This was not a meal to die for.
Here he was, in the land of haute cuisine, and all Mo could afford was a plat du fucking jour. Always the same wherever you went. An undercooked hunk of chicken in a pasty tomato sauce with veg the texture of chewed up gum. A ragged cup of coffee, tasting of wood and wire. Strawberry ice cream with a crumb of chocolate like a blackened tooth in a scarlet fog. Who’d miss these sinister dinner deals?
Café owner must’ve felt pity on him or something, because he laid down a complimentary bowl of soup. There’s a swirl in it, looks like Jesus or Allahu, depending on your mood.
He was never going to work them out, the French. Done trying to interpret their signs. Did you know the first thing that happens to a French baby after it’s born is to have a finger shoved up its anus? The first shit they ever take is black. Bottom kind. The sick breath at its hind.
How twisted do you have to be feeling to stick around for dessert? Mo knew the ever after, and there was no brûlée after Quran.
Mo paid up, waited for change. There’s no tip worth leaving that’d be of any use to these lost causes. His chariot awaits. It was far from gold but this would not be the last seat he ever sat on, of that Mo was nearly wholly sure. His filthy five clenched on the wheel, neither challenging nor resisting, the tan line round his wedding finger starved of what was once good.
Funny, thought Mo, out here when they say ‘mercy’, they mean thanks.
By God, they’d thank him for this.
An eye that can’t see or a tooth that chews on the lie? A foolish life without burdens or one of truths and consequences? Hated on earth or hailed in heaven? He was done with all this measuring of truth.
It’s a beautiful night on the Promenade des Anglais. The key turns, the engine roars, the wicked wheels spin. Deliver us thy blood of atonement.
Let history unfold.
By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff: Nick Cave, Mick Harvey, Johnny Cash