Hi,
hier ein Auszug unseres logs aus der Sicht des schwarzen Vodun, einem alten Mann der eigentlich nix damit zu tun haben will und der gelegentlich von Baron Samedi (Black Daddy Christmas) heimgesucht wird. Die Heimsuchung dürfte vom Sprachstil her leicht zu erkennen sein. Als Begleiter ist noch ein kreolischer Arzt und eine Bast dabei. Diese session (log folgt) kam noch Jackie Chan dazu
ich weiss nicht ob das für aussenstehende nachvollziehbar ist, ich finde diese zusammenfassung allerdings einen echten hammer
Here we go:
For me, I no did wanna go in the first place, God knows not. If it ain’t been for that jumpy kid, Jimmy, and his Internet thing, I’d still be sittin’ in my pad now. It ain’t big, and it ain’t exactly dry, but it is home, an’ right now I’d be perfectly happy if I could go back to my ol’ life where nothin’ special happens at all. Damn, I already saw myself dyin’ peacefully in bed surrounded by my own folks. But as it is now, I’ll probably end up shot in the back in some gutter or rent to shreds by some kinda thing … or maybe I’ll wake up dead one morning after knocking back some four gallons of rum in the city’s worst dint. Sound silly? No it don’t, cuz HE is back, too. Heck, I dunno what I shouda be more ‘fraid of – that friggin’ occult stuff or myself. But I’m rantin’ already. Yeah, yeah, when you get that old, you’ll begin doing it too, ya’ll see.
Well, here’s wha’ happened. Jimmy told me that there was this magic-congress thing up in NY, where all the freaks meet … definitely not the place to find me. However, there was supposed to be this Baba Jarl person … kinda big cheese for the Vodoun in the New England area. Juz the right guy to ask if you got questions about … certain matters … I don’t like to talk about. And questions I got, yessir. We all do. Somehow, everything’s slowly going to hell in New Orleans, an’ black people are starting to get killed in numbers in the streets at night by God-knows-whom or what. There are murmurs among the Gifted that the Shadow World is in unrest, but our Vodoun can’t figure out why. Even so, I’d never gone to New York by my own. But as I told, there’s now this Internet-thing. That boy Jimmy, he don’t realize what good it can be not to be able to find and get found by every person or damned thing in the world. So however, he figured out someone from here who’s also headed for the NY-congress, supposedly a doctor or somethin’. I met tha guy at the airport, name’s Tony, and though he’s pretty weird and almost still a kid, he turned out to be alright … I think. At least I’ve seen worse. Much worse.
I dun’t like NY, no Sir. Whole place stinks with human badness. I’ve always had a “sixth sense” for that kinda stuff. On top of that, the congress definitely was in one of the badest parts of the city. When we entered the old water tower, I felt like a lamb on his way to the slaughterhouse. After looking at some really sick people, the bad news came in: Baba wasn’t there, and he didn’t plan to show up anymore, they said. Then there was this weird woman who seemed to know that kid, Tony, and a cat … yeah, that weird black an’ white cat, we picked it up back at the airport. Hit me, but I’m gonna tell you that she also was on her way to the congress. The little critter even talks. Must admit, though, that I forgot the name … if she even said it. Course, I don’t feel quite at home speaking to animals, so you can imagine we hadn’t really gotten warm with each other. However, the lady read the cards for us and said that the Baba was probably being held somewhere … maybe kidnapped or something. She said the cat would have to lead us there. Puss now started to smell fish. You know, like a dog that picks up a trail. As I think about it now, it sounds like I was on crack or suthin’. So the Lady gave us the keys to her car … and that’s Car with a capital C to you, Sir. Felt like a fop drivin’ ‘round in that glitzy thing. And then the really bad things started to happen.
The fish-smell lead us up toward Rhode Island or somewhere ‘round there, no idea. Seemed to be no your ordinary stink, in any case. Half way there, the cops made us stop. Checking papers, whatever. There was just one patrol car, but the guy at the wheel … I could see him in the mirror, he’s wearing a gas mask or something, the freak, an’ when Tony noticed, he got all shook up an’ pale as a corpse, quite a feat for a Creole boy. He later told me that the guy was an old acquaintance and real bad company. Confirmed that soon enough when we were picking up some candy at a truck stop and the Gas-man SOB barrelled over an old lady with his police car in front of our noses … boy have we hit the road fast, I tell ya. And Gas-man right behind us. We barely made it to the ferry and the bad guys didn’t, so that saved our day (at least – if not our lives).
Rock Island was the name of the place, I think. Used to be quite popular way back, when some black-ties wanted to make medicine out of a certain crab wha’ you can find only there. Built a big town, but then the whole thing went up in a puff of good ideas and the poor suckers on the island were the butt-end of all jokes in the whole area, I’m sure. So now they have an empty town with a mall and lots of parking space … and an eternal sadness hanging all over it. Boy did I just say “eternal”? Meant “friggin’”, of course. We needed a quick fix-up for our platinum-sparkling car, so we dropped in at a gas station run by a fella named Stan … I think. Ain’s so good with names anymore, God knows. However, he looked like that cop from TV, Kojak, and he even had a thing about lollypops. Talk about personality issues. Well, the guy took our car in and even lent us his “baby” – a beefed-up pickup truck only barely more acceptable than our first coche. I also went off to buy some fitting clothes, since I somehow managed to not even bring my jacket from NO … I’d been freezin’ my ass off in that blue shirt I found in a dumpster some five years ago. The shop owner was a real brotha (only one on the whole damn isle, I think), and I have a vague memory of doing some bad bad thing … something involving a violet smoking and a lime-green shirt …
Back at the gas station we saw a strange thing. A black van with darkened windows stopped by, and that really slick and somehow nasty lookin’ boy got out. Spaniard, probably. The kind you see in those movies about drug-wars in South America. Not a spot on his suit. But while we were talking behind his back, we heard knocking noises from the van … like someone wanted to get out badly … The Baba? Heck, the whole thing got crazier every minute.
Since we were really beat up, we decided to take a room in a hotel up the hill. From there we could see an old light tower without light. Pussy had lost the trail since we arrived on Rock Island, but she figured Baba Jarl musta be here somewhere ‘round. Back at the gas station we’d been told about some old museum about the “history” of rock island … the only special thing in that was supposed to be some freak serial-killer who was born here or killed here or what have you. Johnny the Skinner they called him, and supposedly he did some really disgusting things to a couple girls down in NY. Also, the owner of the museum was the guy who usually took visitors for tours to the light tower, so we dicided to call. However, nobody opened. We then got ourselves a nice noseful of sleep and thought it might be a good idea to try again the next day. We were wrong.
Makulu! Da ol geeza iz gon, en I em bak, free! Free at lass! Da ol fool. Reeli had ‘is panty crapp down in da house, wen da stinkin ape-swine wit wings almos rip ‘is gut out! I kno he no coulda take it. He skreem like litil girl. He sed da magic werd. Now I em bak. Blak Daddy Krizmaz iz bak in da game, bebe! YOWZA!!! And wit a great nu suit to boot. Best kola I evar seen. Bad ting iz, it still bak in da hotel … no wey I leef diz ilend witout it. Dam, dere iz diz guy in da street wit a ‘chine gun, killin all da peeple. Hell, I kno him from sumwhea. Sumwhea long long time bak ago … but he iz dedd, no can cum bak killing peeple. An diz lite … itz da ol lite from da lite towa. Itz been stole from da muzeeum, an den dere waz diz wailin soun … alarm. A weepy ol geeza sez it iz a „kemikal alarm“, an da peeple begin puttin tin foil on da window. But it no good agenz bullitz, de fag from da blak van killa dem all, an dere soul iz suck into de lite towa lite …
Lite towa lite towa lite towa lite! Hahahahahaaaa!! Pussy cat turna into reel pussy wen fightin swine-ape. Very niccccce … But I savin fo later. Now we must get out all alive, becoz human bodi die reely fast wen u make holez into it. An I no wanna die yet. Afta bein gone fo thirty year, I much wann do in town. I feel all da mommas an dere daughtas tremblin for a nice assfull of long, hard DONG, an dey gonna git it … coz Blak Daddy Krizmaz neva leaves wait nobody fo love … or deth!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
AHAHAHAHAHAHA
Thema: Witchcraft Log : Baba, Daddy, Pussy and the Doc (Gelesen 4547 mal)
