Muhammad Abi Samra - Beirut Noir

Monot Street, baby boys. It’s three letters away from monotony, that part is true. But yalla, drunk as I was, I did not feel any difference. And a cunt here is like a cunt there, and since we’re here, we might as well get it here.

I have to admit, I was beyond fucked really bloody, with a dwindling bag of heroin in my pocket and my Ka was rushing through my spine torrently. I looked around with half-closed eyes of disdain and everyone around me was also oh-so-very-fucked, I swear. And it felt nice to at least share something with the populace.

To say Beirut has a drug problem is inaccurate. Because it’s not a problem. We are all in control and have been cutting down recently anyway.

But I did go clean once, I have to admit that, very bad idea, an awakening of conscience, blablabla, unwelcomed guest inside my craney, horrible misconception ya akhi, thought I’d clear up my blood for a while, concentrate on the madrassa and shit, aim really high in the Shia religious ladder of society, you know, but to be honest, I’m glad I did — as in, cutting off the supply for a while — because it hits fuckin’ harder now.

So yeah, I went clean for a stretch and then I went back at it real nasty and bad, my dreams of preaching Islamically on a massive scale now down the drain: in exchange for wenches, liquor, and drugs, hundreds of grams on thousands of naked backs of lilylilhoes washed with millions of liters. I was as clean as a glass cup in a fancy restaurant, but now, now, my dear dearest brother, no really, you are, walla, we are at the bottom of the stinking stink of the sink, eyeing up and fighting for rancorous drops falling from above. Like rain in Arabia. Blessed blessed sick, falling at us, to wash us dirty.

00:34

Anyway. So when I came in to the bordello, I swear, a light blinded everyone’s eyes as they went whatwhatwhat at me. They could all smell the wozz in me as I was passing by like a gust of testosterone in an abandoned harem, I swear.

“Wlik welcome ya Sheikhna!” said the Pimpette Superior, and then she went on excreting an abomination of peasant vocabulary phrased in the form of a question which I will rephrase to you now in decent English.

It went thusly.

She: “What wouldst thou do milord-sheikh? Shall we go at it drinkwards foremost before wenching our way through the wenches, or flipside?”

So I retorted with: “Drinkwards let it be then, drinkwards is bestwards as we speak, ya amar!” I notched the volume switch higher for the two catwalk-material sharmingas on my right to ear and think I am confident. They eyed me real proper from top to bottom and stopped halfway. Then halfway from left to right and stopped halfway.

Weeeeell, modesty is by far one of the many dashing traits in my sizzling personality, but if you really wish to divulge, yes, big package ya madamet, you bet I swear! It’s not the pants, it’s nasty Eri, Eeeeeeri, oink! Oh Eri, oink oink! Only known by a slew... he’s a killer, the Circumcised Madrefûcker they call ’im on the street, frowning one-eyed Cyclops, regurgitator of green pustular sins and black sticky fire, the brimstone and the venereal baby boys, and demonic hordes of children project by the scores of gazillions, whole continents crowding behind the eye, a sacrifice of a peninsula, vanishing into the sea, forever waiting, waiting to shatter the gate to smithereens and drown the world.

“Wlik ya ahla bel sheikh! What we like tonight? Eh?”

“Crissycross Bloody fucking Mary!” I ordered as I crossed my chest. The bartender was all smiley smiley of course, sidi.

Oh, and shikishikishikishiki was their excuse for music.

A window. I threw an eye through.

A stretch of red in the black sky. I smiled. Bleeding rectums beckoned.

Bang slammed a door. I looked back.

Three belly dancers stormed out of their rooms laughing, the eastern gate blown to hell, thank God, the chador keys thrown away for Allah is away on business and nothing beats reporting to an absentee boss. These virgins of heaven were flashing me their bosoms as we spoke, giggling as they went from room to room.

A stallion and vixens I swear to god we are, we Oriental god-looking bastards. God made us out of His own disgusting spat image. Read your scriptures, Euro-trash! It’s all there. We are as tempestuous and cruel and gorgeous as Yahweh. You too-whites, you too-blacks, you too-yellows are simply mutations of the image of the god of Genesis. You’re like us, but you’re a little fucked up. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of, really. Weather and living conditions do take their toll.

Then... splaf ! Glass under my nose, very fuckin’ fast that was! I looked at him. He smiled at me with green teeth showing. “Come here, you. The Ayrton Senna of bartenders, I knight thee.” And I put a ten-thousand-lira bill in his pocket.

“EuheuheuEuheuheuGeuheu!” he slyly remarked.

“You may go now,” I told him.

I nosed the glass. Very rancid, of course. He made it in a second to impress me. I took a sip, tonguing it up and down, left and right, in my palate for testing. Oh fuck it, what am I doing? Al kohol is al kohol, and the tongue will just have to take it. No?

I say yes.

No?

I don’t know, I think I’ll go with yes.

Then a lilylilhoe, delightfully underage, freshly cropped, tallish, she came out of nowhere, I swear, she grabbeth my face and licketh my ear. Oh the nasty schlupka! Ayayay ya Allah, not the bloody ear! For you see, ya akhi, due to a horrific childhood collision injury I was smitten as a result with a G-spot there. The lilylilhoe must have had inside information for she went at it with knowledge.

So she laughed and of course she asked for a drink.

“Ya walad, give the lady what she wants.”

She shrieked, “Yiiiiih! Shu mahdum! Lady! Hahaha!”

I smiled.

“Yiiiiih! Leish hek snenak? Your teeth are all black, mister! Pourquoi?”

“Later, ya amar,” I said to her, and then after a wink, “Mesh in public, okay?”

“Hahahahaha!” she retorted.

It became clear I was just regularly spouting pearls of comedy because everything I said made her laugh. So I kept talking as she dreamily observed my mouth move and being moved like a leaf when deep sounds came out. Every inch of my skin was a map that she devised with care like Christopher when his sailors began to rebel. And every time I spoke she nodded, and it was Holy Scriptures that she wrote down on her little tabula rasa.

“Badde fuut ‘al bathroom, okay?”

“Okay, ya amar.”

She smiled and she swooshed away just like that, and her hair zebrafied the lightbulb, and I saw her squeezing between the jiggling, giggling fat bodies and the harharhars of her horrible friends.

“What’s with ze rosy schlupka, eh? Shu? You like rosy schlupkas? You don’t like zis?”

I was still looking back, smiling like an autistic kid, when she came along.

I looked back once more and oh my goodness — we were under assault yet again! Mojo soldiers! Left flank, left flank! This time by a sharminga like no other, I swear. So I eyed her really proper to give a frank answer as to whether I want zis or not and, by Jove, cabbie! Hooooold! For she was a yummy-yummy-swallow-every-drop kind of wench, ya cabbie! Her lips were warm and sanctified beyond perfection by the god-trampler Silicon. Her breasts seemed to gasp for air under her Victoria and Fatima’s Secret. An oh-just-tear-me-apart soiree dress and really outlandish earrings. Perfect hourglass figure but time was running out. 36, I give her, 36 or 37, not more. She was staring at me right through the eyelobes, and then without prior warning, she looked down at Eri. Eri grumbled. A steady slow hum. She ran her heels underneath my sheikhly black dress and she woke up Eri who was in a deserving slumber. Blitzkrieg Allah almighty! I thought to myself.