We invite Yassar Arafat round to maid our palace and she prioritizes laundering our bedsheets which she describes as black and then she points and laughs when I sneeze. We hide plainview in Sanayeh surrounded by hajj and hijab and not a liquor store for blocks when our neighbours march upstairs to complain of latenight babywhails and waltzing stiletto shackers and a different perp every week and threats of police to which we say give a fuck and M takes as an invite to go full fuckyou and scream even louder. J and I shower while M swills half the Bombay from the blue to cash our supply so much we sack her off at the first bar after she falls asleep and off the chair and empties her insides into bags in front of teenage barstaff and younggun businessbods. Her phone lights to the call of someone called Joe Cunt and I say answer fucking answer it but she throws it to the ground and breaks the straw so J and I split to meet MJT and his companion whose book I admit I haven’t read but entertain us with tales of Hitch in Hamra and maybe the reason I’m here. He knew nothing of the SSNP and nothing of the martyrdom only the swastika in a spin enough to sharpie that shit and return with paint and fire. With tears we cheers to Hitch and I know on this day I came as close as can be.
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