8/10/2024
Corsican Jazz 5
by Zulfikar Ahmetovic
An unavoidable need to understand
Flaming up.
Gearing up.
No way to suppress it.
Unavoidable unthinkable unrecoverable
NEED TO UNDERSTAND.
It’s my addiction.
It’s my wife and it’s my life.
This will lead me straight to my grave.
I can’t help.
Back into it.
Yes it all started with the non French name in the news.
The untold part taker.
The vanished stiff.
My own real firestarter.
A long and winding gravel road leading me back to the land where I was born.
Little more than a kid back then, I was.
My biological dad snuffed, shred into pieces, before he died his eyes pulled out with a knife.
My beloved granddad Zulfikar still bad blood with the Father of the Nation.
Maybe the Ustaša .
I grew up Muslim by name.
I grew up mixed blood Gypsy.
No friendship with bosniak muslims - say those real believers.
Those targeted gypsies back then as their german owners ordered them to.
Me an involuntary stranger.
With a soft eye for the brave, dangerous ones.
THe serbs.
Feature me half asleep into the big broken armchair.
Half and faking it.
Letting Ange keep snoring.
Letting Jeannot keep his eyes on the sheep.
All of a sudden guard dogs started barking. Howling.
Jeannot grabbing his shotgun.
Ange waking up with a start. Handgun in his hand.
A lone motorcycle engine coming up, both of them a bit relieved.
A young man on the bike, an old Honda.
Ange approaching him, Jeannot waking up, rushing out.
Me uncertain whether stepping out joining them.
Those three talking loud in their dialect, no way to understand them.
Jeannot grinning, Ange patting his shoulders, embracing the guy.
The three coming in.
Some beer, that impenetrable dialect.
Jeannot gesturing me out,
"We've got the man quite for sure. We know where he'll be in two days,"
"Explain me," I said.
After all it's me who's paying for this all.
Jeannot slid a smartphone, an envelope.
“We had them on print. You know, Mr out of nowhere, we run also nightclubs. Say prostie rings. Back in time, back in Marseille it used to be our Corsican specialty long before big bucks came in with heroine..."
He chuckled.
"We've a side ring for - so to say - special clients,"
He chuckled.
"Don't ask extensively about this to Ange, I'd never tell you, it's our biker friend's own piecemeal. He's the one running that special ring, but don't make him a queer for this-"
He opened the envelope, some pics extracted. A sequence.
A short haired muscular guy. Tattoos. Military kind of. Mid thirties.
A tall dark woman, provocatively attired.
A prostie.
A bit too tall.
Stepping out of some door.
Stepping into a motel room.
Flashes. Pops pops.
The military guy popped while guzzling a huuge dick down his throat,
Muscle men, obviously corsican thugs all around him, cheering him.
His scared gaze.
Weird party it seemed to be,
The transvestite standing next to him, his huuuge shlong shoved up to the soldier's face.
Souvenir group pic.
No way soldier was extorted some news.
About my own target man among them.
