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MONOLOGUE by Lewis Hill

MEW'n'GENICS — Sat, 02 Sep 2017 00:22:46 +0000

I hate weddings. I never liked anything that involved churches, I find them so depressing. The windows are embedded with images of dead people, the building itself was made by people who are now long dead and the grounds are packed with dead people, but, I have to go. I have to support my friend whose friend is friend with the groom. I wish I didn’t have to attend weddings, people always think that it’s so nice to see a young couple, starting out on life. Everyone tends to think that they’ll be happy as can be for as long as they live. Of course, this never goes to plan. There will always be fights and tears and break-ups. Isn’t something like a third of marriages end up in a divorce?
The wedding itself was just fine, the church was as cold as a freezer but, for a brief moment, it exploded to life once the music started to play. That didn’t last for long, the music got repetitive and the organ bellowing began to give me a headache. By the time the bride started to walk down the isle, I was desperate for an asprin or something to help with my head.
I was barely able to stand to sing along, or rather mime, the hymns. It’s lucky I was sitting on the back row; otherwise I may have made the bride and groom fell quite depressed. I have nothing against them; of course, I only know them through my friend Alex who knows the groom. My head is still banging now, as I stand here under the baking summer sun waiting for an incompetent photographer to line up his shot. It’s taken about half an hour for him for him to realise that the happy couple want part of the building in the shot as well. My right leg really hurts, I have to grab my leg just to stay up, and so I hope that I don’t have to stand here for very long. I need to go home and feed my dogs and cook dinner for my wife who should be home quite soon.
I really am trying to keep my composure, in spit of my leg and the fact that this suit is rather stuffy. In the distance, I can see some angry black clouds, coming to block out the sun, to extinguish the beautiful rays that shine down on the couple. If I was being poetic, I could say that the clouds will block out the rays that are delivering happiness to the couple. I could say that, after the clouds come, the wedding will turn sour.
All of the other people here look happy. Some of them seem as if they are truly happy like they have just been given a wonderful gift, others seem like they are putting on a smile for the happily wedded couple. I, for one, seem to be the only one that isn’t smiling.
My friend’s friend, who’s called John Smith, has been giving me strange looks each day. He seems keeping feeling around in his jacket pocket as if checking that something’s still there. In fact, he’s doing it right now. I don’t know what he’s looking for. He’s probably just looking for cigarettes or a wallet. I have always been fairly paranoid after that incident during the 80s.
I’m not a great fan of that woman in the red dress. It seems like she’s trying to take the spotlight for herself. She looks like the kind of person who would have more than one lover, the kind of person who wouldn’t care if she left a man with a broken heart just to be with somebody who has more money. The person that she’s with seems like a kind-hearted chap, but a little naïve.
That old guy looks like he’s been on the whisky. He looks like he might keel over at any point. I’m surprised that they don’t have anybody from St. John’s Ambulance here! Everyone here is sick, disabled or just pretty mentally unstable. That John Smith guy has something funny about him. As well as his continual checking of his pocket he also has a rather evil smile.
Look, the photographer’s finally ready for the second bug moment of the day. There it is, the old camera on the faulty tripod which will probably collapse once again. A silence has fallen all around me, like a flood, everybody is reinforcing their fake faces, ready for the photo. “CHESSE!” everybody says, as the bright flash of the camera blinds me momentarily. I always did hate photographs, they’re so formal and yet so informal. At least they don’t take photos at funerals.
Now, as the crowd begins to disperse, I really should go. I wonder what I should cook, fish and chips? Wait, my hand feels cold now, as does the rest of body. It’s like all of the life has been suddenly drained from my body. I believe that my knees are now beginning to buckle. What’s this? My hand is clutching my face, and there’s some red liquid on it. That probably explains my sudden lack of feeling. There’s not much time left now, as I lay on the ground. I see my murderer, John Smith walking around as if nothing as happened. “Don’t talk” they say, “help will arrive soon”. I doubt that it will, everything’s moving so slowly, a fraction of a second seems to take minutes. My vision is fading now and my life is starting to go as I lie here, in a most perfect peace.

Lewis's Monologue Gizoogled

MEW'n'GENICS — Mon, 18 Apr 2016 20:51:40 +0000

I don't give a fuck bout weddings. I never was horny bout anythang dat involved churches, I find dem so wack. Da windows is embedded wit imagez of dead people, tha buildin itself was made by playas whoz ass is now long dead n' tha groundz is packed wit dead playas yo, but, I have ta bounce tha fuck out. I gotta support mah playa whose playa is playa wit tha groom. I wish I didn’t gotta git all up in weddings, playas always be thinkin dat it’s so sick ta peep a lil' couple, startin up on game. Everyone tendz ta be thinkin dat they’ll be aiiight as can be fo' as long as they live. Of course, dis never goes ta plan. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. There will always be fights n' tears n' break-ups. Isn’t suttin' like a third of marriages end up in a gangbangin' finger-lickin' divorce, biatch?
Da weddin itself was just fine, tha church was as cold as a gangbangin' freezer but, fo' a funky-ass brief moment, it blew up like a muthafucka ta game once tha noize started ta play. That didn’t last fo' long, tha noize gots repetitizzle n' tha organ bellowin fuckin started ta break me off a headache. By tha time tha bride started ta strutt down tha isle, I was desperate fo' a asprin or suttin' ta help wit mah head. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka!
I was barely able ta stand ta rap along, or rather mime, tha hymns. It’s dirty I was chillin on tha back row; otherwise I may have made tha bride n' groom fell tha fuck like pissed off. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I have not a god damn thang against them; of course, I only know dem all up in mah playa Alex whoz ass knows tha groom. My fuckin head is still bangin now, as I stand here under tha bakin summer sun waitin fo' a incompetent pornographer ta line up his shot. It’s taken bout half a minute fo' his ass fo' his ass ta realise dat tha aiiight couple want part of tha buildin up in tha blasted as well. My fuckin right leg straight-up hurts, I gotta grab mah leg just ta stay up, n' so I hope dat I don’t gotta stand here fo' straight-up long. I need ta bounce back ta tha doggy den n' feed mah dawgs n' cook dinner fo' mah hoe whoz ass should be home like soon. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch.
I straight-up be tryin ta keep mah composure, up in spit of mah leg n' tha fact dat dis suit is rather stuffy. In tha distance, I can peep some mad salty black clouds, comin ta block up tha sun, ta extinguish tha dope rays dat shine down on tha couple. If I was bein poetic, I could say dat tha cloudz will block up tha rays dat is deliverin happinizz ta tha couple. I could say that, afta tha cloudz come, tha weddin will turn sour. Shiiit, dis aint no joke.
All of tha other playas here look horny. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Some of dem seem as if they is truly aiiight like they have just been given a straight-up dope gift, others seem like they is puttin on a smile fo' tha happily wedded couple. I, fo' one, seem ta be tha only one dat isn’t smiling.
My fuckin playa’s playa, who’s called Jizzy Smizzle, has been givin me strange looks each day. It make me wanna hollar playa! Dude seems keepin feelin round up in his jacket pocket as if checkin dat something’s still there, so peek-a-boo, clear tha way, I be comin' thru fo'sho. In fact, he’s bustin it n' aint a thugged-out damn thang dat yo' ass can do. I don’t know what tha fuck he’s lookin fo' yo. He’s probably just lookin fo' blunts or a wallet. I have always been fairly paranoid afta dat incident durin tha 80s.
I’m not a pimped out hustla of dat biatch up in tha red dress. Well shiiiit, it seems like she’s tryin ta take tha spotlight fo' her muthafuckin ass. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch be lookin like tha kind of thug whoz ass would have mo' than one freak, tha kind of thug whoz ass wouldn’t care if she left a playa wit a gangbangin' fucked up ass just ta be wit some muthafucka whoz ass has mo' scrilla. Da thug dat she’s wit seems like a kind-hearted chap yo, but a lil naïve.
That oldschool muthafucka be lookin like he’s been on tha whisky yo. Dude be lookin like he might keel over at any point. I’m surprised dat they don’t have anybody from St. John’s Ambulizzle here biaaatch! Everyone here is sick, disabled or just pretty menstrually unstable. That Jizzy Smizzle muthafucka has suttin' funky bout his muthafuckin ass fo' realz. As well as his continual checkin of his thugged-out lil' pocket he also has a rather evil smile.
Look, tha pornographer’s finally locked n loaded fo' tha second bug moment of tha day. It make me wanna hollar playa! There it is, tha oldschool camera on tha faulty tripod which will probably collapse once again. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. A silence has fallen all round me, like a gangbangin' flood, dem hoes is reinforcin they fake faces, locked n loaded fo' tha photo. “CHESSE!” dem hoes says, as tha bright flash of tha camera blindz me momentarily. I always did don't give a fuck bout photographs, they’re so formal n' yet so informal. It aint nuthin but tha nick nack patty wack, I still gots tha bigger sack fo' realz. At least they don’t take photos at funerals.
Now, as tha crowd begins ta disperse, I straight-up should go. I wonder what tha fuck I should cook, fish n' chips, biatch? Wait, mah hand feels cold now, as do tha rest of body. It’s like all of tha game has been suddenly drained from mah body. I believe dat mah knees is now beginnin ta buckle. What’s this, biatch? My fuckin hand is clutchin mah face, n' there’s some red liquid on dat shit. That probably explains mah sudden lack of feeling. There’s not much time left now, as I lay on tha ground. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! I peep mah murderer, Jizzy Smizzle struttin round as if not a god damn thang as happened. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! “Don’t talk” they say, “help will arrive soon”. I doubt dat it will, every last muthafuckin thang’s movin so slowly, a gangbangin' fraction of a second seems ta take minutes. My fuckin vision is fadin now n' mah game is startin ta go as I lie here, up in a most slick peace.

MONOLOGUE by Lewis Hill

MEW'n'GENICS — Sun, 18 Oct 2015 01:55:41 +0000

MONOLOGUE By Lewis Hill

MEW'n'GENICS — Sat, 03 Oct 2015 02:13:52 +0000