Africa Macabre — Jack Stephens

And there it was, as it was every day, a deep thumping sound seemingly coming through the floor boards of his double story white washed house in a forgotten village in North Africa. How he hated that sound, but in spite of his irritation and growing hatred for that particular noise, he suddenly smiled broadly and yawned long and lazily. Then he, rather violently, threw the single sheet off his naked, thin and hideous body, jumped out of bed and opened his bedroom window shutters; hard, so they banged against the outside walls. If the village loved noise, he thought, then he would give them noise, by the hand of Allah, he knew how to make more ferocious sounds than anyone.