A Brief of my Time in Angola: The Diary of a Murderous Bender

By God Gecko

After being snatched up by the icy hands of the local flavour of the Gestapo for liking a man like he was supposed to like a woman, a young man finds who he is in the sex, lust, romance and violence of a dungeon inside of which lions and bears roam. And through all of this he is watched by the dead eyes of the man who first taught him to bend to the will and power of another man. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: God Gecko
• Release date: Feb 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224840083

Book preview

Introduction

This book is a story about homosexual activities in the country of N, a land so holy that every inch of its foundation is soaked in prayers. And although this book is the first entry in what will become a collection of my memories, it is in no way the earliest of my memories that will be put down on paper. Things that came before it will be put down after it and things that came after it will be put down alongside it. These entries are meant to be crude, graphic and explicit, because in this way they show defiance to those who dare to cage things that should not be caged. Those people who shake their clenched fists at others who are kinder, far more talented and much more moral than themselves and say: you are immoral and deserve what’s coming to you.

All my memories that will make the aforementioned collection whole will form the flesh and bones of the middle finger I am forever giving to these savages. We will outlast your politics and we will outlive your doctrines and beliefs. And it all starts with this one right here, a brief rant about my time in a high and mighty prison called Angola by its inmates. It tells things here and there about how I found parts of myself in a place filled with wolves and lions, and it is also a tragic reminder of the many friends that I would most likely never see again.

I killed a few nights ago and I have loved every minute of my existence since. Adlo Kenton was his name, and the amount of pleasure I am feeling at what my hands have done makes me shudder every now and again. It is like I have become a new man and I am floating about the place rather than walking. When the now murdered man was still alive he stood at one hundred and eighty-three centimetres, had a scar just under his right eye which I had not noticed on the night I killed him, and he was thirty-seven days younger than me. I know all of this because of the three ID cards I had pulled from the dead man’s wallet as his body soaked in the marshy bottom of a pond. Those cards are now idling at the bottom of a box inside of my wardrobe. No one will ever display them again to any kind of authority, and they would see nothing but darkness and smell nothing but old clothes, except when I pull them out for fresh air to admire my strength and the capacity of my hands. I have buried fear along with that sort of monster that has until now never allowed me to live life without it. And the monster’s mother, a crying woman with large eyes and an even larger nose, says that she would not rest until she finds me. The police buttress her point by saying that no stone will be left unturned in their search for me. They say all of this at the mouth of the park inside of which I had laid her son’s body low, and I know all of this because they are saying it on TV, every hour on the hour.

He was a sweet sweet boy, the mother says, and as she says this she brings a tissue to her eyes to catch tears as large as boulders. I do feel an intense sadness for her everytime the news repeats this sequence of sorrow, especially as two other women, certainly relatives, come close on either side of her as if to wedge her from falling over with grief. I imagine the labour and milk she must have invested in that boy, the sleepless nights for a restless baby and the many smiles she had to smile to encourage him to do the same. But that boy did not turn out to be a sweet man, ma’am. No. That boy, your boy, became a monster whose eyes grew cold and dead. The sort that loves to take the will of people like myself in public places, and heaven help people like me when we run into people like your now dead son when no one is there to see. They sniff out our lives with gleeful rage and straight faces which bear a disgusting sense of moral superiority. So, yes, I am sad for the woman but glad at myself for closing the eyes of such a man forever. And when I say those eyes were deader than stone, it is because they were exactly as I have said they were.

Before Adlo Kenton, I had only come within arms length of a person with such eyes before. They called him Cain and he had a shifty-eyed sidekick whose name was Preacher. His were even worse than Adlo Kenton’s; like orbs that could barely contain the evil in his soul. And with heaven as my witness, even though the dick of a man has now become to me like a giver of life and a fountain of eternal youth, I would die before I touch Cain’s male member, even if there are a million gold bullions waiting for me on top of it. Goodness, the gremlins and ghouls that must live there on the skin of his shaft, not to talk of the evil spirits that live on his ball sack, swinging from wretched hair strand to wretched hair strand like chimpanzees.

One more set of eyes must enter the story here for the benefit of the reader.

You see, a few months before I had met the dead eyes of Cain and the shifty eyes of Preacher in that prison called Angola, I had been running away from the dead eyes of another man named Sanka, which, as I ran, was petrifying me more than the people who had just put a bullet in Sanka’s head. They had put a bullet in Sanka’s head because Sanka was liking me like a man is supposed to like a woman, the hot front of his body engulfing me as I pressed my whole ass into it, begging with my gyrations for him to enter me like a man is supposed to enter a woman. His eyes, smoky, brown and delicate when he was alive, were now open and empty. They were open and empty because Sanka was dead. Dead as in deceased. Deceased as in no longer among the living. No longer among the living as in a person who used to be alive had now been called to glory. Dead in the way a body is when life has been snuffed out of it and that pale and cold ashiness of permanent sleep engulfs the final form. For the reader who would learn at a later date, Sanka was the man who first proved to me that people with our sort of proclivities exist in the flesh in the country of N, that land of rivers and lush green vegetation off the coast of the Atlantic ocean which I have had the misfortune of being born into. He had fallen upon me in a cubicle that passed for an office, and then fallen inside me in a car with a dick that was long and indomitable mere hours before he would fall dead out of a window because a bullet had been parked in his brain. I ran away from his fallen body until I could not hear the chasing of the people who had snuffed Sanka's life out, and then I ran a lot more after that. I ran past streets and through back alleys, past stalls and curious eyes which looked first at me and then behind me to see what was pursuing me in order to check if they too had to worry for their safety. I ran until I felt that there was no more air in my lungs and then I stopped and looked around to see that I was close to the junction of an unpaved road which was burdened severely by potholes and bordered on either side by a few run-down bungalows and some shacks made of zinc. My shirt, ripped for some reason, was soaked in sweat and then I bent over where I had stopped to draw in as many deep breaths as I could with my hands resting on my knees. It took several breaths for me to find enough sanity to know that a sweating man, bent over and struggling for air in a ripped shirt, was a target for attention even on a street that was quiet and sleepy. It took me a few more breaths after that to realise that I could feel the moist sand of the road against the soles of my feet, and I was just about to reason out the matter of why I was without shoes and where they could have gone, when, like thunder on wheels, a pick-up truck as dark as the Gestapo screeched to a halt in front of me.

I was lying on my side on the cold metal of the truck’s cargo bed before I had a chance to make sense of the figures which had alighted from it or the cold harsh hands which had grabbed me and lifted me up so roughly.

But...me? I heard myself say as the hands pulled at me.

Smiles which exposed fangs that all looked like the claws of the devil is all I got in response from the brutish faces. Try again, I thought.

But...what have I done to you?

My legs left the floor and then I landed violently on somebody’s body before sliding down until my body touched cold metal.

Captives, stretched out and folded in every possible fashion and into every orifice were there with me, and as more bodies piled into that truck to eat up every inch of space that wasn’t even there in the first place, I was soon staring right into the eyes of one other captive. So close was I to this person that our noses pressed painfully against each other and our eyelashes got tangled everytime we blinked. The eye lashes were clearly made longer by extensions and they had a blue hue which matched the paint on the eyelids above. It was a face with the most delicate of skins which was softly touched with foundation, and it would have been a perfect portrait had it not been for a patch of mud and a reddened swelling across the cheek that faced the sky above. The person stared into my soul with pity for my condition as well as with discipline in the face of the persecution which it told me was natural and to be expected. The person stared and stared until another bout of tire screeching, yelling and slapping caused another body to fall on top of us and muddle up our connection.

Each of us had one hand handcuffed to another person as we were led through the doorway of a building. The whole thing, from the building to the weather above and around it, was rundown. It was a dim grey evening with clouds like soot hanging over a structure which looked like the offspring of a union between a fortress and a house of horror. Its walls, which may have once been brown or even white, were moist and green with decay, and in certain places the weeds had grown to the height of men. We were led through two gates and then into a hallway whose walls seemed to shed dust with every step and even with sounds above a certain decibel. There were offices on either side of the hallway that held people in brown uniforms working behind desks and wearing morose expressions all over their bodies. Back then, the only uniforms I could recognize in the country of N were the black ones of the police and the green camouflage of the army. The black uniforms of the police had dominated the pick-up trucks which had brought us there and there was no army camouflage in sight.

Brown, I thought. "Prisons? Customs? State security?"

Keep moving, you vagabond, a voice which could barely contain the revulsion of its owner thundered. I stopped to try to peer at the words in a framed picture on a wall just beside a door that was set to vomit us into whatever lay on the other side of the hallway. The picture showed a middle-aged man dressed in a starched brown uniform that featured black epaulettes and silver stars. A peaked black hat crowned his head, and even though his eyes watched me sternly, daring me in their iciness to read what I was trying to read in the words below his picture, I managed to make out Prison and correctional services.

Are you deaf? The voice rang out again. My handcuff mate tugged at me and we soon entered into another courtyard that stank of urine and that was large and filled to the brim with jeering, whistling and pounding that could have put a colosseum to shame. There were several buildings, each with five floors of animals sitting on and hanging over railings in every direction. Some beat pots and other metal objects against the railings as they motioned at us and threw all sorts of hand signs in the air. Others watched with that solitary but menacing disposition typical of people that are familiar with the motions of doing violence, and others, leaning in deep thought against walls or with their heads resting against the palms of their hands, looked defeated and to be in either deep thought or in deep sorrow. Most of the sorrowful ones were shirtless and only wore brown pants which seemed to accentuate their nutrition starved upper torsos even more, while others among them wore torn shirts which told different tales about how they were once white. Somebody down the line to my right started crying. Not sniffles or anything close to that. I am talking here of bawling, like a toddler who had just lost its parents in a crowd. I did not turn to look, but the crowd around us sure did look and did hear the wailing and they responded by entering into a frenzy that made the raucous which came before it seem quiet. Somebody threw something in the direction of the crier and that something was fast and powerful enough to do violence to the air as it cut through it. I am not sure if the projectile found its mark, but it did come to a stop somewhere behind me after hitting several things on its way to its resting place.

Hey! a commanding voice from somewhere behind us said, and there was a brief calm in the area from which the missile came.

We were made to line up in the midst of all these assaults and noise and gang signs and thinking and sorrow, until the sound of smart boots hitting the ground came up from behind us. I knew better than to look back, but someone on the line didn’t