The Tomahawk Bar and Grill is practically hanging on the precarious edge of a cliff south of the Devil’s Canyon. No one knows what’s holding it up from dropping thirty-thousand feet into the blue pacific. The Devil, stupid! The Devil is the one working overtime, holding up this dingy behemoth of steel and Mexican bricks from reaching its watery grave. This is a notorious hangout for one hundred-dollar hired guns, grafters, prostitutes and highway-bound drifters who would chew Jalapeño pepper and spit into your eyes, while you had earlier chewed and spat into their chests.
Listen, if you are thinking about going in there to make a purchase of any kind, remember the house has a stake in every bargain. Ten percent is all…and the deal’s yours. If you failed to cut the house in on your deal, they’d rather not dirty their floor with your blood; they’d wait till you walked outside and then put a hole in the back of your head. At that point, the money and all else they find on you belongs to the house. They do not take overhead lightly. Those are bar rules.
I have always wanted to go there and have me a drink or two, especially on those days I was feeling wired from a host of things…nothing from marijuana or its sister bitching brat like Crack. They said, if you came in there halfway-to-hell wasted, you’d be granted a passage through the bar’s back door to Kahaga, the Devil’s own underwater Island off the coast of Monterey Bay. Here, you’d find Judas and Brutus, masters in the game of betrayal, living out their days, drinking a cauldron of Kinkana and Burukutu with the hurly burly himself, the Devil and his main squeeze, Beelzebub. All this, according to Dante Alighieri, the Divine Comedy author of Dante’s Inferno, men and women of ill-repute languish.
I’d have to wake up one morning, reach for a bottle of Remy and not share it with anyone –not even with my dog, balls, to reach the desired ‘halfway to hell’ plateau. If I were to gain entry into the Tomahawk, my mind and body must be on that moving plane wreck of a flight. I had begun to cherish the challenge, knowing that I could be sitting with Hell’s most respected, morally depraved outlaws, sharing a drink from the Devil’s foam-meister lounge, and having that conversation I have always wanted.
You see, this would be my back-door attempt at drawing the devil out for a sit-down –mano e mano. It’s him I have always wanted to talk to about some of the things that have nagged the heck out of me. I never truly wanted to talk to the likes of Judas who betrayed his Master, and Brutus, who betrayed his best friend. If I walked out of Hell in one piece, I would give these two, each their day, to explain to me why they did what they did. In the meantime, it is Lucifer I have zeroed in on. If you think Judas and Brutus were as stupid as stupid goes, wait till you hear my conversation with the one who betrayed his Maker. I want to know why this once precious creation of God would wake up in Heaven one morning and go; “I will take over Heaven…well because; I am the prettiest dude around.”
I know you too are interested in finding out how Lucifer could have risen to a great morning in Heaven, and his mind nudged him into that dangerous territory. He could have been stoned to the point he was feeling he had God figured out. His mind could have expanded where he saw himself seated on the very Throne of God. It is one thing to think about it, it is another to actually attempt to see it through. The questions are; what could have pushed him over the edge? What could have caused him to go into full-bore blindness to do this? What brand of ganja had he smoked that morning?
Here’s my take; his mind exited his body and stared him in the face, and they had a talk.
“You can do this,” Mind said.
“I think so, too,” Lucifer mumbled. “He is not on His Throne as we speak. This is the best time to launch an attack. Don’t you think?”
“Nah…! Remember He sees everything. The problem is, He never goes to sleep,” Mind said.
“How then am I going to do this and get away with it?” Lucifer said. “Do you think He is listening in?”
“Nah…! He isn’t. That is why I left your body to have this talk where He couldn’t hear us plotting against Him.” Mind said. “Wait, I have to reenter your mind, He is on His way back to His Throne.”
Something else beyond the green and purple-leafed hemp he consumed that morning could have set him off to board that ill-fated, unchartered flight. If insanity was allowed in Heaven at the time, then Lucifer had to be insane; maybe he was off his rocks from that Paradise, blissful compound we earthlings know as tetrahydrocannabinol. You see why I must talk to him?
I wouldn’t go there unprepared. Would you, if you were me? I couldn’t go wandering about Hells’ cul-de-sac –on her front yard Port of Damnation and not be packing heat. A black-chromed howitzer would do: But I would prefer something a lot more finessed and mean…like Koko Taylor’s Blues Ballad, ‘I am a Woman’. Chicago’s bawdiest blues brawler howled and growled like a drunken banshee in this one tune. The song comes to mind with that one lyrical monster of a line; ‘I’d go behind the sun, shake hands with the Devil and make him crawl in the sand.’
That piece of music with its harlotry harmony is coming with me fellows, in the event I lose this scuffle with Lucifer I have no business losing. You see, Lucifer, aka Satan, is known to telegraph his punches. You would have to be blind not to see the punches coming at you; and they float in languid arches to make a hummingbird jealous. That’s not all; you have a million years to duck –you know, slip every one of those punches, and then throw yours to knock his lights out.
That piece of music with its harlotry harmony is coming with me fellows, in the event I lose this scuffle with Lucifer I have no business losing. You see, Lucifer, aka Satan, is known to telegraph his punches. You would have to be blind not to see the punches coming at you; and they float in languid arches to make a hummingbird jealous. That’s not all; you have a million years to duck –you know, slip every one of those punches, and then throw yours to knock his lights out.
But I would still have the music tucked away in my back pocket, in case it was a bad luck day for me. Eternity is, as it says, eternity. If I must keep my wits about me in Hell, while watching this begrimed loafer plotting mischief, Koko Taylor, the firebrand crooner’s ‘I’m a Woman’ is coming with me.
The night before Cinco de Mayo, 2019, was drab, unexciting as nights go. I ate dinner as dusk was setting; Amala and Tuwoo Sinkafa in one platter, and in the other, a hodgepodge of Utala Ede and Oatmeal foofoo —both facing a deep-dive bowl of dried-fish powered draw soup. That’s what you must have for lunch or dinner, if you must go to a gunfight with a machete. Chances are, you will live to fight another day. I know Lucifer would be packing, and you damn well know the creep would not be granting me a fair fight, if one ensued. I’d need a backup, back-shooter to watch my back. If you are game, let me know.
I left my bungalow at the first sign of dusk and set sail…going pell-mell upon the sandy dunes and her playas of sedimentary rocks. I had to be on top of the headland to gauge how far I was from the ferry. This dinghy was exactly that: Any day now, it would drop to the bottom of the ocean with her cargo of clammy humans. And yet, no one cared; people took this ride, knowing it could be their last boar trip. But they hopped on her anyway, hoping that if she ever sank, seafaring under calm waters, they would own the honor of dying in the bowels of the notorious night prowler, the dame of the seas, known as ‘The Whoremonger’.
Here’s the point: Going to Hell has always been through haggard routes. The roads to Hell are usually convoluted, and narrower than most other thoroughfares. I love to argue the opposites: You see, if this were a trip to Heaven, you’d be required to be of sound mind, possess certain qualities. All good. None of these are hard to possess –own. I’d submit that all roads to Heaven are usually macadamized, and wide enough to accommodate all those who ventured upon them.
Finally, I stepped off the boat, walked across the gangplank to be on the edge of the chasm. The Tomahawk Bar and Grill stood forlorn, forsaken looking, almost, like a forgotten lighthouse in the dusty distance, twirling in her smoky ambience. The dark filaments of nature about her were slow in drift, compounding that front elevation to appear even more sinister. It was there to warn anyone approaching her to stand back and observe her for a second, at least, before they’d enter her guts. I did so, gauging my own preparedness. Was I wired enough to pass the test of truly being halfway to Hell wasted? Since I couldn’t count how many fingers were on both of my hands, I knew then I was over-qualified to see this trip through.
At the door, another legendary blues tune, ‘Dingy Woman’ was howling. The piece was a great respite for the doubts my mind was brewing, and for the second guessing I had coming here. I stood by the entrance imbibing this strange culture I was about to engage. With the music winding down, I pushed in and entered the steamy, garrulous, talk-nineteen-to-the-dozen bedlam. I was practically in Hell proper: The temperature was in the hundreds. Vulgarity and all other bad manners were on display. Extreme indulgence rolled with the no-holds barred profanity offerings. The scene was on a blistering track, and the only ones cool about it all were Judas and Brutus.
My eyes zeroed in on the two sitting at the very end of the room, on a raised platform, on half-baked, silk-draped thrones. Both men were seated on both sides of an empty, red silk-covered throne. On the right-hand of the empty throne was Judas. On the left, Brutus sat with listless eyes and pallid doggedness. The two I didn’t want to talk to were there, clad in robes of dirty-white linen, looking like regurgitated cream cheese. More than one hundred patrons of all persuasions were in the house, and every one of them was chugging down.
“Welcome to Hell,” someone whispered into my right ear. My God, this woman was as mean-looking as a Gabon viper, and as ugly as Ms. Aileen Wuornos. Incidentally, both the snake and the Madam are equally endowed with both characteristics.
“Name’s Jezebel… You are…?” She asked me, spewing marijuana-soaked-in-bourbon fumes into my face.
“Jango…” I said.
“What can I get you, Jango?”
“Lucifer…”
“Listen, punk…the drink…?”
“Lucifer…! Is he on tap tonight?”
She stared at me like I had lost my mind.
“If you think you’ve got the balls to sit and chit chat with the boss man, go talk to those two,” she said, indicating Judas and Brutus. “But in the meantime: Whatdyawannadrink?”
“The house’s brand of skunk juice; small on tomato skin and plenty of ice…”
“This is hell; we don’t serve ice here…can’t sustain it. You’ll get it steaming hot,” Jezebel said, and walked away. I stared at the two on the dais and began my approach. They saw me coming, adjusted receive me; one leaning back, and Judas propping forward, hoping for a rescue.
“Good evening, guys,” I said.
“You look like Julius C,” Brutus quipped.
“I’d say, he looks like Jesus C. Considering the crop of white woolen hair on him,” Judas said.
“Gentlemen… My time here is limited. Your boss…? Is he around?”
“Yes, he is here, Jango. Behind you…” The voice said.
I started to turn, but the voice that had spoken tapped me on the shoulder once and stopped me cold.
“You will tell me why you have come here. If I feel no offense about it, then we’ll talk. Now shoot.”
“Are you Lucifer?”
“Yes…That was the name the One gave me.”
“You mean, God Almighty?”
“I mean the One who cheated me of my place. Again, why are you here?”
“Just curious why you made the decision to fight Him?”
No reply. Rather, a huge shadow wafted through me and suddenly landed on the empty throne, before taking human form. The person on the throne has Adolf Hitler’s moustache, Josef Stalin’s jowls and El Duce’s arrogance. And he was as short as a hammer would stand.
“You are not that pretty. What happened?” I asked.
“Dumb question… You have one more question to get it right, or you will leave here dead man walking.”
“On that morning in Heaven, were you drunk or high on THC?”
“Neither…”
“Did you actually launch an attack against Him?”
“Of course… I thought I had Him figured out. I swung at Him. I lost.”
“You are a fool. You know that, don’t you?”
“You say that because you know nothing about Heaven.”
“Never been there…so, I know nothing. Tell me about Paradise, Lucifer.”
“So, so, place.”
“Would you recommend it?”
“To those who believe in banality… You have one more question, Jango.”
“Why did you fight Him knowing you were going to lose the brawl?”
“I wanted to be the one to create the universe.
One of lewdness and wantonness: One of perpetual servitude to me by all men. It was an attempt for the noblest of goals, in my opinion. I missed the mark by a couple of light years. You see, I would have granted humanity an immeasurable hand to do as he sees fit; no sin would be recorded because one would be required to sin consistently to stay alive in the realm; justice would be granted to the one who struck first; man would have been free to roam, and make his own laws. Your wife is game…as in sexual hospitality; morality is immoral…all ethics branded unethical; the world would be one of insouciance and absolute detachment; there would be no heaven or hell; you go nowhere after you die; you are compost after you die.
These are the things I had in mind, and I blew it. If I get another chance, I’d strike in the daytime with the right minions; Archangel Michael and Raphael to start the initial salvos first. The bunch that went to this war with me couldn’t even cover my blind side; low level breeders in Paradise with no idea how to weld a sword or brandish one. They had me running helter-skelter from one end of Paradise to the other to protect the ranks they should have covered.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We are done here.”
“Come back next time, and I will have Jezebel give you a tour of our bedroom, if you promise you wouldn’t try to seduce her. You see, she loves earthly man.”
“I heard she is as gorgeous as Halle Berry; even prettier than Ann Boleyn. I’d do my best…but I promise you nothing.”
____
♦ Don Chukwueloka Okolo, Houston-based author and award-winning filmmaker is an Adjunct Professor of Radio, Television and Film at the Texas Southern University
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