Wednesday, March 31, 2010

The Bourne Loser

(On the heels of the Bourne Legacy comes the much-plagiarized version which bears no relation to Robert Ludlum's trilogy and its addendum.)
It was a fine morning in Malibu. And by fine it means really wonderful. The kind of morning where you wake up feeling strong, confident, sexy and ready.
But it wasn't a very good morning in Pune. In fact, it was raining. And it was the kind of morning where you just keep sleeping.
And so James Earl Jones slept. Named after the legendary actor, he kept sleeping, drunk on rum and whisky and vodka, pissed and mindfucked. But did that matter? Of course it did, in a world where miscreants were forgiven and forgotten. This was not that world. This was earth, and on earth, colleges did not forgive. They trained students into perfect warriors, unfeeling, immature, and incompetent.
And James Earl Jones Deshmukh awoke. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked around his room. It had been pristinely clean once upon a time. Two years ago, before he had moved in, to be exact. Now the room looked like something even a nuclear bomb wouldn't want to explode in. He rose, and donned his working clothes. He'd outgrown the tight shirt and jeans last year.
Picking up his toothbrush, he brushed, stepping on the toothpaste, forming a puddle of white on the brown floor. It contrasted so badly that he didn't see it and stepped on it, vaguely wondering why his toes felt slimy. The morning passed like the US Marshals, quick and fast, and James Earl Jones woke up again in a corner of a class, with no knowledge of how he'd gotten there. He didn't remember. 'Fuck it,' he decided, and went off to grab a bite.

There is a reason colleges are so clean sometimes, because they have something called a mess. That was where Jones Deshmukh went, to get something to eat. The place was crawling in the beings called students. And there wasn't a place to sit, so he leaned against the wall, hardly glancing at what he was eating. He was confident there weren't any insects in it. No insect would want to sample the food he was eating, they had better appetites.
Suddenly the mess erupted, and people began to shout, crowding into a corner of the mess. 'Fight! Fight!' They called, and Jones Deshmukh held up his fingers. 'Peace,' he said, and was promptly beaten up and left for dead.
'Ouch,' he intoned solemnly. Of course, considering the condition he was in, it wasn't likely he'd say anything else. He rose and went to the bathroom, and cleaned himself amidst a group of neanderthals who were comparing the size of their dicks.

"And this assignment needs to be submitted in five minutes. So get working. I want to see all of you with your notebooks out, your pencils on your tables, rubbers on the sides, scales in your left hand, pens in your right hand. Open the page and close your mouth."
Jones Deshmukh looked at his hands for a moment. Both were occupied. He thought for a few moments more on which hand to raise; he had a question. Compromising, he raised both and the lecturer exploded in righteous fury. "Mr. Deshmukh, you will speak only when spoken to! I do not want to hear about why you cannot be more efficient. Now open your fucking notebook! Now!"
'Er..' How does one address a transvestite? Sir? Ma'am? He eventually said, 'er... professor.. how do I open the notebook with a scale in one hand and a pen in the other?' She-he- stared hard at Jones Deshmukh as though something somewhere had rendered him genetically defective.
"Mr. Deshmukh! Fuck you." The transvestite jumped up onto the table and lowered his-her- pants, revealing a shaved ass. "Fuck your motherfucking dick. Use your dick, Mr. Jones Deshmukh. Use your dick to turn the page!"
Jones wasn't done yet. 'How do I open my pants without letting go of the pen or the scale?' The teacher reddened.
"Mr. Deshmukh! Get out of my class! Now! Now! Take your fucking stuff with you! You are suspended from all further classes in our esteemed Shitfucked Insitutute of Misogynistic Cocksucking. I want to talk to your parents! Bring them tomorrow! Fucking get out!"
'Erm.. my parents live in Amsterdam. It'll take them a while...' he trailed off, hurriedly packing his bag. The teacher retreating into himself-herself- and came back out as a more dangerous person. His- her- hands outstretched to strangle him.

A year later, a solemn group gathered around a grave. The epitaph read,
"Here masturbates
James Earl Jones Deshmukh.
Pissed off a teacher and died at his hands.
We pray for his soul."

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Smuggler's Paradise

This is paradise, a small piece of land on a faraway strip, away from all the major ports of call, such as Port Royal, Puerto Rico, Caracas, Trinidad, roughly in the centre of the wide Carribean.
And roughly in the middle. No captain would spin his ship toward it unless absolutely assured of his crew's secrecy; it was a secret within secerts, kept away and afar from prying eyes. It was such a place that anything could be bought and sold, gold both white and black, flesh of so many colours, wines from around the world, arms from a dozen countries. Pleasures to be had for all, perils to be faced with a ball.
And usually the perils were in the open waters, where pirates and navies alike battled it out in duels. The location of Paradise was a gulf, and a particularly large one, where ships could take on each other in one-on-one combat. And Captain Harrigan was no different. Captain of a large enough galleon, plundered but not destroyed, taken for his use. His opponent was a pirate, a jolly old fellow by the name of Duelling Dan.
"Bloody pirates with no imagination," he growled, fingering his eyepatch. His left eye had a deformity. He could see but not well enough to aim. And Harrigan endured no deformity he could not use. That eye had seen no light in a dozen years.
From the stern to the prow sailors crowded the deck of the Ventura, his formidable galleon, that dwarfed the pirate cruiser by a goodly length. But Duelling Dan made up for it with his ship's agility. The air was rife with curses and grapeshot.
Opening a telescope he spied on Dan's crew, who were, with a typical lack of subtlety, loading chainshot.

"He's going far. Hard-a-port, bring her around. I want those cannons up their ass, you worthless dogs." The sailors brought the ship to bear. "Fire!" A massive round of grapeshot was let loose from sixteen cannons. A galleon should have more, and it did, but Dan had been quick with sabotage.

The smaller, agile Diablo tried to circle but was caught in the barrage, and sailors fell in showers of blood. Dan's crew was larger than Harrigan's, and far more expendable. Dan retorted with the pirate's hand, a close-range musket barrage, that took down several of the cannon crews. Six more cannons out of action when the handgrenades hit.

"Is this going somewhere?"Harrigan asked himself, and gave the order to board. "Come what may. Lay covering fire, you scumbags, your mothers are screeming shit from the grave. Heave!" Near to ninety sailors climbed aboard the Diablo and the bloodbath started. The captain grabbed a musket and aimed it for Dan's melon-sized head, letting loose a single shot of lead, that embedded itself in Duelling Dan's brain. "A man with three balls can't walk. Rout those bastards!"
Duelling Dan's second found just a few seconds of reprieve before a sabre took his throat. And the third went down to a lead ball, and the dance of death continued. A headless snake had no venom in its bite, and comparing the Diablo's defeat, a hundred sailors to Harrigan's seventy, was one of the easier battles to be won in Paradise. Some ships made it back with perhaps ten or twenty sailors alive. "The devil's own hand," they called Harrigan for his legendary luck. Some of the Diablo's sailors took his side, the rest walked the plank.

And Harrigan left the Diablo roasting in oil and retribution as he headed deeper into the gulf, to every winner's prize, Smuggler's Paradise, the lost town.