpreter, and as such, I’d like to ask
how you knew, we were to be taken to
“Abō Cumba, Bossman.” He Banjoko
Fasi's commander. He sayz
so to
“The man speaking on the Megaphone?”
“Yes.”
"They're
rebels?"
"Yes.”
"And
how are we to get there?"
"Youz walk!"
"Walk? Through this desert? Hell, half these people will be dead before
they reach we 30 kilometer mark.
“Abō say 35 kilometers."
"Impossible!
That's what, 20 miles? At 5km an hour, in this heat maybe less. That's a 9 to
10 hour walk without stopping. Through the sand no less."
"Maybe. But Abo Cumba say,
‘youz do or youz die’!”
“He
said that? That we die . . .?”
“Yes,”
he replied, just as assuredly.
"Fuuuuk!" he muttered with eyes pinned wide in alarm.
"When are we going?"
"I
not know. Sam go ask friend, Masjid. Maybe he say, maybe
not."
"Well
hurry, go ask. Me, I'll prepare the
ladies as best I can for what's coming."
“Mrs. Dunford, Abbey," he said upon his return.
"If you'll allow me, I'd like to have another look inside your
carrying case."
“Is
there a problem, Mr. Wimsley?"
“No,
everything is fine. Not a problem in the
world. Our rescuers are going to take us the rest of the way to
“Oh
yes," Mary sighed with relief. Then
just as asked she laid both cases on the sand covered ground to open them back
up.
Theodore
found what he was looking for right off.
A full length slip and petticoat from Mary's case which he immediate
began ripping into long rope-like strips.
“Stop,
stop, what in the world are you doing, Mr. Wimsley? That’s my change of clothes."
“Not
to worry, Mrs. Dunford. I just thought
you might like some streamers to wave about to show our rescuers our
gratitude. I know young Abbey would like
that," he said with a wink and a nod toward the poor girl who was clinging
on to her mother for dear life. The
terror stricken girl looked a fright.
“Oh
yes, I can see how right you are, Mr. Wimsley." Then to her daughter, "Why isn't that
exciting, Abbey. We can make some streamers, like those we put on your
baton. Doesn't it sound such great
fun? Come dear,
give me a hand with this."
It
was at that moment when Sam returned. "5
minutes," Sam whispered in his ear.
“My friend, Masjid, he knows. He gives me this too," he said, holding
up a bottle of murky well water.
"Yes
good. Mary and Abbey will need it," Theodore replied, but all he could
think about was their feet. Mary and
Abbey's shoes; those heels in the sand; The abrasive
grains of sand that were bound to cause such pain, if not cripple them after
the long trudge through the sand.
In
need of a solution, he quickly dashed back into the railroad car to find the
nuts and fruit he's purchased at the
“Now
then ladies, I've found you something festive to wear while you enjoy the
banner waving."
“What?”
asked Mrs. Dunford.
“These,”
he said, holding up the bags. “These are
travel pouches, the perfect travel companion.
Made from the bladder of a pig, they have sewn on drawstrings to tie
around the camel’s hump, or in this case, your feet. All you need do is step into them and tie the
string around your ankles to keep the sand out.”
Mary
Dunford stared at him like he had lost his mind. But when she picked up on his wink, wink,
nod, nod toward Abbey, she immediately picked up on his thought. “Oh, what fun. Let's try them on, Abbey. That way we won't muss up our shoes.”
Dumping
the bananas out, he handed one to each to stuff inside their drawers for later,
and one to eat now. Then with the dates,
"Give one to Abbey every hour to suck on, not to eat, yourself included.”
Once
Mary and abbey's feet were tightly wrapped, he took the strips of material he'd
called streamers and quickly tied one end around Abbey’s waist, the other
around Mary's. "Now, lady's, I'd
like you meet Sam. Sam will be traveling
along with us. I want you to follow him
and I will follow behind.
It
was then that he heard Abo Cumba,
Banjoko Fasi's commander, directed all to form a line
and begin the march.
Handing
them the bottle of water, he told them to take one big swig, but not to swallow
until first swishing it around their mouth first. Then as they started out on their walk, Sam
pointed up to the sky. "5 hours, sun drop. Good, yes?"
"Yes
Sam, that's good."
-------- § § § --------
Chapter 2
Into The Dark
There
are no words to describe the human misery suffered on that 20 miles march
through hell. The blaze of the sun by
day, the deathly cold by night, and through it all, there was that every
present sand - That persistent,
unrelenting mulching machine that seemed determined to grind us all down to
dust.
When
people screamed no one said a thing.
When people fell, no one even bothered to look. And if not for Sam's help in carrying Abbey,
or acting the crutch to keep Mary upright and limping forward, no doubt they
would have been in their numbers.
“
He
could have been speaking to me, or perhaps he was speaking to that gimpy, one-eyed
man I’d past when stepping through the door.
I honestly didn’t know, but if his words were meant to me, I think I
would’ve had to tell him that a little bit of me did die that night. It wasn’t something you could see, and it
wasn’t something particularly onerous that I could feel. All I knew was that when I lay Abbey down on
the tile floor with her near naked body exposed to all the ugliness in this
world, I knew that along with her, I’d never be the same again.
-----
“Bossman, Bossman,”
Beside
him lie Mary, no less torn and beaten, and Abbey who looked in decidedly better
repair. It wasn’t that the harsh
elements hadn’t worn on her as well.
They had, it was just that riding upon their backs spared her a far
worse outcome. Though not so her
clothes, tattered as they now were, it stretches the imagination to understand
how they managed to hang on as long as they had.
“Bossman, Bossman,” Theodore heard
Sam’s voice cut through his torpid state, again awakening him to the world
about him, and
Getting
up on his knees, he saw Abbey lying face up on the floor, her body all but on
exhibit beneath what remained of her dress.
He saw the ants as well, running in lines every which way across the
floor, one of which led to Abbey.
Clustered about the fold between her legs, the threat to her health and
safety from the swarming mass of those biting insects stoked his worse
fears. Seeing the need for him to act,
he immediately begin to brush them off her legs, her tummy, the scattering of
curls that topped her fold, and off the peach-sized knolls that passed for
breast in one’s tender years.
“Need
me help?” Sam
asked, again with that endless grin.
“No,
Sam, you wake Mary up and let’s get them outside.”
“Okie-dokey,” he said beaming, “but
no forgets, ants bite inside too!”
---
The
“trucks” Sam had said were coming turned out to be a handful of flatbed
Lorries with plywood bins, and bedded with straw to transport cattle, sheep,
pigs and just about any animal fated for slaughter. None of it set well with Theodore, but it
wasn’t as though he had a choice. Not with
those Kalashnikov carrying thugs herding them in. But he did have the means to protect his
scantily clothed wards from becoming a spectacle. So once all were pressed in and the tailgate
closed, he had both mother and daughter kneel down upon the straw so as not to
be seen. And, as it turned out, he was
glad he did.
The
city, or what was left of it, consisted of a few distressed structures standing
amongst the shelled out building and piles of rubble that stretched to the
sea. All the by-product of a war waged
between the insurgent's ‘red’ berets and the regime’s ‘blue’ over
control of the city.
The
streets, however, were anything but dead.
Kids were playing, ladies were socializing, and temporary stalls were
set up along the way to market goods.
But there was something else too.
Surrounding those few venerable structures still left standing, there
were men who had been strung up by the neck dangling from poles, their ‘blue’
berets still topping their heads. And
around the pile of rubble that was once the Presidential Palace, the heads of
blue bereted men dotted the landscape beneath which their body’s
were buried.
The
scene had a macabre, deathly aura about it.
That is until they reached the Grand (Weyn)
boulevard, lined as it was with parks and playgrounds and glorious fountains
with statues of historical figures. But
most amazing of all, the whole of it remained untouched.
The
contrast was striking, the duplicity stunning, topped only by the sight that
lie at the end of the boulevard. The
Hotel Mogadishu – their destination - the crown jewel of
----
The
Hotel was truly a wonder on to its own.
With is white marble colonnades, spiral staircases, bronze dome and
suites made for kings, it was on a par with the best found anywhere.
Of
course, it wasn’t kings or nobles that Theodore saw parading down the corridors
when his haggard and disheveled group of train evacuee’s were
ushered inside by a cadre of gun toting thugs.
Rather, the men who milled about the corridors were nothing, if not
replicates, of those aiming a gun at his head.
He
felt as if he’d entered a hive, the worked bees all doing the jobs to support
the Queen bee. Only in this case, to
support the King bee, Banjoko Fasi currently residing in one of those
luxurious suites atop the spiral staircase fit for kings.
The
only question was, who was this king bee fertilizing to replenish the hive?
“Abo say we go this way,” Sam said,” pointing toward to the
door that Abo, the leader, held open.
“Where’s there?” Theodore wanted to ask, but didn’t. With Mary having already gone through the
gut-wrenching process of separating the men from the women upon exiting the
truck, the last thing she needed to hear was the sound of concern in his
voice. Something he and Sam where trying
hard to conceal since the men were led off to who knows where and for whatever
purpose. A group both Sam and himself
would have been a part of if not for Mary and Abby’s pleadings, and Abo’s personal regard for Sam.
And
perhaps that was well, given that beyond the door a staircase led down to a
basement floor below. The only light,
that which was provided by an insufficient scattering of bulbs.
It
was the floor where the staff personnel lived.
The rooms, or more succinctly, cubicles, were quartered off along a
corridor to one side, and a dining area and wash basins on the other. It was here that the women were to stay 4 to
a cubicle, and Sam and Theodore to share another.
It
was also here where Abo Cumba,
the voice of authority, took Sam aside, and after a brief talking to, Sam
returned to tell everyone what the commander wanted done.
“Abo say youz
clean clothes. Youz
clean butt and face too,” Sam instructed, then turning to Theodore, “Youz meets Banjoko Fasi soon. You
do good show, huh?”
“Good
show?” he asked, with a degree of uncertainty in his voice that seemed to come
as a surprise to Sam.
“Yes,
show. Youz be Mister Wimsley. The funny man, the bookman
. Banjoko
he laugh, he like.”
“Oh? Would you have me genuflect too?” Theodore
spat out, seemingly having reached his limit.
“What
is genuflect? I
not know word.”
“You
know . . .,” Theodore replied, waving his arms up and down while bowing
forward, “. . . genuflect,
bowing down to God.”
For
the first time Theodore saw Sam’s ever present smile turn down – like all the
way to the floor. And then with brows
cross, he leaned in and butt-up nose to nose with Theodore. All in preparation for what was coming . . .
“Yes, Bossman!
Here, Banjoko is god. Youz please, or youz die. Everyone
die. Youz ‘undah-stands’
me Bossman?”
--------------
Well,
the good new is, Sam was able to recruit a maid to clean and pressed
“Theodore’s olive & maroom tweed pants and
vest. She’d even manage to refurbish his
crushed top hat, and then with a little candle wax to revitalize his curlicue
moustache, ‘Mr. Wimsley’ stood restored to his fabulously humorous form.
“Yes,
good, that’s funny!” Sam chuckled, his grin restore. “Now, we go . . .”
Sam
and Theodore, aka Mr,
Wimsley, were led through the palatial concourse and up the spiral staircase
where the suites were made for kings.
And apparently for the ‘god-in-man-form’ too - Namely Banjoko Fasi - that tall, black gorilla of a man sitting in a
throne-like wingback chair in the center of the room.
Surrounded
by a cadre of lieutenants, he was listening to his men while tapping out a
pattern upon the tits of a teen’ish Snow White blonde
with his cane. The same length of yellow
bamboo he had apparently used to welt her thighs, back and ass.
The
poor girl looked lost to herself in pain, yet dare not
even flinch when he cut a slash across her nipple. Nor did anyone offer more
than a chuckle when that ‘god-from-hell’ dipped his finger into the pool
of blood that had gathered in her navel, then held in up for her to lick.
“When
people screamed no one said a thing.
When people fell, no one even bothered to look.”
And so it was on the 20 mile walk through the desert, and so it was with
Theodore now as he looked the devil in his eye.
His
smile was shallow, emotionless, drooping off to the side as did his lids of his
eyes. Eyes that were
dark and empty, as if there was nothing behind them at all. Or if there was, it was something that welled
up from a deep, dark pit inside where no empathy, no love, no pity, no nothing
existed except the compulsion to serve ones’ self. A place only the lowest order of living
things and the deranged inhabited.
Just
the thought of having to negotiate with this psycho struck fear in Theodore’s
heart. But if he dare showed it, he
knew he was as good as dead. So instead,
he put on his best Mr. Wimsley, and as any good thespian of his ilk would do, he lit up with a smile
and marched right in with a whirl his cane to the foot his throne. Then bowing forward with a tip of his
Top-Hat, he grandly pronounced to all.
“Mr. Theodore Wimsley, the wondrous globe trotter and commentarian extraordinaire, at your service sir.”
In
truth, a scattering of snickers could be heard rumbling throughout the
room. Not from what he’d said, of
course, because in truth not a one in that gathering of scum spoke a damn word
of English. But they all understood
funny when they saw it, and his dancing Mustache routine definitely fit that
bill. The twitch of his upper lip that
sent his curlicue Mustache dancing up and down like fluttering wings, had them all laboring to stifle the laughter.
But
as they weren’t his audience, their reaction mattered not to him, whereas
Banjoko’s did. And when he saw his
emotionless smile turn up and his dark eyes liven, he knew that the lunatic’s
unhinged mind was very much tuned into the theatrics - And apparently in a very
big way!
So,
to excite his imagination still more, he began telling him about all the
wonders of the world he’d seen, the wondrous things he’d done and all the
amazing things he knew, all delivered like the great showman he was. That is until he found himself searching for
more to say. And while searching his
catalogue of interesting and wondrous things to talk about, that beautiful
little book about the circus he’d found in Abbey’s travel case came to mind. And an instant later he began to create a
story of his own making. Something meant
to entertain, and hopefully excite an interest in hearing more about ‘his
day at the Circus.’
What
a delightful little tale it was too. And
even though none of them could understand a damn word of what he was saying, it
had them rolling in stitches. No doubt
from his antics, but Banjoko responded in entirely different way. In an instant, not much longer then it took
him to uttered the word ‘circus,’ Banjoko tossed the beaten girl off his
lap, jumped up atop his seat and with a wild-eye expression began pointing and
clamoring excitedly like a kid on Christmas.
“Banjoko
he wants know, “Do youz know circus?” Sam, whisper in
his ear from behind.
“That’s
all he said? It took him 5 minutes to
ask me that?” Theodore expressed his skepticism.
“Yes,
yes, over and over he asks, ‘do youz know circus?”
‘Hum,’ Theodore thought, ‘must have
struck a nerve. Bullseye!’
So,
waiting not a moment more, he told Bonjoko that he
not only ‘knew the circus,’ but had written about the adventure. Then went on to describe the death defying men
on the flying trapeze, and the girls suspended midair, performing perilous acts
hanging from a cable by their teeth.
From
there he when to talk about the man who put his head inside a lion’s mouth, and
the gymnastics performed while riding a horse round
the rink. He covered all he could
imagine and then some, all with Sam interpreting his every word, and Bonjoko looking on with wild-eyed excitement. And when out of air and ideas to build upon,
he took a bow with the tip of his hat and said, “Gentleman, and dear lady, if
you wish to hear more, I will gladly response so long as myself and my
associates are in a suitable state to answer the call. Thank you,” he said, backing away while Bonjoko laughingly clamored on, and Sam continue to
interpret his every word.
“He
say youz funny,” Sam chuckled. “He likes you. Wants see circus book too.”
On
That Bonjoko stood up and followed one of his aides
out the door. But before leaving, he
tossed the wounded girl over his shoulder and threw her into adjoining room
where on the very sight of him, a dozen or more girls were sent screaming and
run in circles and bouncing of the walls like frantic little mice trying to get
away.
“Did
you see that, Sam? Those girls, there’s all
naked. Who are they?”
“Banjoko girls. He pick
best. What left, he feed dragoons.”
As
they retraced their steps back out the way they came, they approached a door
they had past earlier with a sign above that read, “Régiment
de Dragoons.” As they draw closer, the
door suddenly burst open and out flew a naked girl screaming hysterical and
half out of her mind in panic. In fact,
she was so blinded with fear that her mad dash for safety carried her across
the hall and slamming into the opposite wall.
Kaboom!
The
head-on crash into the wall knocked the poor girl senseless and back into the
arms of the big, black dragoon who was in pursuit, a step behind, laughing his
ass off. Grabbing up a fistful of hair,
he yanked her up and began to drag her back into the madhouse full of girls
running and screaming and bouncing off the walls, crazed out of their mind with
fright. And those were the one’s who hadn’t as yet been caught. One of the few still not attached to a cock -
or cocks, or the frame of a bed.
After
the girl was dragged back in and the door closed, Sam shrugged and said with a
sour voice, "What Engelish word for, bad
machines?”
"Bad machines?" Theodore squinted.
"Yes,
yes, youz knows, not work right. Dumb girls think
mouth only for eating, ass only for shit."
-----------
Once
brought back to his space in the basement, he found all the ladies gone, their
bags as well. Dashing off to the cubicle
Mary and Abby shared, he found them gone as well. Though surprisingly, and for whatever reason,
Abby’s bag was still there.
Quickly,
he unpacked Abbey’s case finding the book “Maggie's Day at the Circus” on
top. It was then that Sam walked in.
“We
go eat. Come, I shows
you,” he said while taking hold of his arm.
“Wait
a minute. What’s going on here, Sam? Everyone’s gone,
their bags too.”
“Youz find book in bag, yes?”
“Of
course, Abby’s bag is still here, but not her mothers’ or anyone else’s. What’s going on, where are they.”
“Ladies,
they work!”
“They
take their bags to work?”
“Some
yes, some no, depends.”
“On what?” Theodore asked with eyes narrowed, looking pale and worried.
“No
worry, Bossman.
They work, need bags, that’s all.
Abby ok, okie-dokie? Now youz come eat.”
“The
eatery, located on the opposing side of the basement, had neither a kitchen nor
hot plates, and provided only raw greens and pre-cooked grains to be washed
down by water alone. The only exception
was an awful looking sausages made by an elderly German man he’d seen on the
train. And yes, given his marred body,
he looked as awful as wherever he was stuffing those sausages casings with.
Hoping
the meat he was stuffing in that length of pig intestines with something other than the Sand Vipers he’d
seen then eating, he shared the foot long length with Sam and his friend Masjid, an aide to Abo Cumba, one of Banjoko’s lieutenants.
The
pair, animated to a degree, were laughing it up and patting each other on the
back like old pals. They took no note of
him, ignoring him entirely, until Sam scooted across the bench seat to whisper
in his ear.
“Masjid say ladies no work here. Too old, so work mules.”
“They
herd Mules?”
“No,
girl’s not makes good herders,” he laughed, “youz
knows that funny Bossman. No, I says ladies
they work mules.”
“You
mean groom them, clean them?”
“Ummm, yes!” he said after giving it so thought. “Clean, comb, feed . . . , yes, Masjid say they do that too,” he followed, and again lit up
with that never-ending grin while patting Theodore upon the back.
“Good. Now youz not worry,
everything okie-dokey. Now come, Banjoko
wants see book.”
------
Again
entering Banjoko’s suite, he found the deranged
maniac toying with the foot of a girl hanging from to the ceiling fan via a
cord. One end of the cord was tied to
the hub that centered the spinning blades; the other end attached to the ball
clenched tight between the girl’s jaws.
Under
Banjoko direction, the spinning young girl had her arms spread out and chest
thrust forward as would a diver taking flight off the high board. Only a swan dive this was not. Rather, her glorified, open arm posture that
ran counter to her fear, looked more akin to an act of
defiance. Looking death in the eye, sort
of speak, challenging the odds against her not falling, perhaps with a few
missing teeth, or even to her own death.
“Haa, aad jeceshahay
(Yes, you like?)” Banjoko asked,
sounding insanely jubilant, as Theodore followed by Sam entered the room.
“Yes,”
Theodore replied through Sam, “quite clever.
What have you planned for her next?
Hang her up with a noose around her neck?”
Banjoko’s face turned down, looking not the least bit happy. Though not by anything he’s he said, he
didn’t understand any of that, but by the sound of sarcasm in his voice, not to
mention the hangman gesture he’d made.
Both of which must have tightened his screws pretty tightly.
“Maya
jirin,” he growled on his way out the door, grapping
hold of the book Theodore held in his hand as he passed.
“He
say, no like,” Sam said to him. “No good!”
Then taking it upon himself, Sam pulled the cord to stop the fan then helped
the spinning girl down.
The
following day, Theodore and Sam were told to return. Upon entering they found Banjoko
talking with his third-in-line, Omar Siad. Omar, a General and one of the first of those
to crossover from the old regime, was a civil engineer educated in
It
was said, if you wanted a bridge, a road, the Aswan Dam or even a ‘circus’ built, call Omar Siad. Then when you include the finest of craftsmen
throughout the land serving at his beck and call, it wouldn’t be far fetched at
all to say the man could turn a mud sandwich into the Taj
Mahal.
Sitting
across from him in that grand wingback chair, Banjoko
sat in full uniform with that beautifully illustrated child’s book on his
lap. The pair were oohing
and aahing at the breathtaking pictures, so rich in
detail you could see the glint in the eyes of the clowns, and count the
Carnation petals on in Ringmaster’s lapel.
Banjoko ignored Theodore and Sam as they entered his suite, his
attentions focused upon that book, and Omar, who he was speaking to in a clear
declarative voice.” Whatever he was
saying, he sounded rather adamant and wasn’t about to take no for an answer.
“Banjoko no happy,” Sam whispered to him from behind.
“Why not?”
Banjoko say he want General make. General say, no-no, he not make.”
“Make? Make what?” Theodore puzzled,
his thoughts array. He wanted to ask,
but when he saw the General back off and started waving Banjoko
off with his hands, he thought to wait to see what played out. And he hadn’t long to wait. In a flash, Banjoko
stood up, pulled out his revolver and pressed the barrow in the General’s
ear. It took but a moment for the
General, his third-in-line, to take possession of the book, and once the
revolver was pulled back, he kissed Banjoko’s hand and walked out with the book
in hand.
Then
as Banjoko himself started to leave, he said to Sam while looking Theodore in
the eye.
“He
says to you, “Funny man, now youz see real
Circus. Wonders beyond
belief!”
-------------
During
dinner that night, Sam and he sat next to Sufi Yasmin,
an aide to Ali Abdirashid. Sufi, Ali Abdirashid’s
interpreter, had lived in
“No,
Abdirashid governs Jubaland Province, not Puntland,”
Sufi said, in answer to a question. “We’ve just come for more munitions. But what do we find when we get here?”
“Banjoko hasn’t enough?”
“Maybe
yes, maybe no, he won’t say. All he
wants to talk about that child’s book about the circus.”
“Yes,
I know,” Theodore followed. “The way he
covets the damn thing, it’s like that silly book has taken possession of him.”
“Ah,
yes,” Sufi replied though a mouthful of greens.
“Abdirashid said that too. But he knows Banjoko,
knew him as a boy growing up in Jiib. He said Banjoko
was crazy about circuses then too.”
“They
had a circus in Jiib?”
“No,
no, but a circus from
“Huh,
so that’s what this is all about? Banjoko, the warlord, the great conqueror, is actually just
an angry little boy trying to get back at the world? That seems a bit insane to me.”
Sufi
seemed more than just a little startled by what Theodore had said. Perhaps a bit fearful too. After all, hearing his supreme leader’s name
and the word “insane” in the same sentence didn’t make for good
juju. So, needless to say, their
emotion-laden discussion ended right there.
-------
The
following day, Banjoko sent for Theodore once
again. With Sam at his side they entered
to find Abdirashid and Sufi there as well. The pair sat opposite one another, while Sufi
stood alongside to interpret what was being said.
“Mr.
Wimsley,” Sufi said to Theodore, “Our supreme leader,
Banjoko Fasi, has decide that you will accompany Ali Abdirashid and myself to
“What?”
Theodore shrieked. “No, no, I can’t
go. Done, final, out
of the question!”
Banjoko needn’t know what Theodore had said. But the tone of voice and the defiant sweep
of his hand told him all he need know.
“Waad socotaa” Banjoko
said to him with a cold look that could turn a warm heart blue.
“He
say, you go.
English man put good face on business,” Sam said to him.
“I
can’t, Sam, you know that. Tell him,
Sam. Tell him I can’t go, I’m needed
here.”
But
no matter his pleading Banjoko would hear none of
it. Nor had he any more to say as he
walked out the door.
“Look,
Bossman, no need worry,” Sam said to him, his hand
resting upon his shoulder. “Sam, he look after them.
Abbey and Mary okay now, Abbey and Mary okay when youz
come back.”
“Anyways,
youz not be gone long.”
------
“Good
for business!” Yeah, like a notorious
Turkish arms dealer and the spokesmen for a butcherious
regime could give two wicks to hear
what a writer of travel guides would have to say.
That’s
what he kept telling himself as he walked the hall outside
They’d
always been here for three weeks, and as yet, now a word about a deal. And all the while spend pacing the hall
outside that door, all he could think about was Abbey and Mary, their voices
crying out for the protection he had promised them. So vulnerable, so helpless, so alone, facing
horrors beyond the imagination.
There
were already 3 hours into today’s meeting when unexpectedly both Sufi and Ali Abdirashid walked out the room discussing a matter amongst themselves. Like
always, whatever they were talking about they weren’t about to key him in. Though given the intensity of their
engagement he could tell it was something important.
Still,
he wasn’t about to jump up and sing halleluiah.
He’d been down this road before.
And it wasn’t until after Sufi returned from taking Abdirashid
to his room that he heard the news. The
deal was done! Theodore would be back in
-----
Abdirashid’s old 4-seat Piper Vagabond arrived in
With
Sufi and Abdirashid now gone, Theodore quickly made
his way across town back to the Hotel Mogadishu. When he reached Grand (Weyn)
boulevard, the avenue that led up to the grand Hotel’s entrance, he saw the
most spectacular sight imaginable rising up from the exquisitely manicured park
that lined the way. A Circus tent!
Two
stories high, the red domed tent looked every bit as ornate as the tent
pictured in that child’s book. And in
way of comparison, he thought it looked every bit as magical and as wondrous as
one of those brightly colored mushrooms that pop up over night in the midst of
your yard. The kind you want to rid
yourself of before that red-capped toxic menace causes some harm. But even as deadly as you know it could be,
you can’t help but feel yourself in the grips of its beauty and the near fatal
attraction to the wonder of it all.
But
he hadn’t the luxury to sitting back to take it all in, not now, not with Abbey
and Mary’s whereabouts foremost on his mind.
So, as fast as his feet could carry him he hustled a fast pace through
the palatial concourse, though not so hurried as to arouse any unwanted
attention from one of those Kalashnikov brandish thugs walking the halls.
Managing
his way safely to the staff quarters on the basement floor, he found Abbey and
Mary as well as all the other ladies who’d been on the train still absent. Likewise Sam, which given
the circumstance, created quite a problem for him. How could he ask questions, know which rocks
to turn without Sam at his side?
On
the face of it, it looked a hopeless loss.
He had no plan, no clue as to where to begin his search, and no one to
turn to for help. But he was not without
the will, and of course, he still had his feet below him.
Returning
to the concourse to have his look around, he saw people by the score hurrying
along toward the entrance and out the door.
His curiosity aroused he fell in line, and upon reaching the entrance,
he saw people moving in mass toward the circus tent in the park across the street. In front of which he now saw a man with a
megaphone standing upon a podium in front of the entrance. The man dressed like a carnival barker was
calling out, “Come one, come all, see wonders beyond your imagination; A gift
to the peoples of
At
first he thought it all a joke, that offering up lions and tigers and juggles
and unicycling clowns to entertain the masses, was
just Banjoko’s way of distracting them from all the
horror going on about them. But there
was something else about it too.
Something he could feel, not see, that seemed to be saying something
else. Something that pulled upon him no
less than did that deadly red-capped mushroom he knew you need get rid of, and
would have, if only he could break thought the spell cast by its beauty, and
the wonder of it all.
In
truth, everything about the moment had a surreal, dreamlike quality about
it. Like the product of a dream, some
fantastical mindscape in which he was just a participant. Someone, or something
other than himself pulling upon him to fall in line with the multitude of
others to see what lie beneath that red-capped domed tent that had
sprung up over night, and from out of nowhere.
As
he approached the entrance, the carnal barker put aside his megaphone for a
moment as he looked down upon him. Then
with a grin that stretched miles into forever, he said to him, “Ahh, it’s the Engelish! Now he really see
wonders to write about. Wonders beyond belief!”
And
as he entered, what he saw tore through him like a bullet through glass.
Centering
a circular array of seats was a three-ring extravaganza like none other. The pony riders, the jugglers, the clowns,
the Aerialist upon the Trapeze, and to a one, all were engaged in acts so
bazaar as to be beyond madness - beyond the tortures of hell.
In
the far side ring, a train of mules loped around the rink under the crack of
the ringmaster’s whip. Beneath them, strapped to their bellies, hung the women from the
train, their bellies collapsing and rising like the bellows of an accordion. Only it wasn’t air filling the bellows, it
was the flared head of the mules long bloated cock brutally, painfully, boring
out a pomegranate-sized cavern deep inside the saddled woman’s belly.
Their
screams and cries drown by the roar of laughter emanating from the crowd. That is until the hee-haws’ and braying from
one of those snorting beast stopped after flooding a woman’s belly, and the
mule was replaced by the next mule in line ready to breed the hag strapped to his
belly.
In
yet another ring, girls hung by their feet from a trapeze bar placed low to the
ground. And before each stood a clown
feeding nuggets of meat to their identically costumed chimpanzee from the fold
between those young ladies legs. That is
until the supply dwindled, and the chimp, still wanting, would pry the fold
open with is fingers to peer inside, then reach in to get what morsels
remained. And when the cupboard was empty, the clown would stuff in a variety
of vegetables and later a Plantain for dessert.
All to the delight of the audience, of course.
And after, once the chimp’s lunch was done, the crowd noise reached a
fevered pitch when he escorted his clown attired pig over to the trough to
rummage for his lunch.
But
it was in the center rink where the attentions of most were drawn. The rink where the ringmaster hurled his
whip, and above, the aerialist performed the most death defying acrobatics.
The
girls, tied to a tether by their teeth, performed like ballerinas in flight,
while Clowns stood below shooting darts and arrows at the target painted on
their ass. They’d shoot until they
struck the bull’s-eye straight up the tailpipe or she’d fall to the ground from
exhaustion atop her bleeding, dart and arrow honeycombed punctured ass.
Theodore
recognized them as Banjoko’s girls, and their plight
brought him to tears. But what brought
him to his knees, what truly fractured his mindscape into a thousand little
pieces, was the horror he saw on the floor below.
There,
at the end of the ringmaster’s whip, Mary, the mule, was leading a leashed dog around the ring. Her spirit lost, her eyes vacant, she was a
dead empty shell void of all feelings, including those for her own daughter,
Abbey, who trailed along behind the dog.
Tied ass to ass, Abbey was backpedaling behind a desert pariah mix-breed
that so bettered her size that her toes dangled off the ground, her arms alone
standing between her being drawn or dragged along behind.
And
they walked around and around the rink to the crack of the whip and until the
dog popped free, spent, their travels complete, but only for the time it took
for the next dog waiting to plant his knot so ‘mother’ could again take up the
reins to start the journey round again.
Oh,
the horror! The horror he saw in that poor
girls eyes, and the horror he felt upon the learning of her fate. The horror that had him bent at the knees,
gasping for breath, drowning in his tears.
He felt his heart had been ripped from him along with what hope
remain. That is until he felt a hand
upon his shoulder, and a voice that not so long ago he yearned to hear.
“Bossman,” he heard calling from behind. “You like, Bossman,
huh?” whispered Sam. “Mary, Abby, no
more think. They do! Like you.
You now sees, and youz
now do what Banjoko wants. You write new circus book. One with mules like
Mary, and dogs like Abbey who lick his feet, kiss his whip.”
It was clear to him now. Sam hadn’t been missing. He was the two-faced man who was out serving
the man he’d been serving all along. Banjoko! His lord,
his master, the man who beneath the bleeding heart disguise, was nothing more
than Banjoko’s toady, traitorous piece of shit!
Then,
looking the way Sam was pointing, he saw Banjoko, the
psychotic - the madman - the man consumed by the rot that welled up from that
deep, dark pit inside. That place where
no empathy, no love, no pity, no nothing existed except the compulsion to serve
ones’ self. A place only the lowest
order of living things and the deranged inhabit.
His
look, his laughter, the sound of the madness he heard in his voice sent
Theodore off the edge, falling into a deep, dark abyss of his own. A pit with no top, no
bottom, no ending. Only the cloak
of darkness that was as black as the cloak of death that covers a dead man’s
eyes!
And
then with his spirit lost, his eyes vacant, he too fell back into the darkness
a dead empty shell, void of all pain, all suffering, all
feelings, save one. The need to
scream! "AHHHHHHH!"
------- § § § ------
“Hey,
Bud, you awake?” Donald asked while
pounding the daylights out of his door.
“Buddy, you ain’t got no
business sleeping at 10-fucking-o’clock in the morning. Not when Janice and Gretchen are just
chomping at the bit to show off those new bikinis down on
Startled
out from his sleep-induced haze, Marvin jumped up to answer the door before his
friend knocked it off its hinges. “Yeah,
Bro, I’m up . . . Now!” he following rubbing his eyes.
“Huh! Don’t tell me. You’ve been writing all night.”
“Yeah,
well, that Banjoko cat I’m writing about is
quite the kicker, that’s for sure.
Sometimes he ties me up in knots, and it can take me hours to untangle
myself.” He answered while looking back
at his laptop sitting atop his desk. The
last page of script he’d written lit up and staring back at him.
Last
night he had come so close, so fucking close to finishing the story that he’d
worked on it the night long just to get to that last line. But he’d fallen asleep before he got there,
lost as he was to find the final hook.
Leaving
the ending as it now stood, with the evil embodied in Banjoko
rising victorious over all that was good in this world, just didn’t set right
with him in the final analysis. It
seemed to him near sacrilege to think otherwise. But he also knew that happy ending weren’t
always in the cards for those fighting the good fight against evil. Sometimes the monsters in this world did win
out, and though he knew his readers would know that to be true, he still felt
uncomfortable making himself the messenger.
Actually,
there were moments when he felt it might be even more than that. Perhaps what he felt leaned more to the side
of fear. Fear that some disgruntled
reader might take offense; stop reading his books, write negative reviews, or shoot
the messenger, simply because he spoke truth to truth.
“You
ready to go?” Donald asked, rattling his
car keys. “You know that prime cut ain’t going to
stay hot and juicy forever. I’m telling
you, Marvin, if we don’t get busy worshipping them broads damn quick, one of
those sweet ladies is going to be pointing a gun, and you’ll be the one going
down.”
“Maybe
yes, maybe no,” Marvin prodded on his way out the door. “I mean, they don’t always shoot the messenger you know - Or do they?”
Das Ende
Hunsi
-
------- § § § -------