The pleasures of life in N16 and the ubiquity of Mephistopheles

The other night, as I was lamping in the crib, chillin' in the cut, or what have you, in the middle of watching Raiders of the Lost Ark, I heard some screams from outside. As there are numerous fox dens in the derelict backstreets of North London, I am quite accustomed to strange howling noises at night, but this time they were distinctly human. I stumbled through the quagmire of clothes, books and papers strewn across my floor to get to the window, and directly across the street I saw a large woman wearing an army jacket and fish-net stockings with high heels, screaming at a man who was reclining on a red Saturn coupe. It was tough to decipher what she was saying at first, but then I heard: "I gave you sex, and you're trying to rip me off. You better get into your car right now, because I'm going around the corner to get my pimp, and once I do, you're fucking dead. You think that just because you're a Turk you can do whatever you want in this neighborhood? Well, I'm telling you, I'm from this country and you are a dead fucking immigrant, bitch!" The following, unfortunately, was said without one iota of irony. A pleasant enough conversation, though ultimately not noteworthy were it not for the events that unfurled in the days after.

Since my arrival here in England, I have developed an affinity for white Kit Kats. I don't know why: perhaps I am just a sucker to marketing but I feel like they do taste different, and better. Anyway, I ducked into a grimy corner store to establish my ownership claim to munch on one, cold walking with a bop and my hat turned back, pumping the new Sage Francis album. I didn't notice it until I was collecting my candy bar and leaving, but the lady of the other night was right next to me, perusing the candy counter, seemingly debating between Juicy Fruit gum and those breath strips you put on your tongue. It was definitely her, as she was wearing the same tasteful getup of parka and nylons, though she was also rocking an additional accoutrement: a massive bruise across the face, the result of what undoubtedly was a mighty pimp slap. Presumably, they didn't find the gentleman in question and pop the proverbial cap in his ass (or, perhaps more realistically for this rain-soaked island, gang up on him, kicking him while down before steaking all his valuables.) This chance meeting would be impressionable on its own, even had I not, this afternoon, realized that the 'dead immigrant' was actually the sweaty replacement night watchman at the internet cafe at which I am currently writing this entry. I claim to be no expert on violent pimp activities, but I feel like I should warn him or advise him to pay up. He doesn't look like one of the Turkish mafiosos who strut up and down the High Street with hawaiian shirts with five-inch lapels, fake boilerplate jewelery, and horrendous leather jackets. He looks like a prime target for pimp rage.

Besides being blessed with intimate details of this wonderfully sordid (purchased) love-triangle, I have also had a recent spate of run-ins with the denizens and representations of the Prince of Darkness, Satan. First, last Monday, I became engaged in conversation with a pleasant enough man on the bus, though he was trying subtly to veer the conversation towards morality. Finally, I relented, and it turned out that he was a commited diabolist of the Church of Satan, founded by the great Magus Anton LaVey. Oddly enough, having lived in an outpost of the bible belt in Wisconsin, never had I witnessed such fervent proselythization as I did on that brief bus journey. We also briefly talked about Alaister Crowley--the "Devil's Disciple" and subject of one of my favorite sketches in Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, as well as the exact definition of a crumpet. The following evening, when returning from seeing Sideways with Zoe, we passed by a church on the corner of Roman Road and Grove Road near Mile End. It was old and run down like so many original buildings in that area, but obviously still open. And near the entrie was a large pentagram-shaped window, whose gaze is conveniently turned across the Regent's Canal directly onto Zoe's apartment. Finally, last Thursday, while ordering a panini in the LSE Student Union, my receipt number was, fittingly, 666.

In a tangentally related topic, I have learned that the Ridley Road market just south of my apartment is voodoo central in London, where human blood, monkey heads, and all sorts of instruments of witchcraft can be purchased if one has the right connections. Apparently, there is also a traffic in humans earmarked for sacrifice here in London; the story here fleshes out some of the details of the black magic underworld that thrives three minutes from the peaceful confines of my apartment. I am, of course, morbidly fascinated by all of this: in our mail slot we get tons of ads for people with such wonderful names as Mr. Dr. Katanga who claim to be able to bring you riches and make people fall in love with you. I'm planning on taking a field trip down to one of these dudes or to the market to check this out. Any updates, or my inevitable conversion to Satanism, will be detailed in full in the days and weeks to come.