God Killer!

Receiving hate mail from religious fanatics is not something you get used to. It can be funny though when you read things like “...you will be rapped in Hell”. I immediately got this mental picture of me in a black-and-white film beaten in dialogue by my companion’s wit. My drinking buddy said that the man who sent me the email was not thinking of repartee. Maybe he had in mind something different, like me being strapped to a chair in the middle of a white room waiting for Tupac and Biggie. They will enter and take turns to perform and when they finish they will make me choose who I liked best. Regardless of who I select I will get the other to punish me for all eternity. If I select Tupac I might get to carry Biggie up a hill then just before I reach the top he will jump and run back down hill, I will have to go after him, catch him and carry him up the hill over and over again until the end of time. If I chose Biggie, Tupac may have me standing on an open beer barrel next to a buffet of steak sandwiches. Every time I would reach for a sandwich the buffet will move away from me, and every time I will reach for a drink of beer the liquid will draw away from my hand.

Then again, they may force me to take a test on styles of rap I have no clue about. They will put me in a room where crews will rap non stop old ‘skool’, hip hop, chicano rap, indie rap, I-have-no-idea-what-else rap. After the class I will be alone in the room with a sheet of paper and a pensil on a desk in front of me. Speakers will blast the sound at me, surrounding me, engulfing me. I will float in music, my belly will resonate, my head will explode and my body will wear an astral suit and I will be cannonballed through interstellar gates into the beat. Once the music stops I will have to identify the style, the date the song was recorded and released and, of course, the artist. If I fail the test, which I probably will, Tupac and Biggie will tantalize my ass for eternity.

Speaking of “ass” my drinking buddy said that the emailer probably means “raped in hell” instead of “rapped in hell”. Ah! Now. That makes more sense. It’s a little p that trickled down and escaped editing. So he threatens me with anal sex. He thinks of me as a heterosexual male who shares his homophobic views and therefore I should feel insulted or be terrified by the thought. I told my buddy that I found it kinda sweet. This man thinks we have something in common, he considers that my process of thinking is dictated by feelings similar to his. Someone who wishes eternal sodomy for me identifies himself with me. I felt a part of this world, a part of humanity. My buddy on the other hand stopped pouring me whisky and claimed that the emailer most likely hopes to have sex with other men in this, and not the imaginary after, life. He went on to explain that the person is projecting his wants in his threats. I looked at him with the admiration of a drunken pupil, he argued for a good ten minutes and concluded that my hate emailer is a frustrated homosexual, closeted, in his late forties, married with kids in their teens, who lives in an extremely conservative and religious community and that he is, probably, torn apart by his sexual desires that contradict his imposed upon “ethics”. I burped an alcohol bubble then added. “Nonsense, what you say is science fiction.”

We laughed and switched the laptop off. Jazz from Hell was playing in the background. Then my friend said something which really hurt me. His unintentend rhetorical question fired through me while he was lighting a cigarette. “Why he calls you a god killer?" That's it he never read my book. I said with a frown "he is a confused individual that jumps into conclusions misunderstanding the context of the written word". He sensed he said something wrong and swiftly opened the bottle of whisky again. I drank. Spicy, thick, single malt. Your sins are forgiven my son.

(Christos Tsotsos is the author of The secret of the elements.)