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I've been on this blog from the time I started as a blogger. I decided to leave it was made because I found the interface a little uncomfortable and resented the fact that I can not fully customise my blog without shelling out the dough. Now admittedly, though I possess the technical know how to do something like that, I won't ever actually make the effort, but I would appreciate being able to do so someday anyway.
Apart from that, I also realised, rather late in the day admittedly, that blogger is a google product now, and y'all know I love google... In fact I take that to rather obscene lengths, but that's another story, which I don't intend to tell, so anyway. The fact of the matter is that for the five of you who've read my posts and enjoyed one or two of them, I can now be found at Sathe Says, that's my new blog over at blogspot.
I'll either copy some of the nicer stories out of this one or leave some links, because I'm rather attached to them.
Maybe I should make a copy somewhere... Does livejournal flush inactive accounts? Any clues?
Ah well... |
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They were walking through a park, and he was humming lightly. She smiled and said, "You're even more tuneless than a mosquito. Buzz buzz buzz, that's what you're doing." He looked up and smiled, and said, "Yeah, probably. Listen, I'm sorry for dumping my troubles on you, I just didn't know who else to talk to."
She said nothing, just smiled. Then she said, "You should talk to her. Tell her all you told me now, trust me on this. He said, "I know, it's just, well, there's an element of farce to everything. And I can't resist it. You know that. But, when I tell a joke, it is covering something that hurts a lot you know."
"Guys!" she snorted, then said, "You know, you're going to have to learn to express yourself. You've got to put yourselves out in the open!" He laughed, then said, "No, see, I think it's a little simpler. It's just that women are mean. Mean mean mean!"
"Guys are stupid."
"Mean mean mean."
"See, stupid. And childish," she laughed. He smiled too, but didn't say much else.
They walked through the park, and reached the entry. "Now cheer up," she said, "things have a way of working out."
He started to say something then noticed A, a colleague of theirs. Smiling, he called out, "Wassup my brother!" clasping hands as if they had met after a few years, and not just the previous day. They bantered on, and he made a lot of jokes, laughing loudly at most of them. Then A left, and they were alone again.
"Why did you do all that? Why do you always play the clown?" she asked.
"I don't have a choice. It's the persona I chose, and I have to live up to it for all these people."
"They're not your friends. They don't care about your problems. They won't sit and listen to you. So why should you care about making them smile?"
"You wouldn't understand," he said, with a sad smile, then said, "I've gotta go, but thanks, for listening to me." |
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Ok... Home net has been down for a while, and unfortunately, my scribbling hasn't stopped for a while.
So, today, I've posted all the four entries that I've typed out in the last three days, though admittedly, three were done day-before, after a small fight with a friend...
Try and go through the lot, some of them have more merit than others and Rope II in particular I wanted people to read since I wrote the original with the sequel in mind...
Anyway. That's all. |
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She sat on the park bench, all her possessions in the whole world on her tired, battered frame and in the small sack that she sat by her side. She was an old woman, and she showed every sign of her age. Wispy grey hair, tangled and matted, tumbled across her face, as she peered myopically through eyes that must once have been beautiful. Now though her face was marred by a permanent squint as she tried to make out the world in front of her.
Harsh lines had been etched across her face, a testament to the times she had lived through, and generous lips were now cracked and sunken, and her entire mouth was drawn into a scowl. Absently she brushed the hair out of her face and sat there on the bench, stooped and sullen.
Her hands must have been young once too, though you would never believe this by looking at them. Now her hands looked like the gnarled branch of some hollowed tree, with lines running across their entire length. Her veins strung out like ropes, her fingers turned clawlike, around a small apple that she had scavenged for her lunch.
She ate noisily, with great relish, wasting none of the apple. She hadn't eaten in days. Discarding the gnawed core, she bent down with a sigh, and plucked a small blue flower, one last tribute to her missing youth. Everyday she would go to the government shelter to try and get some food, but it was no place to stay. Then she would walk around the city, looking to get some other food, or she would head straight to the park if she got enough at the shelter.
Everyday she would sit on this bench, and pluck a flower from the small bush that grew just to its side, and everyday she would put the flower in her hair. And then she would sit on the bench and watch the children playing, and she would love them, love them for being so innocent and free, and hate them, hate them for being young when she was not. And she would cry, and finally, at night, she would squeeze herself onto the bench and sleep.
It hadn't always been like this. She had been young once, and beautiful too. She had driven the men mad with lust, and the world had been a wonderful place, where everything was as she wanted it to be. And then she had married one of the men around her, and it had seemed a happy enough decision to start with.
But then he would start coming home drunk and beating her, until she knew she couldn't take it any longer, and she ran away from him.
She ran away from the town where she had lived, and came to the city, as everybody did, but she could not get a job. She had no skills and little education, and she was helpless. But then her beauty came to her rescue as she started working as a prostitute, and for some years at least, she was happy again.
She lived well but she didn't save her money, and as she grew older and her beauty left her she was left helpless again, and finally, all she had left of those days was the bench in the park, and the little blue flowers whose name she didn't know.
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There was a place a little place, a little hole in the wall to the world yet the grandest halls paled in comparison to us, and it was in Grand that our day began and without Grand our lives would have been but brief pale candles compared to those rollicking adventures we subjected the world to inspired by nothing more than a vada, an idli, some coffee and some dreams.
We went there every day and every morning we began in the same way we would go up to the man, wearing a bright and big moustache, him not us, and we would say, always, one coffee, two vada, two idli.
That was always how the day began and then in between there was a lot of uninteresting stuff, there were classes and there was lunch, cold and uninspired from the canteen or hot and spicy and devilishly tasty if you were lucky enough to go to the biryani wallah who set up shop behind the mosque behind the college, though the college is new so it is actually the mosque in front of college, for no other reason than because of historical precedence.
That man made biryani so beautiful, with meat so tender and succulent that that is another story for another time altogether, it's first taste ranking right up there with the first time you drove a car or kissed someone or managed to fix something without making it far far worse.
But even then it was an uninteresting life and for the most part we got back to the dreary old routine sneaking the cigarettes in the corners of the college and huddling together to bitch about the teachers and each other, hoping desperately perhaps for a fire to break out today, just today, just for one day, just so that I can go home and sleep - sleep sleep sleep that beautiful thing sleep which I never seem able to do sleep.
And so the day would go on until it was four anyway, and then we would look at the watches and the clocks in our phones little clocks in big phones and we would look at each other for the first signs of life and seeing none deciding to take the bull by the horns would say that we should go for a quick coffee and then go around calling every single one we knew, because my friends drank coffee there and her friends drank coffee there and whose friends should we have coffee with so we had coffee with everyones friends and all ten of us would troop into that one tiny place which could seat only six with any semblance of comfort and yet would squeeze the ten of us in and still have room for a few more.
We would sit around then, for hours at least, more than one as a minimum, lingering over our cups of coffee, not always a unified army, picking up and losing members as the evening went along like a small but noisesome comet, forming and reforming but the core remaining mostly unchanged, sharing the same stale gossip and trading the same stale jokes and drinking cup after cup of coffee. We did this until a pile of cups built up, enough to erect a pyramid with, and we ate as well, we ate enough to feed an army, and we ate it all with gusto and occasionally with some coconut chutney as well.
And we felt really Grand. |
| » The tale of Killer Diller, or something like that |
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It had been a typically boring day, with absolutely no entertainment and excitement at all. Instead there had been the usual programme of dodging teachers who were bound to have some work to saddle us with, and having those endless, pointless discussions over cheap coffee and cheaper cigarettes in the hole in the wall next to college.
It was, quite frankly, the ideal setting to discuss utter rubbish.
We were sitting around the table, all the usual suspects, the Beard and the Bong, Comrade P and Ramu the Wonderboy, Me and Comrade T as well, and as always, the third or maybe the fourth round of coffee was already on the table, as were the idlis and vadas. Somehow the conversation veered towards how each of us would kill someone, that is, what technique would be used.
Now I don't remember what we came up with, but I decided that it'd be interesting to profile friends as potential killers, and here's what I think -
The Beard - This happy Pathan will most likely bludgeon someone to death. It's not that he's stupid or trollish in his general approach to life, but I can see him with a great big smile on his face as he bashes in someones head.
The Bong - A sneaky little bastard this one, I'm not entirely sure how he'd do it. Most likely he'd hire someone else. Otherwise he'd be a poisoner. In fact, he could well be a poisoner. No actual physical effort involved and he can sit and watch his victim, unknowing, eating the poisoned food, a smile, anticipating the eventual choking death. Comrade T describes the anticipation of a poisoner too beautifully for me to dare write more on the subject, but I think the Bong would have fun.
Blogboy - This one time roomie is probably the most likely of the whole lot to actually kill someone. When he smiles he honestly looks like the Grinch. He has an evil look in his eyes and his hands are always curled into a cruel, clawlike pose. He is a stabber. Definitely a stabber. You're sitting quietly, enjoying your soup, and he walks up to you, from behind, that smile on his face, and with a quick underhand jab, there's a knife between your ribs!
The Other Bong - Also possibly Beatlesboy, this one is a shooter. Definitely a shooter. Though not one who's very sure he can manage to do this. Don't get me wrong, he doesn't have any moral conflicts about what he's going to do; he's just afraid of the gun. Holding it far away from his body, head ever so slightly averted, shooting at close range, firing round after round into his victim... Bang!... Bang! Bang!... Bang!
Cockroach - Definitely a smotherer. Comrade T yesterday described it as a very impersonal way of killing someone, and did a pretty good job of it, but by now I'm back to my original stand, that it's a pretty hard way to kill someone. Now I can see the Cockroach, straddling someone, using her weight to pin him down, a big pillow covering his face, suffocating him slowly. The poor man struggling, thrashing wildly first, then weaker and weaker, until finally, he's dead. And all the while, the cockroach is smiling. Definitely!
There's other folk I know, who're possible killers too, but since most folks would use one of the methodologies described above, I decided not to name more. Ah well. So long children, more later!
Apr. 15th, 2006 @ 04:21 pm
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| » Rope II |
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You should also read the previous entry, called rope... It's just below this one.
It was raining again, endless, constant rain, and it just made her feel worse. She had been crying for a long time now, walking through the rain with tears washed away by raindrops. She had always loved the rain, the feeling of it, the smell of it, but tonight even this made her feel worse.
Everything made her feel worse, and she felt she would never smile again in her life.
She had gone to him one last time, to try and talk to him, to make him understand what was required, what he had to do to make this work, but as usual, he just nodded and said he understood, without hearing a word she said. And as usual, he had a glass of rum in his hand. Then again, he had first asked her out with a glass of rum in his hand.
This was the third time in as many days that she'd tried to make him put the glass away, to try and make him listen to her, and for the third time they'd ended up fighting pointlessly. Finally exhausted, she'd just gotten up and stormed out of the house, and just for a moment, she recalled with a pang of guilt, she had felt a petty triumph in the shocked look on his face.
It hurt. It hurt a lot now, that look. She knew that she was right, she knew that she had every reason to end the relationship, but even then, he had meant so much to her, did she really want things to end on this note? Yes, breaking up was necessary now, but she wanted them to talk one more time before parting ways.
If only she could make him listen to her, but then again, getting him away from the bottle of rum was going to be hard enough. He had absolutely no self control, yet he talked about settling down and having kids. How could he raise them when he couldn't grow up himself! Yes, she wanted to have kids, yes she wanted to have kids with him, but was he ready?
Still, she owed it to him to talk to him one last time, she decided. Wavering in the rain, she decided that she'd go back to his house, and talk to him once more, and then tomorrow in the morning, when he was sober, they could talk properly. She turned and walked back, following the familiar path through the buildings, getting soaked at the one point where there was no cover, then going on again.
There were other issues too, that needed to be dealt with. They had less and less to talk about these days. They were growing too far apart, and she knew that there was no hope of saving the relationship now. But she wanted to end things well, she wanted the two of them to be able to remain friends. And so she knew she would have to go and meet him now.
She reached his door - a door she had thought of as her own, to a house she felt at home in, because his presence was everywhere there, and it was unlocked as always. It was unsafe, she always told him, and he always grinned and left it unlocked when she wasn't there anyway.
She walked right in, and then to his bedroom door, and that's when she noticed the washed clothes on the floor. The rope on which he hung the clothes was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, she opened the door to the bedroom, and found him.
And the rope.
Apr. 15th, 2006 @ 04:19 pm
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| » Rope |
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It was raining again, a slow steady beat drumming across the leaves, and he smiled. It wasn't much of a smile, because he had been crying, but it was a smile, and the thought that he could still smile made him happier. He stood closer to the open window, not wanting to close it, to lock out the smells; there was no word, no possible expression, there was only the smell you got after it rained. And it was the most beautiful thing in the world, and that made him happy too.
It had been a crazy, painful day, like so many before, but for the first time in years, she wasn't there to share it with him, and that still hurt. It hurt more than he could ever express in words, hurt so much that even the smell of the rain brought memories of her, of how she had made every experience in his life complete, how the world seemed stale without her.
She had taken her time to tell him. It happened over three days, three painful, endless days, and he never accepted what was happening until it was completely over, and she was gone, forever. He knew that he had to move on, but he knew he never really could.
Still, he was smiling, and that was good. He knew it was because of his decision. Once he knew what was coming next, the world seemed better, though just a little bit.
The rum had probably helped too. The sweet taste of the rum still lingered in his mouth, and the harsh kick it had was almost gone now, leaving a numb, happy feeling. He still hurt, but at least he was able to smell the rain, and feel thankful for the beauty of this world.
Her reasons were simple, and there wasn't much he could say against them either. She was right, he was drinking too much. He wasn't a noisy drunk or an angry one. He was an affectionate one, but to her, that was even worse. And there wasn't even much he could do about it.
They wanted very different things too. She had wanted to live her life, and have a career, and see the world, while he wanted to settle down and have kids, grow old in peace. And neither of them wanted to change.
There were other things too, the little things that could end every relationship. He felt she had no sympathy for his troubles, and she felt the only thing he ever talked about were his troubles. They were happy, but for how long? Eventually they would grow too far apart, she had said.
And she was right. He knew she was. He knew that there was nothing to be done, no way they could save the relationship. This was the third serious relationship in seven years that had gone sour. Just a month before his thirtieth birthday, the world seemed a very cruel place.
Even the rain, he knew, could be cruel, no matter how beautiful it seemed. Somewhere, maybe just below, people would drown because of the rain, people's homes would be submerged. Others might die in accidents, caused at least partly by the rain. No, the world was not a good place to be in without someone to share it with, and by now he knew that his lot in life did not include someone like that. No, she had every right to give up on him, and he was only surprised that it had taken her three years.
Everyone eventually gave up on him, though they all started off with high hopes. When he'd started working eight years ago, everyone had very high hopes from him, one of the top students in his class, a man with ideas, a man to watch out for, everyone said.
Eight long years later, they were still watching, and he had barely moved, while many many others had upstaged him and left him far behind a long time back. They had all given up on him too, by now.
He looked down and saw his near empty bottle of rum, and smiled. The only constant ally in his life. He drank everyday now, often finishing a bottle in just three days. Why not? He was in control, and he didn't do anything stupid when he had a drink, and he enjoyed drinking.
He felt warm, and the world was a better place to be in. She didn't understand that, didn't understand that the rum didn't take away his love for her, his need for her, that it made everything more real, that it made the world make sense, that it made his love for her more honest. She had not understood.
He reached down and finished the last of the rum, and decided to get on with what remained of his life. Moving on was the key, he knew. And so he did.
After a few fumbled attempts he had tied the knots in the nylon rope he used to dry his clothes on, and had looped it through the ceiling fan's hook, and another minute went into positioning the chair properly. He climbed out and measured the slack, and gave a few tugs to make sure the hook would hold.
And then the rope went taut.
This is not a story about me, about anything that I went through, about any sort of thing in any way connected to me, or someone I know... Well, I know someone whose brother committed suicide, but this is not connected to that in any way either. For the record, I had tried drowning my self in beer, but gave up when I realised I was having too much fun.
Apr. 12th, 2006 @ 02:07 pm
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| » For Megha |
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Ok, it's not so good
Enter now, into the god's workshop,
See his creations lined up for thee,
Behold the hippo, the elephant,
The shark and the little wallaby!
There they lie upon his table,
Bits and pieces needing assembly,
Some still so strange to the eye,
You wonder what they all could be.
Walking in you hear a whistle,
Toneless and flat, someone is humming,
Can it be the maker,
From whom it's coming?
Step carefully now,
The shark's head is working,
And mind your feet,
You might kill something!
There's an open elephant,
That purple thing's its spleen,
As for that other bit...
I'm not sure it should be green.
And there's an eagle,
But it hasn't a beak,
There's a selection on the floor,
But they all look too meek,
Clearly someone's tinkering,
But where is he now?
Why all the ignored creatures,
Why the sad looking cow?
Ah there stands our lord,
Standing in the corner,
Oh oh, he looks a little angry,
Buddy, you're a goner.
"Why do you disturb me thus?
Begone you meddling creature,
Or your life's story,
Will be a very short feature!"
Thus spake the lord,
And hearing this you worry,
What if the end comes,
That too in a hurry?
"Forgive me o lord,
I seek only your wisdom,
On the meaning of life,
And of the natural kingdom."
Your soft words work,
The god now mollified,
Decides to tell you,
How everything is codified.
"By legs do I work,
By beaks I end,
One thing I don't much like,
Is creatures that bend."
"So snakes are out,
An early experiment,
That phase is over,
I'm glad it went."
"Birds I find pretty
Specially if they're green,
And fish too,
As you might have seen."
The creator smiles,
You feel more bold,
You seek more answers,
More yet to be told.
"But these animals lord,
They can't be the top of the pile,
There must be something else,
To make it all worthwhile."
"Something that can appreciate,
All you have created,
Something that is higher,
And not just when inebriated."
The God loomed down on you,
Then said a single simple word,
All he said was no,
Nothing else to be heard.
Persisting you tried again,
Once again you did ask,
"Is there naught else?
Nothing for this whole great task?"
Suddenly the god beamed,
"Oh is that all you mean?
Of course there is,
Though I wish now I'd made it green."
"Come now and I shall show,
My greatest ever undertaking,
Everything else here,
Was but a trifling thing."
"This pinnacle of creation,
It is a wondrous thing,
So complex and intricate,
Such joy it did bring!"
"Of course, it must be difficult,"
You said to the creator,
"Working out how it works,
Everything needing a motivator."
"Oh no," God replied,
"It isn't very complicated,
A few simple instructions,
And it's all encoded."
Now wisely you smiled,
"And of course for you,
If they go astray,
A few commandments would do?"
"Why ye- no!" said God,
"For my masterpiece to thrive,
The very simplest instructions,
And trust me, it'll thrive."
"Nuclear winter,
Or a daily fest of lead,
They'll survive every life,
That can possibly be led."
"Go to the dark places,
Avoid the light,
Sweet things are good for you,
That'll keep them all right."
"Everything life can throw,
They'll take without reproach,
My finest creation,
I give you, the cockroach!"
Inspired by both The Flea and also by The Last Continent both of which are quite differently, brilliant.
Apr. 8th, 2006 @ 05:54 pm
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| » Angels and Demons |
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I am extremely sorry if this hurts anyone's sensibilities. It's just a joke, and I hope no one is offended...
PART ONE : JEPTHET
Belios, Dark Master of the Pit, Lord of Oblivion, Keeper of the Flame, Knight of Satan and general bad guy, fumed noisily. It's pretty much like fuming silently, but with a touch of Darth Vader to it.
Pacing the floor of his office, he shook his from side to side, angrily, not an uncommon sight actually, since he was often angry. It went with the job, though in private he was supposed to be a jolly fellow. His friends would certainly say so, only he didn't have any. It was a common problem that most of the successful demons had learned to live with, and Belios dealt with it by being angry most of the time.
He was especially angry today though, and the cause was clear enough to anyone close enough to hear what he was muttering. Of course, few would want to be close to one of the most powerful beings in hell when he was in a bad mood, but here's what he said...
"I'm sick of that little punk. What the hell does he think of himself anyway? Thinks he understands the nature of evil, the little lizard nosed monster. Turn human against human! As if it were that simple. Lousy punk would lose us all our jobs." Belios continued his pacing, clearly getting angrier by the minute. After a few more futile circuits of the room, he turned to his desk, and rang the buzzer.
Agroth, his secretary, popped into the room with all his customary efficiency. He was a good secretary, but he was one of those demons that was wreathed in fire all the time. This meant that if the heating ever failed, he was handy, but on the other hand, you had to learn to live with singed memos. Belios thought he added to the general decor.
Another advantage of having an elemental for a secretary was that it wasn't too easy to kill. As Agroth opened his mouth to speak, Belios raised his right hand and pointed a finger at the secretary, a rage filled howl bouncing of the seething walls. A bolt of lightning flashed out, running right through Agroth's face, and he was soon a blubbering file of flames on the floor, and it calmed Belios a little to watch Agroth's body slowly re-form in front of him.
"Thank you Agroth," Belios said, his face twisted into the closest approximation of a smile he could manage with the huge tusks sticking out of his lower jaw, and Agroth carefully bowed. "Now go and get me that Jepthet fellow. It's time to teach him a real lesson." Agroth backed out, and walked back in a moment later, a small, thin demon in front of him. Like all successful demons, Agroth had a highly developed survival instinct, and as soon as he walked into the room, he realised that an example was about to be made of him, and sure enough, in a moment he was a puddle on the floor, again. Sometimes he really hated his job.
As he slowly re-formed again though, he noticed that Belios was smiling again, which was rather strange. After all, it was hardly as if Jepthet was a powerful demon. Agroth could have killed him without trying, he knew. Interested, he hovered in the doorway, and when he heard the conversation, he was horrified. He knew that Belios was evil, but this was true cruelty. And disguised like a favour!
Because Belios had decided on one thing. Death was too good for this foolish demon, who tried to use psychology instead of turning the bodies of his enemies into a pulsating mass of maggots. Jepthet was one of those know it alls, the type with the squeaky voice, who smugly thought that he was better than everybody else. One of the worst kinds of beings, thought the Knight of Satan, a self satisfied nod later.
No, this one would have to get a special punishment, a hell, a hell for demons, and he, Belios knew just the place.
"Jepthet m'boy," he boomed, carefully avoiding stepping on the then boiling mass of Agroth, "come on in, step right here, sit down."
The lesser demon sat down, not a little fearfully, and looked at his lord with uncertain eyes. Belios said, "I've heard that you've been talking again, spreading your theories, and I think it's wonderful. The employee training programme seems to be working well, and you chaps, out there in the field all day, it's good to see that people are thinking too, but I've been getting a few complaints from some of the other boys, they're a little worried about your theory, you know..."
"I know sir, but really, this should work to our advantage. The other side has been doing this for millenia sir, and I think we should influence people too, not just to a few petty wars, but all the way to civilisation. To bureaucracy. To bloody minded incompetence. To fast food chains that serve recycled plastic!" Jepthet let out a low moan of pleasure at the last.
"Yes that's all very good, but then what does that leave for us to do? No m'boy, you'll find that there are bigger and better things for you to do. I think that you should try and implement your idea, but maybe some other time. There's a job I have for you, which should take all your talents. But I have faith in you. What I want for you to do is infiltrate the other side, and find out what they're up to, we could manage our activities a lot better if we knew what was up," Belios said.
"Yessir!" went Jepthet, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively.
END OF PART ONE
PART TWO : JEPTHET GOES TO HEAVEN AND MEETS THE MAKER
"But what exactly do you want me to do, sir?" he asked. "Go to heaven m'boy," Belios said, trying to smile, and looking far more menacing than normal, as a result. "Go to heaven, and infiltrate that crew. Become one of them Do the whole nice nice routine. See what new techniques they've come up with. Then finally get back here, and let us know what you've learnt."
"Go to heaven sir? But, that could be very dangerous," Jepthet mumbled. "I won't lie to you lad, it might well be, but I like to think my team is made up of go getters. Unless you want to leave my team lad. That's up to you entirely. You always have the freedom to choose not to do some thing, just like you have the freedom to choose between the acid bath and the iron maiden. It's all in your hands really."
Swallowing convulsively, Jepthet tried a smile, then gave up, and said, "Well, I'm on my way to heaven then. I'll see you later sir."
A month later, Jepthet was one of the most popular angels. His treaty on the nature was evil, and his techniques for combating the devil reflected the lifetime of study that he, the and Jesuphale must have put in. His outrageous jokes made him popular, and no one was threatening to turn him into a pile of sludge. All in all, it was a very nice place to be in. And he absolutely hated it.
It was like the Stockholm syndrome. He'd been a demon all his life, and donning a disguise and changing his name didn't change the fact. And the fact was that he was miserable in hell, and loved the fact that he was miserable. It was like masochism. The perfect ism for a demon, along with sadism.
And so, even though he was having the time of his endless life, he was still a demon inside, plotting and planning on how to convert humans to evil, and send them to the warm place. What happened next though, was beyond his wildest dreams.
One night (well, it was probably night, but with all the white up here it was so damn hard to tell!) as he was walking back to the cloud that he called home here, he bumped into God himself, rushing as if trying to run away from someone. "Wha?" he began, but God commanded some respect, even when he was running around wearing only his briefs.
"You're the new guy, Jesuphale, right?" God boomed. "Good good good. Now look Jesuphale, I was on the Earth right now, and you know how it is, you spend all your time surrounded by angels and everyone else is having fun but you're just watching and well, sometimes you want to take part too. Well, there was this one girl, and you can guess the rest. Now she'd prayed a lot to me, and I figure I owe her a good kid, so I need to send one of our chaps. You're supposed to be a pretty smart chap, why don't you volunteer?"
Jepthet was bright, and while he knew that they were against the whole reducing to a boiling mush thing up here, there was a look in God's eyes that was very familiar. He wondered if God was related to Belios. Probably. It was all the inbreeding that resulted in bad teeth like the ones Belios had. "To the world I go sir," he said. Besides, he was getting bored here, and he had a plan, one that would doom uncountable numbers of humans to the warm place.
"Good egg," God boomed, and waved his hand. Jepthet felt himself shrinking, and fading away, and from a long way off he heard God's voice, "And listen, Jesuphale, that name's way too unwieldy for the common human. Shorten it to something that rolls off the tongue, will ya? Something like Jesus!"
Jepthet smiled. He was going to have a lot of fun.
Apr. 6th, 2006 @ 03:22 am
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| » This man is a genius... |
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From Actiontrip
Mornin' [Uros "2Lions" Jojic] 06:35 am EDT @ April 04th, 2006
We live in a material world today where a person's status and worth as a human being is assessed by his ability to earn an abstract unit of value we call money. Back in the Roman times, things were much simpler. At the start of the Republic, Romans were still using the barter system, and cattle -- pecus -- were the standard of exchange. In fact, it was from pecus that the Latin word for money, pecunia, was derived. But you see, cattle was money back then, only a more rudimentary form of it.
Still, I'd love to see Julia Roberts go shopping on Rodeo Drive with a herd of cattle. For that reason alone I would abolish paper and electronic currency, and bring back cattle as the only standard of exchange.
Banks would look really funny and smell bad, and winning the lottery would probably drive you to suicide.
Lawyers would likely charge less for their services, and crime would surely go down, as any sane criminal would rather keep the coke than sell it for 12,000 cows.
Apr. 4th, 2006 @ 05:11 pm
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| » We're moving |
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We're moving again! This is the millionth time that we're moving, or something thereabouts, like maybe the tenth, that I can remember. Trust me, if you have any decency, you should stop counting after two. Whatever it is that you're counting.
That's probably the biggest problem, and also the biggest plus point, of being part of a forces family. The downside is that you never really get to settle down in one place, and have proper roots. Your rooms always have the slightest hint of the collapsible tent to them. On the upside, you can snarl at the neighbours quite happily, because they come and go about as often as you. There's really no incentive to be polite! It's brilliant! Also, you get really good at packing things up, which I think should definitely count towards the life skills quota.
The first move that we made, after I came on the scene anyway, was from the home in Nagpur, all the way to Hyderabad. I was a lot younger and shorter, though no less stout, and my memories of that time are very hazy. My folks tell me that I was very emotional the time we first shifted, and that I hid in the stairs, saying sorrowfully, "This is my home!", though I don't really know how true it is. It sounds exactly like the kind of soppy nonsense parents tell their kids all the time. Only, this did lead to something else, which kinda forces me to believe that it must really have happened that way.
Because you see, I had heard nothing about Hyderabad, or indeed the world at large, and was quite convinced (and quite rightly too, I did later learn) that I was headed to some sort of hell hole, where strange and terrible things happened.
So.
There was this bead curtain in the house, which always fascinated me. See, that damn thing was blurry, as such things usually are, and as such things usually do, it fascinated me. Hell, you're talking about a kid who put his hand on a cactus because it was one of those fuzzy looking ones. Of course, that cured me completely of my trust for things blurry and fuzzy, but the thing with the curtain went a long way there, which I'll just tell you about.
So there I am, looking all sad and weepy, and dad, trying to cheer me up, breaks off a bead from the curtain (or maybe some fell off) and gives it to me.
Which works, naturally. Big smile on face, dumb little fat kid all happy, we travel off to Hyderabad. The reception we get there is really fabulous incidentally. After a long and uneventful train ride (or maybe it was a car... It's a long time back!) we get to Hyderabad, and frazzled as we are, we head off to the mess where we're staying till we get our own place. It's late at night, I remember that, and it's dark, when we finally get there, dog tired, and that's when the barking starts.
No, it's not us.
There's about a dozen or so of these dogs, including some Dobermenn and some German Shepherds and maybe even some Rottweilers, though maybe that's just my imagination working overtime, and they're coming straight as us. We'd been heading towards the place when this happens, and we scramble back to the car as quickly as we can, and since I don't remember what happened next, I shall say that we pass out from the combined shock and exhaustion. Probably not, but what the hell.
The morning finally revealed that there were about six dogs, and while one or two of them were big, the legion of hellhounds also included a very elderly Pomeranian. All of which belonged incidentally, to an even more elderly lady, our temporary neighbour.
So there were are, our first day in that city, summer at its worst, and the folks are setting up the stuff. Keeping well out of everyone's way, and also of any light lifting that I might otherwise feel compelled to do, I sit in one corner, and play with the bead I have brought faithfully all the way from Nagpur. Like any four year old (or was I even younger?) would, I toss it, I taste it, I peer at it from all sorts of angles, and finally, I stick it up my nose. When I think of the other option now, I'm glad that it only went up my nose, but when you stick a bead up your nose and it doesn't come back out, let me tell you, you feel pretty bloody stupid. Don't take my word for it. Try it out for yourself!
With a worried look on my face I went to find my father, and found him occupied with the various things that people are supposed to do when moving house, like looking unhappily at the piles of boxes and wondering why on Earth we had so much stuff to start with. I hung around in the background for a while, but then decided that this issue had to take precedence and went and told my dad what it was that I had done.
And father then tried peering up my nose, and realising that what was happening to me was a serious enough issue, the next thing I knew, I was on my way to the hospital. It's all a long time back, so I don't know how much of my memory I should trust but what I remember is something like this - A white room, a white bed, a dozen people with surgical masks, and in the backgroud, father sounding unusally anxious, and mother sounding typically hysterical. Not a good sign.
A large boxlike machine, with a thousand nozzles poking out of it. Actually, I think there was only one nozzle, which was some sort of vaccum tube type thing, but at the time it looked that something out of a H P Lovecraft story. Not that I knew what a Lovecraft story was, back then.
I remember being spooked by the whole setup, and finally my folks ended taking me to a private doctor, whose very first act was to put me under. My first experience with anaesthesia, it seemed like magic back then.
Now, that's how I first moved house, and how I first saw Hyderabad.
Can you blame me for not liking either thing overmuch?
Apr. 4th, 2006 @ 05:01 pm
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| » The Curious Case of the Kamikaze Mosquito |
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Sorry for the long delay posting, things have been a little hectic. This one was actually written for someone else, but now I thought I'd put it out here.
Phil was a mosquito, and as mosquitoes go, he went. Still, his life, brief though it was, was filled with adventure and excitement, at least of the mosquito kind. The only tragedy he really faced was that he died a virgin, not leaving a happy mosquito babe somewhere, her egg sac full of little Phils. Oh well, you can't have everything, right?
Phil was three days old, and he'd not had a very exciting life till now. This might not seem so bad to most people, but for a mosquito it means something like being a thirty year old who never quite hit the party circuit, because the males only last about a week. Sad and frustrated, he would listen to his friends go on and on about the females they'd been with and the sights they'd seen. There were actually some which had gone more than a kilometer from where they were born. Which is also a lot, for a mosquito.
Phil on the other hand had barely travelled beyond a hundred meters from his home, which was at the base of a small apartment building, and the ladies never showed any interest in him. Still, he'd already had a few close shaves with the humans, there had been a few times when he'd flown up to take a small sip and nearly been battered to death by an unsmiling child, who was grimly persecuting all the mosquitoes in the neighbourhood. That child had been responsible for the death of more than one of Phil's friends.
These adventures though didn't make him too popular with the ladies either, and it was something that was really starting to prey on his mind. The other mosquitoes were far more successful than him, and would keep boasting about their exploits. They'd go on and on about the people that they'd drawn blood from, and the females, they went for that rubbish!
That was why he'd decided that the time had come to do something about it. He was turning four today, an important milestone in any self respecting mosquitoes life, and it was very unlikely that he'd get lucky before his time came. As it is, with coils and repellants, a mosquitoes life was never harder. Better to go down in a blaze of glory, to become a living, well, a dying legend.
Phil flew into the building quite determined to take down the first human he found. It was late, and it was dark, and he was looking around a little worriedly. There, lying in her bedroom, talking on her cellphone, was a woman. She would do.
He took aim, and flew determinedly. He flew in straight and level, and went straight into her mouth, determined to choke her to death. The others boasted of a simple prick, well, he would take a whole life. Into the deep, in the dark, and then, blissful oblivion.
Ack. Agh. Ptui! A sad, and certainly not fitting epitaph for Phil, whose life ended more exciting than it ever went.
Mar. 29th, 2006 @ 01:23 am
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| » The Hedgehog Song - Courtesy LSpace |
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Bestiality sure is a fun thing to do
But I have to say this as a warning to you:
With almost all animals, you can have a ball
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS 1: The spines on his back are too sharp for a man
They'll give you a pain in the worst place they can
The result I think you'll find will appall:
The hedgehog can never be buggered at all!
Mounting a horse can often be fun
An elephant too; though he weighs half a ton
Even a mouse (though his hole is quite small)
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS 2: The spines on his back are so awful thick
you'll end up with naught but a painful prick.
He has an impregnable hole when curled up in a ball,
Hence the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!
Screwing a cow while she goes moo-moo
Will be entertaining to both her and you
Or you might try a tiger, if you have enough gall
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS 3: (So here's to the hedgehog, he's sharp as they come
You'll never get through his impregnable bum
With his nose up his arsehole and rolled in a ball
The hedgehog can never be buggered at all)
CHORUS
A fish is refreshing, although a bit wet
And a cat or a dog can be more than a pet
Even a giraffe (despite being so tall)
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
You can manage a snake, though its poison might kill
It's amazing how humping a camel will thrill
You can go with a snail if you slow to a crawl
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
You can ravish a sloth but it would take all night
With a shark it is faster, but the darned beast might bite
We already mentioned the horse, you may recall
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
You can roger a skunk if you can stand the smell
Or even an oyster, should he let go of his shell
A troll can be rocky if down you should fall
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
For slippery fun, you can cornhole an otter
Or pego a pig after parting his trotters
Or tumble a tapir, though the prospect appall
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
For prosimian fun, you can bugger a lemur
To bolster your name as a pervert and schemer
The lemurs cry "Frink!" as a coy mating call
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
Antipodean pranks -- you can futter a wombat
Or strive with a 'roo in venereal combat
Or hump a goanna -- go on, do it all
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
A moose is amusing, a squid quite confusing
Or try on a rhino if you fancy a bruising,
Or mountin' a mountain goat (careful, don't fall!)
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
You could thrust with a thrush if you fancy a climb,
Or pork a few piglets if you have the time,
A skinhead's pet cat if you don't mind a brawl,
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
A sheep that's named 'Flossy' is warm you shall see,
You can try with a wasp, you can try with a bee.
You can hump with the dog that sleeps in the hall,
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
A lion is frisky, a leopard is fun,
But to keep up with them you may have to run.
You'll be liked by the fleas at the flea-market stall,
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
A hippo is funny but take care if underneath,
A pirhana is pleasant but watch out for his teeth.
Get a rodent, they can be found in the mall,
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
You tail-lifting buggers from Ramtop or plain
If you take my advice you will save yourself pain
When the base urges strike you it's best to recall
That the hedgehog can never be buggered at all
CHORUS
Your hedgehog's a handful and cute as a bun
You'd think he'd be perfect for animal fun
But hatpin-like pubic hairs prove to us all
That the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
You can top a giraffe if you stand on a stool
Though a Jack Russell might make you look like a fool
But the fact still remains that if you want to ball
The hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
You can hump a baboon if it doesn't hump you
And a wildebeest's really got something quite gnu
Carouse with a louse if your weenie is small
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
It's hard with a crab 'cause its bum's watertight
The best way is sideways, then twist to the right
If you screw one, be thankful as shorewards you crawl
For the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
Great opportunities to drop your pants
Are Great A'Tuin and his/her elephants,
Though beneath Discworld, you have to stroll.
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
CHORUS
A severely perverted Ephebian sage,
Abandoned all hope, and flew into a rage.
He had tried every creature, the great and the small,
But the hedgehog can never be buggered at all.
For a sheep, best try Lancre; when in Klatch, match a camel
Genuese laws permit almost every mammal
The Sto plains have sprouts (now, that's sick. What's your call?)
And the Hedgehog...
It's great fun with a bunny, if you don't mind the queue
And a hamster can teach you a hot thing or two,
For a bush baby's come-to-bed eyes we all fall,
But the hedgehog...
You can bandit a bison or shirt-lift a lemming
No need for discretion, though folk are condemning
When molesting a marmoset, stand proud and tall,
But the hedgehog...
Try mating a mongoose, or prodding a panda,
Or ramming a male sheep, or goosing a gander.
When passing the zoo, come in one, come in all,
But the hedgehog...
I've tried a stick insect, with some satisfaction,
And a housefly (it's true), though with little reaction,
With a funnel-web spider the fun'll just stall,
And the hedgehog...
Have you jilted your jennet? No need to be crass.
Breaking her heart for a nice piece of ass.
For beasts all have feelings, be they large or small,
Though the hedgehog...
Some say that a porcupine is just as bad
With those quills which protect from a man, bloke or lad
But there is a way through, if you fancy the crawl,
Whilst the hedgehog...
Though they give you the glad eye and tip you the wink,
Bringing you to the point where you're just on the brink,
Spurning yona's advances will be your best call,
For the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!
It a long long time from May to September,
But you'll be limp and shorter 'less you Kevlar you're member,
So remember this my lads, from summer to fall,
They are lithe and sensuous, but can't be buggered at all.
Mar. 23rd, 2006 @ 07:23 pm
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| » The Bay (continued) |
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Ok. First off, you've gotta read the entry for Feb 17. I was reading it myself and I just had to continue the storyline, because I'm in a fantasy mood again. Click here for the old story.
The tavern buzzed with the usual drone of the wasp people, a giant swarm of insects that hovered around a large bowl of mead. The stranger looked about him with a critical eye, and noticed that the hobbits were close to getting toasted. Meanwhile the drugged ranger snored gently by his toes. He smiled, covered with the shroud of darkness, and looked at the young wizards, also getting high. Kids these days, he thought, then became serious.
George had dropped off a bottle of beer, which the stranger sipped appreciatively. Somehow George always managed to bring the right drinks, no matter how inebriated he was, the stranger thought with a smile, though of course, since the place was made out of the imagination, so were the drinks, and so it wasn't much of an accomplishment. The stranger looked in the pocket of his cape, which he had tossed onto a chair when he put on the shroud of darkness, and pulled out a large watch.
Unlike the rest of his get up, which seemed a little out of place in the place, the watch fit right in with the rest of the scene. It was large and gold and onion shaped, with a huge gold chain, and it had no hands on it and no numbers either. There was just a clear white surface, which rippled slightly from time to time, without showing the time. There was, as is often the case with magical objects, an art to reading it, rather like the arcane knowledge required to program a car radio. As the stranger peered into it, he saw the figure of the wanderer, one of the strangest beings to walk in the bay, which was saying quite a lot, if you knew anything about the bay.
He smiled again, which probably had something to do with the smoke drifting through the bar; stray humans and their habits were responsible for that, but it wasn't so bad, because it got everyone in a good mood. The wanderer was making his way to the tavern too. Everybody eventually wound up in the tavern when visiting the bay, even though there were other places they could go to. All roads led away from the tavern, but most people went the wrong way anyway.
The wanderer was important, the stranger knew, though he wasn't particularly sure why. All he knew was that the wanderer would come to the tavern, and would need some help, and that he had to be the one to give that help. What was required though, was a mystery.
Outside, the weather was still concentrating on providing the required ambiance, and still getting its lines mixed up, when the wanderer arrived. He came in his usual fashion, turning into a mist and seeping in from under the door, before solidifying inside. He was the only non vampire to get the hang of that trick, though many others had been able to manage the first part.
He looked around too, and smiled, though this probably had nothing to do with the smoke drifting around. The wanderer was sadly unintoxicable, a terrible state he could never escape, no matter how hard he tried. In fact, he had learned how to vapourise himself just to merge his self with the smoke from the leaf, but even that hadn't been enough for him, and the high always passed him by.
The wanderer tried to compensate in all the usual ways, and the net result was that he was utterly insufferable. He was also, unfortunately, quite bright, and so not too easy to dismiss. For instance, he was the only one to enter the bar in the last half hour, to notice the stranger, who was quietly hunkered down in the shadows. He nodded brightly, one professional mysterious stranger to another, and cheerily went over to the bar.
The stranger was really curious now, about what role he had to play, and why that damnable wanderer was grinning so much. Was the damn fool finally high? The thunder finally figured its part out then, and rumbled dramatically. The stranger looked around again, and knew he'd read the signs correctly. This was the dramatic plot point, where he was to jump up and change the fate of the world, of mankind, save the universe, or something like that. Unfortunately, he still had no clue about what was up.
That's all folks, more later if I feel like it! It's been fun so far, though for some reason, this damn story refuses to be written unless I am typing it at four in the morning... Something about the hour of the night, I guess. Leave your comments, leave your praise, leave your insults, but don't stay silent!
Mar. 21st, 2006 @ 05:29 pm
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| » I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaack |
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Hey there folks...
No access to the internet at home for some time now, which is why I hadn't been able to update much... A long story that, it should be an entry all by itself...
Just wanted to say that I'm back, and keep commenting guys, that's what I'm here for. That and adoration and adulation, though I can't for the life of me remember what the difference is, between the two...
Adios,
-G!
Mar. 20th, 2006 @ 10:16 pm
|
| » The Red Wave |
|---|
It was one of those days, when nothing seemed to be going right. It started, as most of these things do, the night before, though alcohol played no part in this particular misadventure. I was just on the phone till really late, and then I said, oh well, what the hell, it's almost time for the Simpsons... Well, one thing led to another and one show followed another, and then the next thing I know it's three in the morning and I'm making some scrambled eggs and brewing some coffee...
So naturally, when it was seven in the morning the next day, I was very soundly, asleep. And the shrill call of the alarm was certainly not enough to wake me up. It did however, wake up my father, who was in the next room. He came in and tried, rather over enthusiastically, I think, to wake me up, which he did indeed do, if only for about five minutes.
The next thing that I knew, it was ten in the morning and the phone was ringing again, not the alarm this time but a call. The other reporter, A, who was covering the same event that I was, called to let me know that he'd be reaching my place in another five minutes in an auto, and that I was to wait for him downstairs. With all the courage I could muster, I muttered "sure", and cut the call, which I hope was taken as eagerness to get to work.
Because get to work I did. I washed my face and brushed my face very eagerly, after some five minutes, or maybe a little more, because he phoned me twice in between, and then, still wearing my white kurta and pajama (this is a plot point. Trust me, it's important later!) I rushed off to meet his auto. We finally got to the site, beautifully late, but then it was a political rally, taking place in New Delhi, organised by the sinister, oops I mean left, parties, and so it turned out that we had about half an hour to spare anyway.
Beating us to the scene though, were a whole host of reporters, camerapersons and TV crews, and along with them were the usual suspects, who competed with each other in annoyance levels — television reporters and Arundhati Roy. Now in the background, among the twenty thousand lefties who were there to protest the Bush visit here in India, were some folks who had rubber masks, designed to look like Manmohan, Musharraf and Mr Bush, (I'm sorry, but three M's was just irresistible!) who carried a banner with the words "Bush's harem" on it.
Now these guys were dancing away merrily and Arundhati spots them, and a TV crew is nearby, and the next thing you see is that she's twirling like a pro, dipping, ducking and weaving with the best of them, and naturally, the television crews are just lapping it all up. Seriously, women think they can get away with anything if they're cute!
Now, after all this hungama is happening quite happily, the protesting masses are to march en masse along the many twisting and winding roads of Old Delhi until they finally reach Connaught Place, which was not a route I planned to follow. I decided to cut ahead of them and then catch an auto. By now though, a small problem had come up. I had no pockets in my kurta, and so I had given my wallet to A, and him, me and our photographer T had all gotten seperated in the crowd.
The simplest solution was the best one, and I went to a CPI truck and made frantic phone calls, telling them to meet me there. Meanwhile, a happy comrade on the truck took note of me, standing around empty handed and he decided to change things. In no time at all, I was the proud possesor of a red flag, which I still have in my room, in an excess of sentimentality. So, these two idiots wound their way to me, and after a hurried consultation they decided to follow me as we tried to get ahead of the procession. Which unfortunately, was easier said than done, because A is never on time for anything, and took a whole fifteen minutes to find us too. Seriously, that man, I think he has never done anything on time. He probably took ten months just to be born.
So there we were, and there was the procession, and nothing to do but walk. Well, that was such a terrible thought that I knew something had to be done, and turning a brave face to my two travelling companions, I said, "Be brave, my two travelling companions." And with that we set off, though I heard much grumbling behind me, and also, quite unsurprisingly, from me.
Well, we walked around in a roundabout manner to try and find an auto not deterred by the sight of so many comrades on one street, but there was no joy on that count. That was when an auto, bearing a flag that was a twin to mine came barreling down the road, clearly intent on getting to CP too, and I decided to take the bull by the horns and the comrade by the hammer and sickle, and waved the flag.
Which, surprisingly enough, actually worked. I was dressed for the part, and was carrying the flag, and was taken for one of the faithful! We clambered into the auto, the three of us, along with the two comrades already inside, and since my two companions were clearly with the press, "Kaunse press? Indian Express? Bahut badhiya", I was clearly someone important in the party heirarchy. Our autowallah, clearly an emotional supporter of the cause, told me what a wonderful job our leaders our doing. Maybe he thought I was one of those chaps you hear about, who carry out random checks into the loyalty of the faithful. He then went on to tell A and T that the press should give more importance to the left and should highlight the work that our comrades our doing, which really thrilled me. What thrilled me most though, was that he took us to the rally's end point, and then didn't even accept a paisa, which I think was rather good of him. Share the wealth and all that, I suppose. And I still have the flag!
Mar. 17th, 2006 @ 06:25 pm
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| » One fine day in the New Media Lab... |
|---|
It was more than two months since we'd moved to our "Luxury" Apartment, and if there was one thing that we were tired of (apart from the auto-wallahs, the language, the professors and the assignments) was the spectacularly bad food that was available around the neighbourhood.
Kodambakkam didn't have a lot to recommend itself by, other than the fact that A R Rehman lived somewhere in the vicinity, and what it lacked most, after sanitation, and water, was someplace cheap where you got food that was edible, in more than the fact that you didn't get sick on eating it.
The simple fact was, our taste buds were rebelling, and if things had gone on the way they were, then our tongues might have jumped ship, abandoning us to our own devices.
The solution that we hit upon was a simple one really. Life in the Jains Journalist Jungle meant that each flat was stuffed with a fair mix of freaks, and we quickly discovered that comrade K and I could both cook. Mind you, calling him comrade is insulting the most pro-Hindutva person I met in that one year, and I interviewed the BJP president there...
Well, now that the technicians for this task were identified, all we had to do was to acquire the necessary hardware, which wasn't too hard either. I made a quick recce trip and identified some pots, pans, and most of all, a store where we could buy a portable gas cylinder, with a burner that came with an auto ignition. It was beautiful really, though the auto ignition became a problem later, as comrade K realised that with it around he never had to buy matches again, while in the house... But that's another story, is our comrade K...
A quick check on the handy calculator so thoughtfully included in the cellphone showed how much each one of us would have to fork over, and that's where we hit the first stumbling block.
Comrade K and I were both keen to get the stove, and comrade S didn't really care either way. Our other two roommates were comrades B and M. Now comrade B was a sweet and simple man who considered the rest of us to be irresponsible wastrels and drunkards, who couldn't be trusted to wake up in the morning, and definitely couldn't be trusted with bank accounts. He was also of the opinion that we couldn't be trusted to buy a stove, and said so, and that really was the end of the discussion.
A few months of being forced into each others company had not given us any inroads into comrade B's spectrum of friends, and we had to respect his stand on the matter, and to our credit we only muttered cheap bastard behind his back, which was a very creditable thing, I think.
Now comrade M was an even simpler soul, who confessed quiet candidly, that he couldn't even boil water, far less gain any benefit from the stove, and so did not see any reason to contribute. Thankfully, comrade M was my roommate and someone whose point of view, I didn't see any reason to see...
After that, where you found comrade M you found me, with a choice phrases to get him to agree. The choicest of course, was, "You're contributing, you bastard!"
Well. One fine day in the New Media lab then, comrade M was sitting and working on something, quite quietly, and so were a whole bunch of other New Media students. I peeked in and didn't see any prof, so marched in, because I had nothing better to do.
Spotting comrade M, I went up to him and asked him again why he wouldn't contribute. The lousy bastard didn't say anything, only shushing me and telling me to go, without any reason, or cause. Instantly annoyed, I retorted, rather loudly, "You're contributing, you baaastard..."
A few heads turned in my direction, and quickly turned away, comrade M's being one of the heads... Bored by the almost total lack of any reaction, I turned around myself, to leave, and found myself face to forehead with our dear dear teach, MJ. (Not Mike Jackson, don't worry)
The woman was accursedly short, about all of four feet, and was completely hidden by a computer when I walked in, and had been right behind me the whole time. She said something about how a class was on, which I barely registered, and mumbling something, made my way out.
Now I have an unfortunate sense of humor, and the whole situation already seemed funny to me, and as soon as I'd closed the door, I started laughing. Loudly. The harder I laughed, the clearer it was to me that they could hear me inside, and the funnier the whole thing seemed, until I was on the floor in front of the lab, laughing so hard my head hurt, and I had to crawl off to our own Print lab...
Comrade B later told me that he could hear me, and he was in the furthest corner of the New Media lab... That's the stuff that legends are made of, I tell ya...
Mar. 6th, 2006 @ 03:51 pm
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| » Henry and Hilda |
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Henry the hamster led a simple life. He was a hamster of few wants and fewer needs. A treadmill to tread on and a water tube to drink from met most of life's requirements. A pellet dispenser for food and a handy corner for later and the list was pretty much over.
There was something missing, Henry knew, and it involved lady hamsters, but he'd led a secluded life, and didn't really mind that much. Besides, there was the special food pellet just one step away on the treadmill. Only, someone he couldn't see was moving the pellet, so that every time Henry took one step forward, the pellet also moved one step forward, keeping it one step away all the time.
It was very frustrating, but a hamster's brain is really quite tiny, so Henry didn't really mind that much either, and just kept taking life one step at a time, which didn't seem to be getting him anywhere.
One day though, Henry's life changed forever. His human came up to the cage, and held his hand over the lid. Lifting it, the human said, "Well Henry, I've got a friend for you, her name is Hilda, I hope you like her!"
Henry looked at the human's hand blankly as it lowered something into the cage, wondering briefly if he should bite it, then turned his attention back to the pellet, running furiously. Just then, he heard a squeak behind him. He turned to look, and that's when he realised that Hilda was a lady hamster. Finally, he'd be able to get the missing thing in his life.
He turned and said to her, "So you're Hilda huh?" She smiled encouragingly, well as encouragingly as hamsters can anyway, and cheeped a yes. She said, "What's your name then?" Henry shuffled his feet, and having four of them, this took a bit of time.
Finally he said, "Hilda, I've been alone as long as I can remember. There's something that I really want to do, that I need your help for. But you'll like it too, I promise. Will you help me Hilda?" She smiled knowingly, and said, "Of course Henry, tell me what you want me to do for you. I'll do anything." Feeling a little shy, Henry said, "Well, if you stand over there, and then I get on top of you..." he hesitated, and Hilda smiled reassuringly. "Then I'll finally be able to reach that special feed pellet over there, because whenever I try to reach it from the treadmill it keeps just out of my reach," he finished.
Hilda stared at him, slack jawed, and then said, "What sort of an idiot are you anyway?" Stung, Henry shuffled back to the treadmill and kept walking again. Hilda snorted contemptuously, then started sipping at the water.
Nervous because of Hilda, Henry started walking faster, hoping to impress her enough to make her less derisive of his plan. He ran faster and faster, until his little hamster heart burst. His body slipped off the wheel, and slumped off to one side. Hilda looked at him, and cried.
"We could've been so good together," she said through the tears.
Feb. 27th, 2006 @ 08:54 pm
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| » Oink! |
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Jasper Morton was a pig farmer. He was an honest man, if a rather simple one. He would wake up every morning and go feed the pigs. They were all kept in a stable out behind the simple cottage he kept on the farm. He loved his pigs, and gave them all his time. He invested in all the machinery, nothing but the best for his pigs.
His latest extravagance had been the feed grinder. A huge funnel shaped container, you poured in a mixture of grain, soybeans and a little mutton, plus a few other secret ingredients that he didn't tell anyone about, and out came a paste from the bottom that was packed with nutrients. He had the fattest healthiest pigs in town. There wasn't much that he could brag about but he certainly could be proud of his pigs.
His brother on the other hand, was a problem.
Andrew Morton had gone to college. Andrew Morton was educated. And Andrew disliked the pigs. Their father had been a pig farmer too, and died when Jasper was eighteen, and Andrew was twelve. Jasper started to look after the pigs, sending Andrew to the big city to study. That was ten years ago.
Andrew had not done too well at school, and the brother's couldn't afford to pay for college, so Andrew had taken up odd jobs in the city, always coming back to his brother for money. Jasper meanwhile had become mildly successful. All the love he gave his pigs paid off, and it was always with a sad pang that he finally sent them to the butchers.
Each time Andrew came to the farm Jasper asked him to start helping out instead of bumming around in the big city. Andrew though, never agreed, taking some money and leaving.
Jasper had had enough. He had decided that he wasn't going to give Andrew any more money. In his hands was a telegram from Andrew.
Help STOP Am broke STOP Have great plan for making money STOP Need some first STOP Coming now STOP Andy
He lit his cigarette a little angrily, and took a deep pull to calm down. Just then the doorbell rang. With a frown on his face, Jasper went to the door. When he opened it, he saw Andrew, who had a big smile on his face.
"Jasper! I have the most fantastic idea, we'll be rich I'm telling you," Andrew said exuberantly, stepping in and waving at one of the neighbours with whom he'd hitched a lift. Shutting the door, Jasper walked in behind him without saying anything.
"I've been thinking of a scheme that'll make us a bundle, I've got this amazing idea, and I know it'll make us a fortune, but I need some money to start off Jasp, and I know you have it. Just fifty thousand Jasp, and we'll be set for life," Andrew said.
Jasper looked at him, and then said, "Andy, business has been slow. The only way I could raise fifty thousand in cash is if I sell off that farm. And I'm not going to do that."
"Course Jasp, course I don't want you to sell the farm, but maybe there's something that can be done. I mean tighten the belt for a couple of years and then you're rolling in bacon?"
Jasper just sighed, and said, "It's time to feed the pigs. Come on, we'll talk in the hoghouse."
The two brothers walked out of the house, and when they reached the old stable, Andrew looked around, a calculating glint in his eyes. "What's that Jasp?" he said, pointing to the grinder. After Jasper explained, Andrew asked, "And how much was that for?"
"Thirty thousand," Jasper said, "and you still aren't getting any money."
The two began climbing the platform to the top of the grinder. "Why not Jasp? You could take a loan, use all this as collateral, and you know that I'm good for it?" "No you're not Andy, no you're not. I've given you so much money in the last six years that I've lost track. Why won't you just work here? We make enough, we can live comfortably, the neighbours are nice, but far enough that you can ignore them when you feel like. What more do you want?"
"I want a life Jasp, not pigs, you understand me?" Andrew said angrily, "I know I've not always returned the money I've borrowed before. But I'm your brother. You aren't married, you never will be, I mean look at you. You only think about your pigs. Why not give me some money that you don't even need? This schemes a winner, I'm telling you!"
"What is it then?" Jasper asked.
Andrew told him. And Jasper laughed. And laughed. "Goddamn. That's the dumbest thing I've heard in years. As if. You Andrew, are a fool, and you shouldn't be allowed anywhere near pigs, for their safety."
Not knowing what he was doing, Andrew lashed out at his brother, and punched his chin. The blow dazed Jasper for a while, and Andrew stood without saying a thing. Then Jasper, who was a farm worker and used to working with his hands, jumped up at Andrew and beat him with both fists. Andrew though was younger, and into the latest city craze of working out.
The two were well matched and beat each other mercilessly. Finally, Andrew knocked Jasper on the chin again, knocking him to the ground, bouncing off the corner of the control console for the grinder. Jasper lay still on the ground, and Andrew stared at him, waiting for him to jump again.
This time though, Jasper lay very still on the ground. After some time, Andrew noticed a thin trickle of red from behind his head. Leaning in he saw that Jasper was not moving. He was horrified, he realised that his brother was dead. And he realised, he had killed Jasper. He had committed a murder. Manslaughter at best.
He knew he had to do something. His first impulse was to run down, and take the keys to his brother's pickup, and drive off to the city. But he knew that that wasn't intelligent. Some neighbour would come visit in the morning and find the body.
An idea came to him.
He dragged his brother's body to the edge of the grinder, and toppled him in. Reaching for the controls, he saw the power switch. He pressed the button. The fan at the base started whirling, but there was so much feed on top that Jasper's body lay unmoving.
Just then, above the rising roar of the fan, he heard a moan. Then Jasper's hand twitched, and an eye opened, and looked right at him. He was still alive. Frantically, Andy looked for a way of switching off the grinder, then realised it operated on an automatic circuit.
By now Jasper was crawling across the quicksand like surface of the feed, the lower parts of it crumbling into the slurry and then the top layer caved in, dragging Jasper with it. Above the whine of the machinery Jasper's final death scream could be heard, then he was finally gone.
Andrew slumped back against the machinery, and though about what to do next.
Feed the pigs. That'll get rid of the evidence, for good. Then sleep. In the house. Take the pickup and leave in the morning. People will think we've both gone. He sat, dazed, on the platform, then took out his shirt. He'd take one of Jasper's later, he thought. Wiping the little blood off the platform, he tossed it into the grinder too.
After five minutes the spin cycle ended, and the grinder has poured out a thick paste into the pigs trough.
Climbing down, Andrew opened the gates to the pigpens and led the pigs to the trough, then slumped off to the side again, going over the fight in his mind. The last look, that last screech seemed burned into his mind. In front of him, the pigs chomped away with gusto. He held back his vomit.
Sitting weakly on the ground, he watched the pigs eat the last remains of his brother. Soon enough, they were done, and began milling around uncertainly. He didn't have the strength to get up and lead them to the pens just yet, and sat and waited.
He noticed that they weren't grunting much and seemed to be looking at him in a strange way. They started walking up to him and backing off, in a way they normally didn't. Andrew had always hated pigs, but he'd never been scared of them before. This time though, there was something menacing about them.
He looked at the way they were crowding around him, and decided he must do something. He stood up to start shooing them off. And that's when the first one bit him.
Feb. 22nd, 2006 @ 08:17 pm
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