Midian Unmade Read Online Free PDF Page A

city you needed more than one name. So Drummer became his last name. Now he called himself Iblis, after stories an old man told him when he first got to the city. The man was blind, but had memorized the Koran. Under a bridge, during Drummer’s first winter in the city, he heard the story:
    We have established you on earth, and We have provided for you the means of support therein. Rarely are you appreciative. We created you, then We shaped you, then We said to the angels, “Bow down before Adam.” The angels all bowed, except Iblis; he was not with those who bowed. Allah said, “What prevented you from prostrating when I ordered you?” Iblis said, “I am better than man; You created me from fire, and created him from mud.”
    Drummer decided he had been reborn as Iblis, as he had been created in the fires of Midian that night, and while he would try to blend with man, he would never bow down to him.
    He lived in a small basement apartment next to the laundry room on the bottom of Coldheart Canyon where it emptied out of the Hollywood Hills onto Sunset, just a few blocks north of Hollywood Forever Cemetery. When he was lonely or homesick, he would spend hours quietly beating rhythms on the tombstones in Hollywood Forever, drumming on the faces laser-etched on granite or marble, next to names written with letters he did not recognize and could not read. He meant no disrespect to those buried there. While he drummed, he sometimes thought of those buried there and offered his drumming up to them. He walked among the graves and felt at peace.
    It also allowed for the cosmic joke of his life. He drummed one February night on a tombstone and heard a voice nearby. Ordinarily he remained vigilant and ran at the first sign of anyone—the police were unkind to those in the graveyard after dark and everyone was unkind to Breed. But he thought of the fires of Midian and all he had lost and his arms moved with wild abandon, marking a beat that sang of both a broken heart and a vengeful fury. He was a catastrophe of a creature, and his music that night spoke eloquently of his pain while assuaging it at the same time. He just needed a second or two more to finish the song.
    â€œShit, man, you’re good!”
    Too late he saw the two young men. They stumbled toward him. Sticks in his hands, he began to move away from them.
    â€œHang on, dude! We need to talk to you!”
    Too late to run. They approached, but their speed was not aggressive. He knew what that looked like. His hood was drawn low and he had a scarf over the lower half of his face. He tried to look indifferent, but his heart was pounding louder and more rapidly than his drumming had been.
    â€œDude, that was fuckin’ metal!”
    â€œNaw, dude, that was like fuckin’ Lars Ulrich combined with Neil Peart combined with, I don’t know—a whole fuckin’ African tribe or something.”
    They were excited. Glassy-eyed and looking at him like he was some sort of god. Dressed alike in black leather jackets, covered with writing, torn jeans and boots. Ink on all visible skin. They weren’t Breed, but they were a breed unto themselves.
    The one with long, greasy hair said, “Me and Ian here, we heard you and were like, ‘That guy’s the shit we gotta go meet him.’”
    Iblis just looked at him.
    â€œWhat dude here is trying to say is, are you in a band or anything?”
    Iblis shook his head, no.
    Ian gave him a look, took a long pull on his beer. “You fuckin’ mute or something?”
    Iblis returned the look, trying hard not to seem scared. He couldn’t believe it when he nodded.
    The other one spat. “Shit, man, that’s fucked up. Still, who needs to talk when you can play like that.”
    Ian was still looking. “What’s your name, man?”
    Iblis held out a piece of paper that said, “Name Iblis Drummer. I am poor and hungry.” He had had a junkie write