MANICHAEAN
11-08-2010, 01:51 AM
Chapter 1: Settling In:
Money, dark looks and a serpentine insurrection in his loins. Life was good and the Devil lay on his hotel bed, reviewing with some interest his current material, cosmetic and physical attributes. The dated colonial style fan revolved above him listlessly on the high ceiling & nearby, a mosquito sensed that discretion was the better part of valour and decided to forgo a bite and a drink.
With Miami Airport but a bad one hour flight memory ago, the Devil had ultimately touched base on the island and was refreshingly ensconced in the Terra Firma Hotel in Kingston, Jamaica.
None of the former US macho, bureaucratic hassle at Immigration here. The six foot plus, black windmill of an official with an infectious smile and a red stripe down his trousers, had politely enquired; “First time in Jamaica Mr Lucifer?”
“Yes first time” he responded warily, recollecting the need to choose carefully his words, to avoid any potential trap as previously encountered States side. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a visa,” he added more cautious still.
Another smile from the windmill. “No problem Man, me giv u tree weeks. Welcome to Jamaica.”
As if in slow motion, (for nothing moves fast in the Caribbean), he stamped the passport & handed it back.
“Thank you so much” said the Devil and picked up his bags. He was relieved and felt himself becoming more emotionally relaxed, even though the heat of the tropics was already clamming up his arm pits.
The Immigration official called after him; “Now you be careful of the sun man, it’s plenty hot out dere.”
“Thank you again, but in fact I’m quite used to the heat” he responded graciously.
Once at the hotel he reflected that, “These were his kind of people. Salt of the earth.” The taxi driver with the body odour had tried to drive him to Trenchtown to be robbed, the doorman at the hotel had offered him drugs, the reception staff had endeavoured to double swipe his credit card. And now the bell hop, whilst carrying his bags to the room, offered in succession, temptations, each of which he firmly refused.
“You want some sheep’s wool sir?” comprised starters from the young man.
“I’m not sure what exactly you had in mind, but thank you no” the Devil responded.
“How about a woman?”
“No not today thank you”
“A boy then?”
“Thank you no; I really just want a drink & an early night.”
In desperation the bell hop dealt his joker; “How about a coconut!”
The Devil threw him a look that froze his credentials and he left unsettled, partially soothed by a $20 note affectionately known locally as a “nanny”.
Lucifer showered, changed into a pleasing all black outfit of loose shirt, slacks & loafers & went to the poolside bar. The young barman with the gold tooth asked what he would like.
“Oh, give me one of your Jamaican specials” he replied.
“Wat mood you in sir and I knock em up real special” the barman replied, one eye indicating the sign up near the drinks shelves which read; “Tipping is not a town near Peking.”
“Actually I’m not feeling too bad at all” the Devil responded.
The barman combined in a long glass: 2 shots of Appleton rum, 1 shot of Drambuie, 3 shots of Black & White whiskey, crushed ice, bitters, orange juice, a bent straw & a slice of lime capped over the rim.
“Try dat Sir & let me no wat u tinks” the barman said gently, placing his creation on the bar as reverently as a priest handling a chalice.
The Devil sipped tentively. “Wicked” he responded. “Just as I like it.”
The bar man drifted off to serve an Afro American from Detroit in a pith helmet who seemed to be under the illusion that he was holidaying in Africa.
The bar radio was on and Lucifer listened to a voluble Jamaican woman, on what appeared to be a local phone-in.
“Em cum into me garden to steal me mango Mr Twaite” she addressed the languid and invariable unresponsive sounding presenter. “Me tell im, u tief man, u tief to steal me mango from me tree. And u know wat em say Mr Twaite?” Without waiting for a reply, she seemed not to draw breath but proceeded, “Em say It’s not your mango, its Gods mango! Lord hav mercy Mr Twaite the way tings are in Jamaica!”
The Devil smiled, whilst at the other end of the bar the Detroit black colonial master was being obscenely overcharged for the drinks. Nearby in a dark green bikini, his newly acquired mampi girlfriend was already planning that night to rob him blind after jumping his bones for an extended period to make him sleep.
“What a wonderful place this is.” The Devil thought. “So much evil, so much sin, so much corruption.”
He had already read in the glossy brochure how in the 17th century, then known as Port Royal, it had been dubbed “The Most Wicked City in the World” on account of it comprising the main pirate hub of the region.
“What a proud heritage it had” he thought.
There grew steadily, almost imperceptibly in his mind the possibility of acquiring a second home here, away from the office, a potential place for retirement, located ideally somewhere in a twilight zone between a maximum security prison and a Yardie drug lords ghetto. He would make enquiries of a local estate agent in the morning.
“Oh to peacefully slip into sleep each night to the sounds of sporadic gunfire in the street, the cries of domestic violence in adjoining properties & the sobs of the ground down poor & afflicted all around. Why could the States not have been more like this?”
Across the other side of the island in Montego Bay, a slight man with angular features, faded shirt and a beard was seated. He leaned forward & drew with his finger in the sand of Doctors Cave Beach.
“Where are the men that were chasing you?” he asked of the woman standing before him in tight jeans.
“Dem gone” she said.
He looked into her eyes and caressed her soul.
“Neither do I accuse you” he said. “Now go and get your dibs elsewhere.”
She paused, turned and staggered off awkwardly, her platform shoes totally at odds with the sand on which she trod.
The Nazarene rose slowly, and ignoring the hustlers and the higglers proceeded to the bus station.
He had business to take care of in Kingston.
Money, dark looks and a serpentine insurrection in his loins. Life was good and the Devil lay on his hotel bed, reviewing with some interest his current material, cosmetic and physical attributes. The dated colonial style fan revolved above him listlessly on the high ceiling & nearby, a mosquito sensed that discretion was the better part of valour and decided to forgo a bite and a drink.
With Miami Airport but a bad one hour flight memory ago, the Devil had ultimately touched base on the island and was refreshingly ensconced in the Terra Firma Hotel in Kingston, Jamaica.
None of the former US macho, bureaucratic hassle at Immigration here. The six foot plus, black windmill of an official with an infectious smile and a red stripe down his trousers, had politely enquired; “First time in Jamaica Mr Lucifer?”
“Yes first time” he responded warily, recollecting the need to choose carefully his words, to avoid any potential trap as previously encountered States side. “I’m sorry, I don’t have a visa,” he added more cautious still.
Another smile from the windmill. “No problem Man, me giv u tree weeks. Welcome to Jamaica.”
As if in slow motion, (for nothing moves fast in the Caribbean), he stamped the passport & handed it back.
“Thank you so much” said the Devil and picked up his bags. He was relieved and felt himself becoming more emotionally relaxed, even though the heat of the tropics was already clamming up his arm pits.
The Immigration official called after him; “Now you be careful of the sun man, it’s plenty hot out dere.”
“Thank you again, but in fact I’m quite used to the heat” he responded graciously.
Once at the hotel he reflected that, “These were his kind of people. Salt of the earth.” The taxi driver with the body odour had tried to drive him to Trenchtown to be robbed, the doorman at the hotel had offered him drugs, the reception staff had endeavoured to double swipe his credit card. And now the bell hop, whilst carrying his bags to the room, offered in succession, temptations, each of which he firmly refused.
“You want some sheep’s wool sir?” comprised starters from the young man.
“I’m not sure what exactly you had in mind, but thank you no” the Devil responded.
“How about a woman?”
“No not today thank you”
“A boy then?”
“Thank you no; I really just want a drink & an early night.”
In desperation the bell hop dealt his joker; “How about a coconut!”
The Devil threw him a look that froze his credentials and he left unsettled, partially soothed by a $20 note affectionately known locally as a “nanny”.
Lucifer showered, changed into a pleasing all black outfit of loose shirt, slacks & loafers & went to the poolside bar. The young barman with the gold tooth asked what he would like.
“Oh, give me one of your Jamaican specials” he replied.
“Wat mood you in sir and I knock em up real special” the barman replied, one eye indicating the sign up near the drinks shelves which read; “Tipping is not a town near Peking.”
“Actually I’m not feeling too bad at all” the Devil responded.
The barman combined in a long glass: 2 shots of Appleton rum, 1 shot of Drambuie, 3 shots of Black & White whiskey, crushed ice, bitters, orange juice, a bent straw & a slice of lime capped over the rim.
“Try dat Sir & let me no wat u tinks” the barman said gently, placing his creation on the bar as reverently as a priest handling a chalice.
The Devil sipped tentively. “Wicked” he responded. “Just as I like it.”
The bar man drifted off to serve an Afro American from Detroit in a pith helmet who seemed to be under the illusion that he was holidaying in Africa.
The bar radio was on and Lucifer listened to a voluble Jamaican woman, on what appeared to be a local phone-in.
“Em cum into me garden to steal me mango Mr Twaite” she addressed the languid and invariable unresponsive sounding presenter. “Me tell im, u tief man, u tief to steal me mango from me tree. And u know wat em say Mr Twaite?” Without waiting for a reply, she seemed not to draw breath but proceeded, “Em say It’s not your mango, its Gods mango! Lord hav mercy Mr Twaite the way tings are in Jamaica!”
The Devil smiled, whilst at the other end of the bar the Detroit black colonial master was being obscenely overcharged for the drinks. Nearby in a dark green bikini, his newly acquired mampi girlfriend was already planning that night to rob him blind after jumping his bones for an extended period to make him sleep.
“What a wonderful place this is.” The Devil thought. “So much evil, so much sin, so much corruption.”
He had already read in the glossy brochure how in the 17th century, then known as Port Royal, it had been dubbed “The Most Wicked City in the World” on account of it comprising the main pirate hub of the region.
“What a proud heritage it had” he thought.
There grew steadily, almost imperceptibly in his mind the possibility of acquiring a second home here, away from the office, a potential place for retirement, located ideally somewhere in a twilight zone between a maximum security prison and a Yardie drug lords ghetto. He would make enquiries of a local estate agent in the morning.
“Oh to peacefully slip into sleep each night to the sounds of sporadic gunfire in the street, the cries of domestic violence in adjoining properties & the sobs of the ground down poor & afflicted all around. Why could the States not have been more like this?”
Across the other side of the island in Montego Bay, a slight man with angular features, faded shirt and a beard was seated. He leaned forward & drew with his finger in the sand of Doctors Cave Beach.
“Where are the men that were chasing you?” he asked of the woman standing before him in tight jeans.
“Dem gone” she said.
He looked into her eyes and caressed her soul.
“Neither do I accuse you” he said. “Now go and get your dibs elsewhere.”
She paused, turned and staggered off awkwardly, her platform shoes totally at odds with the sand on which she trod.
The Nazarene rose slowly, and ignoring the hustlers and the higglers proceeded to the bus station.
He had business to take care of in Kingston.