Bangzhu woke up slowly with a throbbing headache, a congested nose, and a dry throat. His first thought, dazed by medication, was: “I’m still sick to death.”
A few days earlier, he had caught the flu, weakened as he was by the ongoing fights with his wife. “My future ex-wife,” as he cynically called her. Their relationship had been on a subsoil level for years, the only reason they were still together was for income taxes. As the arguments became more bitter, he worked longer and drank more. The toxic atmosphere at home had turned him into a workaholic and a wife-cheater. One day, when he came back from work a little early, he caught his wife in bed with someone else. Not the postman or the milkman, that would have been too predictable. No, his missus was cheating on him with his mistress. His mistress was also their next-door neighbor: cute, young and gullible. When he saw them, cuddled up together in his warm bed, he smiled. He couldn’t blame his wife. What better way to upgrade your life than a sexual fling? He’d scoped that pretty young thing up for himself only months before. They had that experience in common now, gender-neutral and all.
“That damn job,” Bangzhu thought… “I should have taken a vacation sooner, then I wouldn’t have gotten sick so easily.” He wanted to turn around in bed to snooze a little more when he realized something terrible and froze with a fearful shock. He released a panicked, suppressed a scream.
“Those bitches buried me alive!” He was wide-awake now, feeling a sudden wave of death-fear going over him. He was stuck in a coffin he had built himself last summer when he came up with the brilliant idea to dig a deep hole in the middle of their house. He had managed to sell the idea to his wife, telling her he was gonna install a wine cellar down there. That the wooden space would be just big enough to hide a human body, he had kept for himself. He was a farsighted man, and that life insurance would one day come up big. He didn’t think they’d beat him to it.Now Bangzhu was inhaling the last gasps of air with his nose full of sand and dirt. His eyes buried under wet cement, his whole body surrounded by concrete gunk. He was done for. The more he tried to pry himself loose, the more firmly he got stuck. Underneath, he felt the wooden floor, above him a closed hatch. He managed to force his arms upwards one last time, to try and push a way through. It was no use. As he gasped for his last breath, he felt the cement penetrating his ears, nose, and mouth, slowly stifling the last seconds of his life.
“I can forget about that threesome now,” Bangzhu thought.
Peter Beda (°1972) is a Belgian writer, poet and MC/singer, currently based in Brussels. He has released several musical projects under the name 72 Soul, Lazy Rebel and Pierre Citron. He has been published in Maintenant 11 (A Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art) and several underground zines. He writes in French, English and Dutch and holds a master degree in Comparative Cultural Sciences.
Peter Beda brings a new voice and vibe to the art form of rap, autobiographical fiction and poetry, using a spoken thought method to shine light from the mental darkness of doubt and confusion, which he understands as an element of hindering personal progress.
“Love your life, live your dreams.”