The Monster Snake

The day was hot on the North Coast, the sun pouring its golden rays over the winding asphalt road between the mountains and the sand stretching to the horizon. A small minibus, packed with fourteen passengers, moved steadily along this road, carrying the hustle and bustle of daily life and the diverse faces of each passenger. Behind the wheel sat the driver, a middle-aged man, his eyes fixed intently on the road, his right hand gripping the steering wheel as if it were an extension of his arm. Beside him sat a young man who looked slightly nervous, observing the road without emotion.

In the second row, directly behind the driver's seat, sat a girl in her early twenties, her black hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes calmly taking in the scenery, as if searching for something on the horizon or perhaps escaping something within. Behind her, in the seat next to him, sat Hanish al-Ghul, mostly silent, his eyes gazing out at the world through the minibus window. Hanish felt a strange mixture of harmony and unease. The nature around him was enchanting; The sea shimmered in the sunlight, the golden sands of the beach stretched endlessly, and the nearby mountains formed a breathtaking natural tableau, but none of it could extinguish his sense of anticipation, as if something awaited him.

With every mile the minibus traveled, Hanish breathed in the sea air mingled with the scent of sand and the sweat rising from the scorching sun.

He enjoyed the journey, but he wasn't entirely absorbed; his mind remained fixed on what awaited him at the end of the road.

The minibus stopped suddenly at a large sign that read "Marina," as if it marked a turning point in its journey.

Hanish opened the minibus door and stepped out onto the road, feeling the heat intensifying with the midday sun. He glanced at the driver, who was still sitting behind the wheel, his eyes scanning the road as if searching for any clues. "Put the bag down, driver," Hanish said in a low but firm voice. The driver raised his eyebrows, looked up, then back at Hanish. "You have a bag up there." Hanish pointed to the blue suitcase fixed to the roof of the minibus. "Yes, the blue one up there." The driver moved quickly, opened the minibus door, got out from behind the wheel, and rose on his tiptoes. He grabbed the suitcase and skillfully lowered it to the ground before handing it to Hanish, who took it in his hands as if it were a heavy but necessary burden, feeling its physical and emotional weight. "Thank you, driver," Hanish said with a slight smile, more of politeness than genuine relief. The driver returned to his seat, started the minibus engine, and drove away, leaving Hanish standing on the other side of the road, suitcase in hand, his eyes scanning the opposite corner of the street.

There, on the sidewalk, a group of young men stood on their tricycles, moving aimlessly, yet each one brimming with life, amidst the bustling, chaotic energy that characterizes urban streets. Hanish approached them with steady steps, as if entering another world, a world entirely different from the harmony he had felt inside the minibus and surrounded by the enchanting scenery. The sun beat down mercilessly on his head, and his forehead began to beaded with sweat, but he paid it without mind. He slung his bag over his shoulder and crossed the asphalt road, passing cars and pedestrians who sometimes smiled or stared blankly. Hanish stopped in front of one of the tricycle drivers, a young man of about seventeen, whose face reflected a mixture of boldness and a deep-seated fear. Hanish asked, his voice low but sharp, "Where are the taxis, driver?" The young man replied without hesitation, "There aren't any taxis here." Hanish smiled briefly, a smile full of indifference, then said, "How do I get to the Upper Egyptian coffee shop?"

The young man replied, patting the handlebars of the tricycle:

"Ride a tricycle, it'll get you there." The scar on the young man's tongue made Hanish smile. Hanish raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. "A tricycle? Is the coffee shop far from here?" Hanish asked, the scar on the young man's tongue still present. The young man smiled and said without hesitation, "No, it's close, just ten minutes." He took a step back, then silently shrugged in acceptance. Hanish the Ghoul said, "Okay, then, take me there." The young man sat in the driver's seat, his grip on the handlebars, while Hanish the Ghoul nimbly jumped into the tricycle's cargo box, sitting on the wooden seat with his back to the driver. He placed the bag in front of him, between his legs, as if it were a protective wall between him and the outside world. The tricycle sped off, the sound of the engine mingling with the noise of the road and the squeal of the tires over the small bumps.

The road turned into a side street, riddled with bumps and small potholes, then curved into another, narrower street where the tightly packed buildings left little room for vehicles and pedestrians.

Hanish felt every jolt, but he paid it no mind; his eyes were fixed on the road ahead, taking in every detail of the neighborhood that passed before him. He pulled his phone from his pocket, his fingers moving rapidly, dialing his employer's number.

Hanish: "Yes, Mr. Hamad, I've arrived." Hamad responded in a calm but firm voice.

Hamad: "Okay, Hanish, deliver the coffee to the Upper Egyptians, put it on your back, and come straight down the street." Hanish the Ghoul hung up, put the phone in his pocket, and tightened his grip on the bag in front of him, focusing on every movement of the tricycle, every bump, and every turn in the narrow streets. He felt the heat on his back, but this did not prevent him from observing everything around him. Children were playing on the sidewalk, small cars sped by, and a light breeze, carrying the scent of the sea, caressed his face from time to time, offering a slight respite from the scorching sun.

With every step the tricycle took, Hanish began to feel that the city wasn't just a space he was traversing, but a living entity, breathing with him, observing him, carrying with it the memories of the small town and its daily events.

Every corner, every closed door, every window gleaming in the sun held a small story, like threads of a vast web woven into his life unseen, yet becoming more apparent as he drew closer to his destination. Hanish the Ghoul absorbed every movement on the road, every sound accompanying the engine's roar, every glimpse of life passing by, as if trying to read the city itself before reaching his destination.

His sense of anticipation didn't dissipate; it intensified, as if something awaited them at the Upper Egyptian Coffee Shop, something he couldn't define but felt in every heartbeat and every moment of silence between the tricycle's engines. They finally arrived at the street they were looking for, where people gathered at the corner of the café. The tricycle stopped on the street corner in front of the local café, and the sounds of the bustling city mingled with the aroma of coffee. Hanish al-Ghul lifted his heavy bag in his hand and stepped down cautiously but confidently, standing next to the driver.