Don't be fooled by what you see in those movies; handling a dead body, carrying it, and dragging it to its final destination is no cake walk.
We're talking about dead weight here. I figured a homeless person would be the perfect target because who would miss them if they were suddenly gone? Someone would notice, but not in a way to make a big splash publicly. I couldn't humanize the situation; otherwise, I couldn't go through with it, so I had to think of it as a regular chore at home. Washing the dishes, mopping the floor, taking out the trash. Just a normal everyday thing. Ambushing him from behind as he sat in his cardboard box, watching the stars at Kaka'ako park, was easier than I thought. Hitting him at the base of the skull, not too hard, but hard enough to render him unconscious, was one thing. Carrying him was another matter entirely.I only managed to get five or seven steps to my car before his personal aroma became too overwhelming. I had to get several large garbage bags from the trunk of my car to cover him from head to toe. Fortunately, I had some duct tape on hand as well. The place for the ceremonial offering was too far off the beaten path. In fact, it was at the bottom of Judd Trail, right up against the flowing stream. It wasn't too bad bearing the homeless person's form down the hill. I figured if I fumbled and fell, I would just let him fall too. We may end up in the same spot. Fortunately, I got to the stream without a problem. It's disconcerting to hear a running stream in pitch black darkness. It's a sign that nature doesn't give a shit about you, that she'll do what she's going to do, human presence or not. I had to work fast after I laid the homeless person next to the water. I placed the flashlight on a rock facing us. I removed the ceremonial knife from my backpack. I got both off of Amazon. I lit all the blood candles as I placed seven of them on rocks near us. Then I brought up the ancient chant from my phone's Notes app.
Bahleli bonke entilongweni
Bahleli bonke kwaNongqongqo
Bahleli bonke entilongweni
Bahleli bonke kwaNongqongqo
Bahleli bonke entilongweni
Bahleli bonke kwaNongqongqo
Bahleli bonke entilongweni
Bahleli bonke kwaNongqongqo
Yini baba Luthuli
Hayi uzotheni, uzotheni
Yini baba Luthuli
Hayi uzotheni, uzotheni
Nanku, nanku, nank'uMandela
Nanku, nanku entilongweni
Nanku, nanku, nank'uSisulu
Nanku, nanku entilongweni
I raised the ceremonial knife above my head, more than prepared to strike and stab multiple times until the body no longer moved. The body did move. The homeless man, wrapped up in garbage bags, spoke clearly, albeit a bit muffled at first.
"That's not a satanic chant, that's Xhosa! It's a language from South Africa! It's Xhosa from South Africa!"
He struggled wildly and tore himself out of the garbage bags. Soon, he was standing in front of me, and I grabbed my flashlight not just to shine on him and blind him, but to also hit him right across the bridge of his nose, or stab him since I had the ceremonial knife in my other hand. To prove himself correct, he repeated the chant I just did, word for word.
"Sobukwe, Mandela, and Sisulu were all imprisoned because they spoke out against apartheid," the homeless man explained. "This song is about that struggle; it's not a Satanic prayer. Whoever told you this misled you to do a horrible deed for no cause!"
In a flash, the homeless man ran off into the dark Nu'uanu forest. Would I ever see him again? Would he report me? Would the police believe he was kidnapped to be sacrificed in a Satanic ceremony dedicated to Nelson Mandela? Damned dark web, taking advantage of my Inklings to be a serial killer.
@photocosma
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