The Misadventures of the Mainstream and the Underdog 2: Skidmark to Heaven

In case you missed the first part of the series, click here. 

Mainstream Ahmad wakes up to a brand new afternoon–because mainstream cool guys do not wake up in the morning–and puts on his usual cool guy getup. He rushes quickly because today is a special day! He will not be attending any of the cult's daily rituals, as today marks one of the cult's holy occasions.

Today is the cult's first winter gathering for drifting, drag racing, and other deadly car-maneuver-related activities. What makes today extra special is that it is his first time performing. Today he moves away from the spectator's status. Today marks his official inauguration into the high ranks of the cult. It took him a while to become cool enough, and to advance in the coolness hierarchy to be acknowledged today as a performer, rather than a mere spectator.

With raging speed, Mainstream Ahmad runs out of the house and into his land cruiser, making his way to Tea Time to get his morning dose of the holy water—muggles call it karak. He picks up the brim-filled paper cup and continues speeding to the industrial area. His cool, vintage, 1998 land cruiser is in dire need of last minute fix-ups and tweaks in preparation for his debut later tonight.

He arrives at his regular car modification garage—owned by no other than his dearest pal and the guy who introduced him to the enlightened Cult, Mainstream Jassim—with an empty paper cup, and gets out of his car, greeting Ali and Mahmoud, the very friendly and kind shopkeepers of the garage. With one nod, they know what to do, and nod back in an assuring manner.

They know tonight is Mainstream Ahmad’s big night, and they plan on doing everything they can to make sure it goes perfectly. After all, their jobs depended on it, or so they have been warned by their very “pleasant” Kafeel, Mainstream Jassim, who wants to make sure his dear disciple gets the perfect induction ceremony tonight.

Mainstream Ahmad keeps on inspecting the work of Ali and Mahmoud like a US customs officer searching a bearded brown man about to enter Trumpville. He is focused on every single detail in the modification and tuning process, making sure the two poor guys who have to deal with his very “mild” demeanor are not missing anything.

“Tonight will be perfect”, he screams internally at his projected image on the reflection of his car’s heavily tinted windows—although prohibited, he still has them tented as a sign of rebellion and a symbolism of his allegiance to the ostracized Cult.

Hours pass by and evening arrives, as darkness befalls the skies around Sina’iya, alerting the three fellows that they need to wrap up. The cruiser is almost ready. The only thing remaining for him is to install the new set of fresh tires he bought just for today. “Those skid marks I leave behind will be darker than my smoke-filled lungs”, he thought to himself, “I’ll make sure those fresh tires don’t even last the whole night.”

A faint melody of a very old and ghetto Salamah Al-Abdullah song is heard echoing inside as he steals a few minutes for a quick smoke outside the garage. “Oh sh**, it’s my phone! This must be my dear master Mainstream Jassim calling to see how the modification is going.” He throws the half-smoked cigarette and rushes inside.

He grabs the phone only to find the call to be from his younger brother, Underdog Khalid. With a dissatisfied scoff he answers, “What do you want Khallood? I’m busy.”

“Loving the warm greeting brother, I’m overwhelmed with emotions.” Replies Khalid sarcastically.

“Yeah I’m full of love. Get to the point, nerd.”

“Dad is asking about you. He’s upset and thinks you went to race with those half-witted, sad excuses of human beings, cool boy wannabe, friends of yours. Just giving you a heads up. Expect one hell of a punishment.”

Mainstream Ahmad clenches his teeth in anger at what he just heard. How dare that stupid low life nerd brother of his disrespect the name of the great Cool Guys’ Cult. He decides to move on and keep the secrecy of his situation intact. Confidentiality is key to the survival of the cult, or so did his masters tell him.

“Go away Khallood, I can handle my sh**.” He says as he hangs up in his younger brother’s face.

Preparations for Mainstream Ahmad’s inauguration conclude, and it is time for him to head out to the site of the ceremony. He bids Ali and Mahmoud farewell as he gets in his car and starts the engine, urging them to pray for tonight to go well for him, to which they begrudgingly do with a couple of fake smiles.

It is almost time.

Mainstream Ahmad feels more and more nervous as he makes his way to the holy ceremony, repeating to himself: “I’ll make my masters proud.”

In a sea of blackness, darker than a Dukhan oil rig, rests an old, secluded, street on the very far edges of Wakrah, bordering the sandy and beautiful sea of dunes known by the name of Al-Nigyaan. Udaid and Abu Samra are not that far away. The lonely, single-lane, two-way road awaits patiently for the occasional car to pass by, mostly carrying weekend campers seeking a good place to set up a tent, or residents of Wakrah seeking a shortcut, or contractors who lost their way to M’sae’eid.

The lonely street is consoled by a sense of purpose that it started feeling ever since the great Cult declared it a ceremonial holy location, where their secluded, secret, and very prestigious rituals of aimless drifting take place. After all, such rituals must remain secret, as, just like many religious minorities, the Cult has been subject to discriminatory prosecution in almost any country it resides in, due to erroneous allegations of their involvement in life-threatening rituals—the Cult’s designated spokesperson would swear to you on his dead (but actually alive) mother’s grave that these allegations are false and have been propagated by heretic and hating apostates who lost their way and left the Cult to join the muggle (regular) social order.

Tonight, the lonely street feels lonely no more. Tonight it will be a busy street like its brothers and cousins, and other distant road cousins of whom it does not acknowledge—mainly because they do not come from a prestigious tribal lineage of asphalt as this street does—that reside in the city. Tonight the Cult will come to fill the emotional void that the lonely street had always felt, even if only for a few hours.

The black veil of the moonless night starts to get gradually ruptured by increasing numbers of full-beam headlights, moving in excessive speed. The Cult is assembling. The lonely street feels lonely no more.

Cars start assembling on both sides of the road, leaving the road empty and well lit for the performers to commence their rituals. Mainstream Jassim gives Mainstream Ahmad the usual cheesy nonsense about how far he has come, how he is very proud of him, and how it has been a pleasure seeing him evolve into the amazing Cool Guy he has become. A single tear is shed and immediately hidden from both sides—because Cool Guys don’t cry—and Mainstream Ahmad makes his way to the scene of the ritual.

Mainstream Jassim takes his place on the side of the road, and watches proudly as he witnesses his protégé make his debut. Mainstream Ahmad glues his feet to the throttle as he makes his way to the drifting area, while little Mainstream Cool Kids in spectator seats are looking at him in awe, impatient to be in his place in the future.

Mainstream Ahmad prepares to make his first maneuver with his hands impatiently holding the emergency brake on his right side, waiting for the right time to pull it. He pulls, and the sea of darkness drowns the street again….

A heavy tear falls on top of Underdog Khalid’s face; as he listens to the Imam go through the instructions for the prayer of the deceased. Out of all the places he would have expected to end up in this morning, Abu Hamoor cemetery wouldn’t have been within his expectations. In a sandy forest of graves, stands Khalid next to his kin, friends, and random do-gooders who heard about the tragic calamity and decided to come and recite some prayers for the soul of the deceased.

The paramedics at the hospital were puzzled as they told the family what happened. An anonymous phone call about an accident came in at the call center, and when they responded, they found a vintage 1998 land cruiser, flipped upside down in the middle of the pitch-black night. No soul was to be seen around. They looked inside to find the body, and they went on with the usual procedure.

That image kept floating in Khalid’s head as he glimpsed towards one end of the crowds gathered around the grave to see Mainstream Jassim and the rest of the Cult’s great masters with dim faces, hiding behind sunglasses and Ghutras wrapped around their faces, whispering to each other about what a great martyr he was, and how his name will forever be remembered in the history of the great Cult.

He keeps looking in utter disdain. “They killed my brother. He was a sad excuse of a human being, but he was my brother. They will get away with it because nobody knows,” he thinks to himself with pure depression and heartbreak.

The look of sadness on his face turns into that of anger…:

“But I know…”

To be continued...