# 7

"Hey, that's out, you edged it!"
"Bullshit! It went straight past my bat. You could have driven a fuckin' truck through the gap."
"Fuck you! I heard the sound, and so did everybody else."
"It was the sound of my bat hitting the ground, asshole! It's time to get those pathetic peepers perused, Franky fuckin four eyes!"
"Hey, I told you, I heard the sound loud and clear. You're fuckin out!"
"Well if you take your head out of your ass, maybe you'll be able to see stuff too rather than just hearing it. "
"Ok that's the last time you've made fun of my sight you little twit!"

He had the mouth to tick off the meanest motherfuckers around, but even he knew he didn't have the physical strength to protect himself from the mean motherfucker charging at him right now. Nevertheless, he stood his ground, even with his heart in his mouth. He had almost closed his eyes when he caught the glimpse of a comforting figure appearing out of nowehere.

"Hey, hey take it easy people. Nobody's throwing hands here."
"You stay out of it man. You should've shut the lid on this obnoxious little worm when you still had time. Now nobody's saving him from the ass-kicking of a lifetime."
"Nobody shuts the lid on my bro, and nobody even dreams about kicking his ass while I'm around. You should walk away from here while you still got the legs to carry you."
"Ok man, but remember, you're not gonna be there always. He's gonna learn his lesson sooner or later."

At this moment, Detective Larry Tolemy opened his eyes. Well, figuratively, cos all this while he had been sitting in the Police Plaza and Commissioner Hanson had been blabbering about the recent murder of a renowned outlaw. He took another glance at the morning paper.

"Live by the sword, die by the sword", screamed the Daily Post, in yet another vain attempt of paying homage to the Son of God. Larry often wondered if Jesus himself ran the paper. For as long as he cared to remember, the front page headline had always had a reference to the Holy Book.

The sub-heading read, "Charles Tolemy, alleged henchman of mob boss Ed Fly "Horny" Jinn, shot dead and thrown into the ocean in broad daylight. Fear of gang-wars grips the city."

"Remember when we were young? You once saved me from Big Moe. I really thought I was a dead duck."
"Nobody can lay a hand on you junior. Not while I'm around."
"That's what I wanna talk to you about Charlie. See I've been hearing some stuff down at the plaza..."
"You've heard right junior. And when the time comes, you do what you're supposed to. Man's gotta do what a man's gotta do...."

He woke up again. There was a lengthy account of the incident in the papers, replete with romantic allusions to the thriving mob culture in the city. What the papers had chosen not to mention was something that was almost common knowledge, at least within the police and press circles. Nobody said it out loud, but everybody knew that everybody knew. The call made by Charles Tolemy to Commissioner Hanson a week before the murder. The grapevine suggested that Tolemy wished to testify against "Horny" Jinn. Why and wherefore is not too clear. He was all too aware of the corruption that infested the police ranks, and therefore he had decided to call up the Commissioner himself. Hanson made a big deal of it. In the meantime, he may have missed out on providing the much-promised security cover to Charlie. And he also may have, just may have, tipped "Horny" on the whereabouts of Charlie sometime during their conversation. Larry couldn't say this for sure, but he was there when Hanson received what seemed like a call from the devil himself in his office.

"Larry my boy, we've got to clean the city of this stinking pile of shit. This is not how the city will run. Not while I'm around."
"Yes Sir Commisioner."
"The most important thing right now is to find out the culprits and also prevent any more bloodshed. I need you to take a deep dive, get to the bottom of this, Goddamn it!"
"Understood Sir."
"Very well then."

He had always hated water bodies. Once when they were young, Charlie had played a prank on him by pulling him into the water again and again as he tried to get out of the pool. He liked to think of it as his first encounter with death.

Even though he had never believed in afterlife, he couldn't help being excited as he stood on the coast, thinking, "...and this will be the last."

# 6

Pentagon Thomas was sad. Yes, his name was Pentagon. He was a victim child of whimsical parents who thought that being born on a day when the country faced it first genuine terrorist attack on its mainland soil needed to be commemorated in some way. World Trade Center as a first name obviously didn’t have quite the ring. Anyway, he was sad because his favourite super-hero was dead. During the recent mega-battle between the Parasite and the Justice League of America, Captain Atom had been ripped apart by a defensive Parasite after his pleas to surrender peacefully were rejected by the JLA leader Magog. The environmentalists were sad too, and so were most other people, but due to different reasons. The radioactive emissions from Captain Atom’s dissociation had rapidly spread across the entire U.S. Midwest and effectively rendered the American bread-basket a barren wasteland. Strangely enough, the only species that survived was not cockroaches, but honeybees. Swarms upon swarms of honeybees from the apiaries in Upper Midwest migrated to the neighbouring state of Montana, where Pentagon’s family lived. To Pentagon, though, all these were mere details. Captain Atom was dead, and nothing would ever be the same again for him.

His latter assertion would soon be proved uncannily accurate.

Let’s get ourselves some background here, shall we? Pentagon was the son of a wealthy faith healer Jonathan Thomas, based in Missoula, Montana. His father had practically never been around during the short time that Pentagon had been intelligent enough to appreciate the fact. On the other hand of course, the aura of his father had been around way too much. Whether it was in the form of “sick” people lining up in front of the house everyday in the vague hope that they would be blessed, or the exaggerated coverage he got in the media, especially the print media in Missoula. It was a small town, after all, with few heroes to speak of. The ones it did produce, it wore them proudly on its forehead.


It would be redundant and overly sappy to mention here that Pentagon missed the presence of a real father in his life, someone who could take him out fly-fishing down at the Big Blackfoot River, like all his friends’ Dads did. Or maybe take him to the garden during spring. The very thought of all those flowers suddenly got him excited in a way he had never previously experienced.

It was a rare occasion. Jonathan was going to be home for almost a month. Pentagon figured this would be the only time he’d even come close to getting to know his Dad. He had hardly ever spoken to him before this, he had mostly only been ordered around. He gathered all his nerve and walked up to his father’s study.

“Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“Captain Atom died.”
“Who?”
“Captain Atom.”
“Huh? Oh yea, that freak. Hah, so much for superheroes. Without the power of God within you, all other power will prove useless.”
Pentagon winced. He had hoped to catch his father in the non-faith-healer mode.
“There are a lot of bees around.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Last week while coming back from school…”
“I’m really busy Junior, just buzz off for now.”

At this point in the story, James had pretty much guessed the ending. But he let grandma continue lest she be disappointed.
“And since then, the Pentagon monster haunts the Big Blackfoot. Nobody has seen it, at least nobody who’s still alive. But fathers don’t take their kids out fly-fishing anymore.”

# 5

To say that Naresh Gupta was the leading ophthalmologist in the country would be correct, but far from complete. It had got to the point that his reputation far exceeded his abilities. More than a good doctor, he was a master businessman. He had set up, almost single handedly, the largest and most advanced nursing home and research centre dedicated exclusively to the diagnosis and treatment of ophthalmic ailments in India. If the purpose of life is a life of purpose, he had certainly both discovered and realized his.

His son Amit was an average kid. Not exceptionally sharp at studies, no achievements to speak of in extra-curricular activities. Come to think of it, he was actually quite like his father, minus the passion to make it big and the clarity of vision to realize where and how. Probably the only thing remotely “special” about him was his near supernatural ability to communicate with animals. The most fearful stray in the street behaved like a pet with him, and while he was in his room, there was hardly a time when birds didn’t crowd the window sill. Whether he actually understood their language, or whether he just had a heightened sense of understanding of their needs, only he knew. Anyway, when his father pressured him to take up biology in high school, he didn’t have any particular qualms, because he was equally disinterested in nearly all subjects. In fact, he decided (secretly, of course) to put his only special skill to use by becoming a veterinarian. To this end, he studied hard and did reasonably well in high school. However, when the time came to apply to colleges, his father would have none of his nonsensical career choice. To Naresh, his son becoming a “doctor of animals” was no less disgraceful than a crown prince renouncing his kingdom in search of salvation. He never did like Gautam Buddha.

So Naresh leveraged all his connections in the field and Amit was promptly sent off to one of the country’s top medical schools, where he managed to finish his undergraduate studies without much fuss. His secret ambition hadn’t really been an ambition at all, and he continued with his favorite pastime, while going through the motions in college. It was pretty much the same story when he was shipped off to the University of Colorado Denver School of Medicine's Department of Ophthalmology for his postgraduate studies, and he even managed to overcome minor incidents of racism in college, not because his spirit was indefatigable or anything, but simply because it was, for all practical purposes, dead.

Bill O’ Daniel had always been proud of his impeccable eyesight. During his amateur cowboy training course, which he had taken up as a divertissement in college, he was renowned as “Bull’s Eye Billy”, and for good reason. He had also been involved in the infamous killing of two black youth in college, but his Dad being a judge obviously helped his “case”, if you get my drift. His career had shaped up well enough too. Who would have thought “Bull’s eye Billy” would end up being a corporate slave, but he didn’t particularly mind it. He earned well, and had kept up with his gun slinging habits, thanks to the second amendment. Now he mostly targeted birds for his amusement, because times were hard and niggers were not sitting ducks anymore. Off late though, his impeccable eyesight had started to betray him. He decided to get it fixed, lest he lose his most prized possession. Preliminary examination suggested cataract, and his company set up an appointment with Dr. Amit Gupta. Bill was furious. He argued his lungs out with his HR line manager, but she would have none of it. Dr. Gupta was a reputed, and more importantly, the only eye surgeon who was a selected provider under the company’s managed care program. Mr. O’ Daniel was free to finance the treatment on his own if he didn’t wish to be treated by the doctor selected by the company.

Cursing his luck, Bill went to see Dr. Amit. He was asked to settle down in the chair. He grudgingly obeyed. Dr. Amit then said that he would need to conduct a comprehensive test to confirm that it was indeed cataract before he began the treatment. Following the test, Bill would not be allowed to drive for 24 hours and it would be advisable for him to stay indoors in general.
“That’s the first time I’ve heard that baloney! You’re just trying to extract more money from the company, you fuckin’ parasite.”
Amit heaved a deep sigh.
“I know your type! All you fuckin brown bastards are penny-pinching motherfuckers. You’d sell your own mother for the greens. You’re worse than the Jews, if ya ask me!”
“Sir, there is no need for improper behaviour. I’d appreciate it if you settled down and let me perform the required test.”
“Wow, look at you all polite and shit! Is that what they teach ya in your famed culture, to lick the balls of the guy who fucks ya in the ass? C’mon man, it’s so fuckin apparent that you’re mad at me. So why this stupid show of tolerance? Cut it out, ya sand nigger!”
Dr. Amit Gupta’s license was revoked and he spent the better part of his remaining life talking to birds out of his prison cell in the Shawshank Penitentiary, Maine.
Bill O’ Daniel never told his kids the true story of how he came to be known as “Buccaneer Billy”.

# 4

Robert Franklin Pettigrew was a gentleman, a man of virtues and principles, and a patriot. He was born filthy rich and was busy throwing the money back in the gutters.

He was on his usual trip monthly trip to Las Vegas. It was Friday the 13th, the Fight Night. Too much was on stake that evening. Having lost a (strictly relatively) small fortune at the Caesar's high-rollers roulette table, Rob decided to slosh himself. His arrogance and hyper-inflated ego had earned him complete solitude, noiseless and bitter.

A rap on the door announced the arrival of his third bottle of scotch. As the girl pushed the cart near to Rob's bed, he realized how sun had perfected her skin and turned it into irresistibly sensuous. She was dressed in something that was innocence and mayhem at once. Alcohol makes you overlook innocence, almost always. When it doesn't, what you are left with is honesty and pristine love. It was the always the former with Rob.

Rob noticed a blackjack table completely empty on the floor. Sunday afternoons were normally siesta times for gamblers. For others it belonged to the God. He approached the dealer and spilled 10000$ chips from his pocket onto the table. Samuel gathered the chips, piled them into neat stacks and waited for Rob.

"Let's play nigger-jack, my African American friend"

Sam started dealing. Rob kept staring at his face all the while, and pushed all the chips in without looking down. Sam was slightly afraid to look up and see in his eyes. Realizing it was his call, Rob skipped his hole card and let out a piercing cry,

"Hit me!"

-

Las Vegas Echoes
Monday, 16th March.

Robert Franklin Pettigrew, 34, a millionare from Ohio was punched to death by, Samuel Robbins, a blackjack dealer at Caesar's on Sunday afternoon on the casino floor. Eyewitness say that Samuel repeatedly punched Robert Pettigrew in the face until he was dead. The people of the floor were horror-stricken and motionless as Mr. Pettigrew was dead within six blows before the casino security guards could arrive at the scene. Before being taken to the state prison, Samuel was allowed to see his sister, Rose, in the state hospital.
Curiously, Rose worked in Caesar's as well in the room service department and was found severely wounded in mysterious conditions in the alley at the back of the hotel on Saturday. The hotel management is tight-lipped on the case and the police have also not found any clue on the same.

- Local Correspondent

# 3

John Smith was a resource procurement manager for Drumstix Infrastructure Services, Ohio. He was not fond of working nor liked the people who were around him. Being partly bald and obese didn't help either. He longed for his childhood neighborhood, where he had friends living off earnings of a grocery store. Nobody had ever heard him talking loud, he whispered only when it was absolutely necessary.

The last year had been particularly bad. Ray McKinzie was hired as his boss from a major rival and being able to bring him in was considered a major success by the Human Resources Department (This was the only source that John was supposed to procure. He wondered why.) What they forgot to check out was Ray's history in the rival firm and the fact that he was on the verge of being fired due to professional misconduct.

With no family left after his wife ran away, Ray had taken special liking for John and took up additional responsibility of screwing his professional life and playing with his sanity. John worked hard for long hours without being rewarded. He didn't give a damn about verbal praises anyway, but he liked a bit of extra cash. His work was severely criticized and was passed on to his juniors to insult him. A few shoe-lickers joined Ray in his campaign.

Today was a special day for John. He was meeting his dear old friend from yesteryears after a very long time. He had planned to wrap-up everything by early evening and had reached office an hour earlier than usual.

Ray was in a relatively better mood that day. He had planned not an overnight crucification of John but a relatively late night walk on the plank. John moaned and whimpered. Ray smiled and grinned. At 3 am, with his friend on his flight back, John submitted what he felt was absolutely fine presentation for next week's client meeting. Ray, blowing out the cigar smoke, had a cursory look and asked him to do research on all the past trades of the client, and of those on the other side of these trades.

"Baldy, we need to get this done. In fact, we should have done this long back. Do I have to remind you every time? We might not use this data but I feel comfortable knowing it. Give me a shout when you are done."

At 3:15 an ambulance parked itself in front of the office of Drumstix Infrastructure Services. John Smith was fired for professional misconduct and Ray was relieved on the grounds of severe loss in hearing ability.

# 2

Alok had been with Aneesha for a very long time now, and not entirely by choice. She was a family friend, his only friend, his neighbor, his classmate and now fate had landed them in the same college. He was thankful that she was not in his department which atleast gave him something to talk about.

Aneesha was bored after being with Alok for what seemed like eternity now. They had the same interests, same taste in food and music, and were not very, in general definition of the word, enthusiastic about anything in life.

On top of all this, they differed in opinion on trivial matters which became primitive cause of the frequent, and often loud, bickering and nagging. Aneesha was talkative and a good listener while Alok was neither. They had come to a point where they needed an excuse to break away from each other. But iron chains of history bound them together.

It was a cool evening after a very hot afternoon, a sort of climate which makes even bats cheerful. Alok visited Aneesha's room anticipating another qualm over his speechlessness and general lack of movement. He sat down on the bad while she pretended to be busy on her PC. She managed to avoid looking directly at him and he did the same for a long time. Finally her patience ran out.

"So, what's up?"

Alok sat still for a couple of seconds, thought hard and pulled his cargoes down. They enjoyed each other's company that night more than they had done in the past 12 years and later broke up, silently.

# 1

Nathan Miguel was born with, as they say, a dozen golden spoons in his mouth. His attributed his speech impediment to the same. His father, Frank Miguel was the most successful criminal advocate in the state of Okura and had successfully assissted many guily convicts to escape the chair and taste free air within 5 years. He had failed only once when the concerned gentleman shot himself in the prison.

His success had forced him to ignore his son while he grew up in a huge room filled with toys. books and nannies. The boys' mother had died of complications while carrying Nathan's baby sister along with the baby. Nathan was told that his father was not around when he was born and the five-year-old observed that he was not around when his mother died. Frank had won historic cases on both occasions and was conveniently busy.

As a 14 year old kid Nathan made up for his lack of the gift of gab with his writing. His columns and articles were most sought after in the school journals and magazines. His father, as he expected, was not big fan and told him once that he himself hired a typist to do that stuff for him.

It was a special day for Frank Miguel as tomorrow was the launch party for his autobiography, Crime and Me. Nathan had gone through the manuscript while it was being discussed and written by a panel of unknown writers working on a wage. Not much to his amazement, he discovered that his father managed to spend a lot of family time amidst such chaos and violence, and how he missed his mother. Frank never wore his wedding ring while he was with another woman.

Nathan hated the book, the title the most, the crappy style of writing and the pandora of lies his father was throwing away at the audience that he wished was his. He decided to talk to his father about this.

Frank was busy as usual and did not care to lift his head when Nathan entered his study. Nathan waited and so did Frank.

"Dad, I need to talk to you about something."

"Shoot!", responded Frank with irritation in his voice.

The silencer equipped gun of Frank made a muffled noise as Nathan pulled the trigger.