goatfucker

Is this what you want? Is this what you’re into?

Somewhere, near the border, two rebels try to light a match. It’s not going super well. One of them adjusts their slightly burnt turban, the other is catatonic, enamored by the colors of his sleeveless cargo jacket. They’re off the qat (look it up), the rage, and something else that’s figurative; like hot piss or dynamite..

Near an exit on the highway, on the other side of the border, Nahwand village is a place where people stop to buy gas. They never think about it again, or maybe they do and shake it off their head like lice. About twenty-two people live there, they all know each other and share the five trucks they have.

 At the gas station, which is old and grimey, rust-ridden, with an excess of shattered glass, and insignificant ambitions, two guys there are watching their gas meter from different angles and seeing it move. While gas is being pumped, one of them, Farooq, is stretching and biting the stray string off his breastpocket. The other, Waddah, grips the steering wheel like it owed him money, testing to see if he could destroy, what he thinks is, God’s last miracle. 

Ding.

The indicator is pointing directly at F now, look at it from all angles, it would be the same; it’s universal now. Waddah goes out to pull the pump out of the tank and watches as droplets of gasoline splash his sandal, his toenail is all shiny now. Back in the car Farooq is thinking about something or other but before it could materialize into a word or sentence, Waddah is already back, holding the steering wheel again. Revs the engine. Brrrrr.

“Chik”  the match goes, outside the border, two people have discovered fire.

Rebel #1
Get the fucking missiles.

Rebel #2
La Ilah ella Allah. La ilah ela Allah.(spits).

Rebel #1
You know my kid, he jailbroke his iPad and has all the subway surfer characters for free. He told me he did it with a computer, he plays a lot of PUBG.

Rebel #2
(carrying missile) Allahu akbar… Allahu akbar… La Ellah Illa Allah.

Khala

Splotch of white on one of your eyes. Pure blackness lies everywhere else. Your brothers and sisters, we killed. Eaten. We took their hooves and turned them into soup. We gather ‘round, cross-legged in an empty room and suck their bone marrow. But you have no idea, you’re a fucking goat. Sometimes I see tears in your white eye and I begin to doubt myself. I ask you for signs so I know if you understand me. I ask you to tap your hoof and you do, then I ask you to stick your tongue out and you do, then I ask you to speak to me and you don’t. Maybe I’m pushing it, I want you to fail so I can keep doing what I’m doing. One day I’ll feel sorry, it will be too late but I will feel sorry. Maybe I’ll kill you and turn you into something fashionable. If, say, your being was manipulated into clothing or something, do you think that would be better than being fucked half to death? What do you think? Whistle a tune if you want that to happen to you. Oh, so you like what we do to you? Farooq may get a little rough but you have to do what he likes. And Waddah loves to whisper in your ears, I’ve seen him do it. What does he tell you? He’s so confused, ever since his father got run over carrying a bowl of goat milk across the highway. Does he tell you anything about that? Yeah? Whatever. When I was a kid I watched a video on the internet, it was a kid sneaking beneath a camel, putting its udders in his mouth and sucking on them till the camel kicked him or something, he started weeping and the video ended. It was very low quality and his cries sounded like a demon or a spirit that’s refusing to be put to rest. So much cruelty by that animal. Not like you, Khala. They say you’re apathetic but I know you have some sort of love inside you, you love God like I do. You don’t fear death like I do. You want to spread your love with us and I appreciate it. I’m ready to enter you now. I’ll start slow and when I get close I’ll hold your throat, and bite your neck. Exhale if you want that. You like that? Okay, I’ll do that. 

Panting, black dots are almost burned into my eyes, they vanish quickly but not before I extend my arm out and try to catch some of them. They’re gone. What is visibly clear now is my cock. A new kind of viscous is dripping from the tip to my pubic hair, color of gasoline. Smell of wet fur. My balls are bluish and cold, I touch them and it feels like a migraine in my cock, I try to get up but fall to my knees. A passage from the Quran is iterated in my head over-and-over.

“O, I wish I were dust.”

I recall my father reading that to me. Perfect intonation. It is the cry the rapists and faggots of the world let out, when the trumpet is blown and the living souls of the world are called. The vivid image I see is that of a bearded man, shaking and looking at the sky; he’s afraid the sun will come down and devour him or something. If I was there under the hot beaming sun, I wouldn’t fight it. I only had one crack at this gig and I wouldn’t have it any other way. In hell, I will meet all my friends and they will tell me stories and we will hang out and light cigarettes with satan’s breath or whatever. I feel so warm right now. Heat is fine, it gets kind of stuffy but it’s fine. We’ll play catch with the embers, throw them around for hours or however time works there. Then, after a certain amount of time, be it years or decades or centuries, God will banish those sissies from His kingdom, the smilers and the wavers, the ones that bow down and weep like they’re such a micro-something that tries so hard to be nothing. He’ll let us into his warm embrace instead, because we know and they don’t, we love and they fear, We are and they are not.

Goat Milk

“Milk them good boy, double time that shit.” A voice comes out of the old man’s beard. His facial shape is somewhat immaculate, he has hair where his lips are supposed to be. There is nothing in his eyes but yellow and strings of red, there is a smear of black on one of his cheeks (sunburnt?) a fucked up canvas that most assume is a face. “Pflop pflop pflop” The goat tits say.

The boy milking thinks about the hacked PSP in his pocket. The metal bowl beneath the goat wishes to be something else, or something at all. “Alright, boy that’s enough” says the beard, then says something else about how it used to do this with such and such back when such and such wasn’t such such and such. Then takes the bowl, swats the net tied to the fence, and crosses the highway.

WHITE TOYOTA HILUX: Vrooooooooom

BEARD:  Boy, you need to lay off the nintendo.

METAL BOWL: 

WHITE TOYOTA HILUX SPEAKERS:  O, Allah, the almighty. (Allahu, Allah) Forgive me and guide me (Allahu,, Allah)

BEARD: (Hannah-Barbera sound effect)

DRIVER: لا حول ولا قوة الا بالله.

Boy sees dead father. Dead father sees brain on the asphalt. Boy finds reason to live. Remains of milk in metal bowl create jumbled venn-diagram shapes of off-white colors. It puzzles the boy as he looks at the sun and presumably, or evidently God and waits for answers, he knows it will take time but he’s got time. How much is irrelevant. If thunder were to strike him, in the fractions of femtoseconds he has to realize death is on its way, he’ll know why. It’s an entitlement to anticipate death the way he does. Tonight, he will bow to the Lord, hands and knees to the ground, and look for the most flowery way to say “Thank you.” again and again till the sun sets and the milk spoils.

Seven years pass and Waddah is holding the steering wheel. Felt like a daydream playing in the corner of his eyes, he looks to where it’s supposed to be and watches it disassemble and blend in with the windshield. Oh, dead fly. Wipers go Eeek eeek. Tires move. Him and Farooq go somewhere else, things could be better.

He wonders what kind of production has the windshield prepared for him tonight: camel, cove, creek, something else that starts with C. They become, wear out their welcome, and are out of his vision; which means they don’t exist anymore or something. Men shaking hands and smiling at each other, vanished. Brothers throwing dirt at each other’s eyes, done, etc. When you roll up the windows you don’t have to worry about Doppler effects or other retarded shit. So eyes are the arbiter of who exists and who doesn’t, kind of anyway.

Sticky

Farooq thinks he’s addicted to glue. He is not. His fixation with glue does not stop at taking the cap off, putting it in his nostrils and huffing till he feels something. Once, he rubbed glue on the tip of a cigarette, lit it up, and was disappointed. He thought it was necessary to tell that story albeit spiced with tales of hallucinations, meeting satan who threatened to fuck him silly or something, and finding greater meaning which he knows that everyone else thinks is bullshit. What would be labeled as an entant terrible in their mid twenties anywhere else in the world comes off to the village as somewhat of a folk hero or a legend. Another reason for his fame is the fact that he has 30TB worth of low quality pornography uploaded on some shady cloud storage website. He shares it, for a price of course, but an affordable one nonetheless. Most of them play out the same way, man holding camera at some pixelated figure in a niqab, or a hijab, or something in between. She(?) is then slapped or backhanded or punched or pushed or pounced on. No one can really tell if she is crying or moaning or laughing  because of the compression, and the evidently obscured face,  but she is fucked and ejaculated in or on. Takes about 20 seconds. It being real or not was beside the point; it makes Farooq’s blood rush to his cock like a nascar. Watch the nonperson get fucked super hard, snort some glue, cum, etc. Do it again and again till your nostrils are glued shut and your penis turns blue.

“Dum tak, tak dum. tak ” Percusses Farooq’s hand on the glove compartment. His rhythm is a bit off but he’ll get the hang of it in the next four bars. Waddah’s phone rings, disrupting said rhythm. “Hello?” Waddah speaks to the phone. “Some- A- kh- ” Multiple sinewaves attempt to interpret. Waddah asks a question, could be what or how or who or anything, Farooq isn’t really paying attention. “Khala, she’s fu- Come ov-’ Farooq’s eyes turn into bubbles and burst inwards onto his cortex. Waddah lets the truck do the talking. “Vroom.” It says to silence, who obviously does not respond.

Clan Ru$h

FarFarX97: Um Kulthum what a voice
Umm Khulthum – Al Atlal 39:40 switch to YouTube app.

WadSada7: gay

YOU: idk if you guys heard me reception is bad as fucvk here can you com e  

WadSada7: wya

FarFar97: replying to Wadsa7: fuck you it owns

YOU: isnt he next to you.

YOU: Replying to WadSada7: You sent a pin

There we are, looking at you. You’re on the ground. Are you ill? I’ve fucked you so many times but it never ended like this. Waddah is holding you now, by your neck, pointing your head to the sky. Sunlight illuminates you. Your eyes reflect. It reaches me, Farooq, and Waddah. Eyes reflecting, again and again and again as far as light can go. Fuck you, darkness! He wants you to die, and for me to suffer. “She might get better” Waddah lies. Farooq opens your mouth and sticks his fist inside it. He says your tongue feels like a dry sponge. You’re dead, I know it. Hope is a rapist and a liar.

“Might as well” Farooq undresses and crams his soft cock inside you.. We look at each other for a moment, knowing our gaze’s shelf life is running out. He looks at your stomach. It gyrates slowly. Waddah is on his knees holding your face. There they are, your tears. Farooq grunts a few times, he’s never lasted long with you. He pulls out, exhausted, rests on his back, cock flops and hits his belly button, blop. Are you trying to run? Why are you moving your legs like that? I think you’re dreaming, you must be dreaming, I hope I am. Cum is leaking out of you. Enlarge that image and it would look like an entrance to some wet cave.

In a few hours, you’ll be dead. Next time I see you, you won’t be you. I’ve accepted that already, I hope you have as well.. When death comes your way, embrace it with the love you’ve shown us. Children will roll around your ashes in heaven, and make sandcastles. Ash-castles, whatever. The mystery of your tears will keep me up tonight, or forever.

Aden

Rebel#1 wants to die in a horrible way. Like his father or youngest son. They both died the same way, hugging a kalashnikov like a loved one or a teddy bear. Bullet holes through their torso, some through their teeth, and two almost symmetrical on their foreheads, he connects the line between the holes and makes out a hypotenuse, he wishes it was a more perfect straight line. However, he still is in love with the spectacle that those two images have in his mind, rejecting grief altogether. It’s not real. If he were to die the same way, he’ll see them and speak to them in microseconds that feel infinite. “Be doubtful,” He thinks, “but I will see love in its full nakedness. Be smothered by perfection, and all of you strangers of God will live in misery.” Like everything else, it might be true.

Rebel#2 is not a real person. There’s a microchip in its brain, lines of code installed on it. Hadiths about circumcision, sacrificial lambs, ways to kill honorably, the latest nasheeds in 320kbps. The developers behind it down or up at Silicon Valley wanted to live vicariously through it and experience what it’s like to murder more directly. They share a Google Dropbox where they upload videos of Rebel#2 throwing grenades at unsuspecting mosques, audio clipping when the glass shatters, black clouds seeping out, people’s remains are just debris and they can’t register as souls in the afterlife..  “Huge success!”  Thinks some guy called Steve, or John, or Alex,  who will probably die in a mass shooting, or from a brain tumor. Until then, there’s still time to work hard and play even harder.

Rebel#1
Okay, so (spit) let’s launch these

Rebel#2 positions three missiles, his face expressionless. He stares at the gold-coated tip of one of the missiles, looks to his partner.

Rebel#1
I saw some people use prompts like “The face of prophet Muhammad” on one of those AI image generators. What a fucked up world.

Rebel#2
Jihad. Jihad. Jihad. Jihad. Jihad. Jihad.

JKM#45435 Missile
(unknown onomatopoeia)

By the time the sun lightly pecks the ocean with its sheer magnitude, JKM#45435 and its siblings will meet with villages and their residents, whom, for their part, weren’t aware that dying in any shape is possible. They will explode into little bits and atoms, and if those atoms had a modicum of sentience left, they would worry about what to have for dinner.

Note#1: dream

Woke up super freaked out today i had a dream i was on some sort of train and i can see the ocean through the window ive never been in a train like that before but it was like one of those i saw in some anime or the one at the start of persona3 we dont have trains here except the ones that lead from makkah to medina it felt really jarring but i was standing up holding on to one of those things you hold on to i forgot what theyre called anyway i looked at the sky and it looked clear and blue with seagulls soaring high im sorry i know the sky is really beautiful but i cant really tell you why anyway it suddenly turned all orange-like and people next to me on the train were screeching and deathrattling and all that you know how peoples faces in dreams look uncanny valley-like or whatever well one woman that i looked at had her face go from concrete to abstract like solid to mucus and it fucked with me a lot i wished she went away then i looked at the orange sky and there were black clouds and all that stuff that tell you its evil and i swear i saw jesus son of mary floating down on a cross he was crucified still and i didnt know how to react and he was descending on some grassy fields and on that grassy fields there you were khala your eyes were transfixed on me and the moment jesus landed next to you  i woke up

Fairouz

Carcass being dragged through the mud and grass. The soft and the harsh conjoin in a somewhat comforting noise. Waddah is grabbing one lower leg, Faroog the other. Carcass formerly known as Khala has its pussy spread, erotic? Maybe. 

-”Grab it from the front.”

“-Why?”

-”We’ll swing it over the fence.”

“-Okay, I guess.”

Carcass, almost parabola shaped if not for its head facing the dirt, perhaps due to gravitational force or the crushing weight of death, is ready for launch. The duo feign a few weak swings for mental preparation or some sort of primal, beastly entertainment, maybe cavemen used to use it as a swing once upon a time. Put your cave-baby on its belly and use its hooves for support. Carcass is ready to fly… One… Two… Three…!

The projectile formerly known as Carcass is now in the air. It contorts and soars effortlessly. In another life, The projectile formerly known as Carcass formerly known as Khala could’ve been a special attraction for a circus or something. Both Waddah and Farooq think about the athleticism of the dead, it’s somewhat of a fleeting notion… By the time their vocal cords harmonize to make sound, it’ll be gone.

A semicircle or a 180 degrees later, Khala, formerly known as the projectile is back to life, on all fours in mid-air, looking at them through her white eye. The glare lasts only iotas of sand in an hourglass. It feels like a gunshot wound. Khala is pulled to the ground and buckles, face tongue-kissing  the asphalt on impact. They hear a thud or some other sound. Carcass is brought back to death. It will rule the slow lane of the Nahwand highway for some time. Someone will drive past it and think “Is that a dead goat?” or of bad omens and look for the nearest exit and cancel their vacation plans. Waddah moves his hands in a polar aerial movement and claps them together when they intersect as if to dust them off. Farooq sits on the grass, feeling the sharpness of some on his ass.

WADDAH: I got just the thing.

He fidgets with his phone, thumb grease and particles of dust rain on its screen until sound blares from its speakers. Muffled low-notes and squeaky high-notes. To them, it’s music.

FAROOQ: I was thinking like, should it just be on the highway? It might get run over.

WADDAH: This one’s great. What was that?

FAROOQ: I’m saying it will get run over.

PHONE SPEAKER: (Sound of mizmars overpowering each other. Maqam Hijaz’s pleasant but frightening notes-span in the atmosphere.)

WADDAH: That’s the point. Get rid of the evidence or whatever.

FAROOQ: But, who the fuck cares?

WADDAH: Exactly.

FAIROUZ (SPEAKER PHONE): 

O, the choice of choices, I’ve a tale to tell.   

                  I’m not fond of description,

                     and no longer serve any purpose.

Note#2: I reread my pre…

I reread my previous note and it sounded like complete gibberish. I’ve forgotten half of my dream but some things still stand out. I’ll try to be more punctual this time around…

I was looking at myself in the mirror today. A rat-king of hair around my left nipple. Below that was something that I assumed was a third-degree burn, or a brownish mole.  I felt it with my hand and a tingly sensation was jolting my body around it. It made me gyrate and make waves with my toes. I blow on it; same thing, except my penis is erect now. I pinch it and it’s painful. What the fuck is this? Is it cancer? But, like a good kind of cancer? I should look it up online…

Am I human? Is it a sign for something?

Okay, I googled and duckduckgo’d it and it is either cancer or a third nipple.

An Interview with JKM#45435

By Rockstar Billy

Recently, a couple of Houthi rebels launched a few missiles and they are now on their way to some villages on the border. They were supposedly aimed at big cities with industrial factories to assure a gargantuan amount of destruction. However, due to some incompetence by the Houthi camp it seems that they are most likely going to land on the nearby villages instead (Rast, Nahwand, Sabba, etc.). This of course, won’t send the appropriate messages the Houthis were hoping for. It might, however, kill a few dozen people.

I’ve managed to track one of the aforementioned missiles and had a lovely chat with it, here’s how it went:

RB: First off, JKM#45435… Does that stand for anything?

J#: It could. It could not.

RB: So, do you know where you’re headed?

J#: Might. Might not.

RB: Surely, it must be heavy on you, what you’re about to do?

J#:

RB: Killing those people, I mean.

J# I don’t understand. I also understand.

RB: Guilt, remorse, et cetera, do you feel any of that?

J#: I am a blur right now. Once I reach the destination I will be nothing. 

RB: Do you wish to be anything else? A pillow, a strap-on, a book.

J#: (Laughs?) I might be all of those things someday. Or one of them. Or none of them.

RB: Before I let you go, do you have anything you’d like to share with the world? Any new projects coming up or something the people need to hear?

J#: I was made in the USA.

Many thanks to JKM#45435 for sharing its time with us. We’ll keep you updated with the latest news at…

Note#3: Dust

The jig is up. Khala knew this would happen. My parents already think I’m dead, so it’s like whatever. I moved out here, away from the city because I hated its scent. They’re all fucked up and are living a pretend life. I thought I wasn’t like them so I came here, but I am like them. I don’t want to die. I’m a coward and a liar. Every moment in this world has felt like I’m digging my own grave, I’ll lie in it pretty soon. Sometimes I close my eyes and see myself dead and it just BURNS me. I don’t want this, I don’t even deserve this. I know for a fact that I could’ve been born anywhere else and people would’ve thought that I’m some sort of genius. It’s like acid peeling through my skin, knowing that I can’t get out. I wish I wasn’t here.

I wrote some things about what I’m going through. I think it could help:

The son of Mary was giant,
Crashing into buildings and skyscrapers.
My legs trembled, My teeth chattered.
To the point that I saw the harmonics

I wondered where my mother was…

I closed my eyes and saw her
Through a door frame, playing with
Kittens, holding them up and
Kissing them.

“Do you remember,”
I said
“Your palm on my cheek,
Nail needling my eye
With love?”

She couldn’t hear me,
I was dust.

Scene: Debris

Cars are going above the speed limit on the highway. Some dead goat on the slow lane, occasional honking whenever they cross by. 

Farooq rests his head on the signpost. Waddah pulls some grass from the dirt and throws it at nobody, who is not offended. It’s humid, a bit dark. Time should stop now. They should pray it stops now.

Waddah
We should go home. (weak throw)

Farooq
(sniff) Yeah, well..

Nobody(?) has something to say. Pants, grabs his knees. Igor-shaped.

Igor(?)
We’re getting bombed.

Waddah
(dusting hands) What?

Igor(?) fixes his posture.

Rockstar Billy(?)
I heard it. I saw it. In a dream, on my body.I even talked to it. It’s over.

Farooq
Are you retarded?

Toyota Corolla
(Honk)

Marlon Brando(?)
It’s super fucked up, because like, I was thinking. I could’ve been like a god anywhere else in the world. But I’m here, with people like you.

Ford Flex
(hooonk hoooonk)

Farooq
I don’t know what you’re talking about. You came here because you wanted to be like me.

Waddah
So, uh.. Should we leave?

You(?)
I’m not like you. I don’t think I’m like anybody. My parents hate me, my brothers too. I’m starting to think God hates me. Everyone is a fucking liar, and I think I am too. I wanna do it over again. I wanna be in a place where I get to decide something, or anything. 

Farooq
Tough shit.

Waddah
Yeah.

Nobody(?)
Yeah.

Invisible camera pans to the shimmering blue sky. It is pretty dull.. A red hot dot is growing in size. It moves so fast but seems to be in complete inertia. 

Khala’s white eye impassively leers over the makeshift stage. Honks and beeps, honks and beeps. Scene.