IN LIMBO

"You're one of the temps?"

"Err. Yes."

"Follow me."

Silent walking. A vast empty space. The entire location is bland and white. Nothing happens here, nothing of any use. The temp is terribly confused, and, like the others before him, follows the bald man. They stand in front of the most boring door in the world.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

The temp is confused. "Yes."

"Ok." The bald man smiles at him. He’s sure he's going to regret it. "In you go."

The temp enters. There are three others in the room. Just before the bald man closes the door, he says, "And remember, you can't leave until the boss is ready."

The temp nods an unsure nod.

The door is closed.

"Hello."

The three others murmur an uninterested hello.

"So."

He stops when realises he doesn't have anything else to say.

"Erm."

He frantically searches for something to say.

"Umm."

He looks around for inspiration, but is staring at spectacularly boring walls. The other three are waiting for him to stop trying, and are in no hurry to stop him, as time doesn't matter anymore.

Days have passed.

"What exactly are we waiting for?"

"An idea."

"A thought, to be more precise."

"Something new."

"Something different."

"Something to make the world jump up and scream, 'Wow!' "

Everyone jumps, smiles and stares. The temp, who looks exactly the same, has no idea how to set about achieving any of this, and finally sits down.

Silence.

Weeks pass.

The door opens. The bald man and yet another temp come in. The door is shut. Nobody cares.

"What exactly are we waiting for?"

"An idea."

"A thought, to be more precise."

"Something new."

"Something different."

"Something to make the world jump up and scream, 'Wow!' "

"Ah, but what's the point?"

"Yes. You have no potential."

"You're just another one of us."

"Laidback, red-eyed, pretending to care."

"Pretending like you can make a difference."

"Like you can change."

"Like your time is coming."

"Can we open the window, please?"

The window is opened. It is pitch dark outside.

An entire year has now passed. Nobody has changed in form. Everyone has become rusty.

"Pass me a cigarette."

"Fugoff."

Silence.

The confusion of their purpose, the inevitable end they all face, the fact that they do not grow or amount to anything, so despite clear and lucid details of their existence, it does not matter since they do not matter, the sheer scale of the stupidity of it all, the biggest joke played by mankind on himself, has finally led to them deciding that if this room can't attract any ideas in, they might as well get the fuck out.

Pounding.

A ceaseless heavy shitstorm of pounding, windows breaking, and bones cracking, but the invisible barrier that still exists between them and the outside world does not even shift. New temps, old temps, bored temps, clever temps, drunk temps, stoned temps, desperate temps, fleeting temps, they have all come in, and taken up space in this room, and it is finally like a gas chamber, crowded and suffocating, with people on top of each other, but nobody cares, because the boss, the leader, is still not ready, is still not sure of what to do with all these people, and there are too many of them now to think about calmly, and all he wants is the old time, and the old space, back, and so, after much ignoring of the situation, and a little deliberation, he decides that he has no choice but to burn the entire room down, and kill everyone inside it. He locks the door, lights a match, and watches the fire spread. He hears, for the first time in his life, the sound of people dying, and it makes him feel cold as ice, hard as a rock.

The air now smells of the dead, and he waits for it to dissipate, to allow him new room to breathe. He waits for something to happen, then hopes for it, then dreams of it, all the while knowing that everything is actually the same as before. He searches among the ashes, trying to recognize what he once thought he had figured out, and realises that he maybe no different, but the circumstances certainly are. He is now free to move to anywhere, at anytime he wishes to do so, and so, after all of that, the true point of his existence, the real challenge, begins.

He must get off his ass.

The gruesome tale of the joker, and the impossible journey he began and ended.

The is a tale of a man who grew into, and then grew out of,
A world of pain, and all the limits of sanity,
And arrived at whatever lay beyond.

He was a joker, and he always had a joke to tell,
But he never made the people laugh,
However much he tried, and he tried very hard.

He would never stop trying, or laughing at his own jokes,
But the rest of the world would never start, and they treated him with scorn,
And thrust upon him the dishonour of being a man ignored.

He would make a joke, and it would fall flat,
Splat on its face, bloodying its nose,
Killing its pride.

And a new joke would be born from his eager mouth,
Which would come out promisingly, full of potential,
But would soon get lost, and trip over old jokes,
Jokes of the past, and fall flat on its face as well.

His misery soon led him to drink,
And drink led to confusion,
And his jokes, which were never funny, or witty,
Were now always crude, and in bad taste, and often made no sense at all.

They would tumble, incoherent and drunk as they were,
And clumsily trip over each other,
And create an embrassing mess.

He was on a highway to insanity,
And travelling faster than anyone else,
Much too fast, much too over the speed limit,
Zooming past those who were trudging along it reluctantly,
Trying, desperately, to go faster than the sun,
And avoid the black shadow,
That was chasing him from behind,
Laughing at his desperation to avoid it.

He would, in his drunken haze,
Attempt to recover his fallen jokes,
Which would result in things worse,
As the unfit and incoherent jokes would rise,
Or rather, make hapless attempts to rise,
And then fall with a louder and more embrassing splat,
Down to the ground,
Down to the gutter,
Where, of course, they rightfully belonged.

Now the joker, being in the drunken state he was in,
Did not realize, or understand, much of his life,
But even he knew that dying jokes could not recover,
And therefore should not even try to.

And he, as far as the public could tell,
Began to think, and he thought hard,
Day and night pondering, wondering,
And finally the solution came upon him in a flash.

And the solution, when it came to him,
Led to him reaching a dead end on the highway,
And he found himself in front of a gravel path,
From which onwards he would have to walk.

He began,
In a stroke of genius,
Proof that he was a man who could still be given time,
And a second chance,
To kill his jokes,
So that now, they could never recover,
For he knew, unlike most people of the time,
That dead men do not move.

He soon discovered the joy of making a kill,
And, as is often the case,
The instinct of bloodlust crept into his being,
And he began to develop a deranged expression on his face,
The expression of a man who is aware of noone, and nothing, except himself, and his world,
And he began to grow tired of creating jokes to kill,
And stabbed innocent jokes to death,
Jokes that were useful members of society,
Jokes that had jobs, and families.

He was now halfway down the gravel path,
And he turned back to look at how far he had gone,
And the path began to swallow itself,
And forced the joker to run down the rest of the gravel road,
Run down to avoid the black shadow,
To avoid a slow and painful death.

He reached the end of the path,
And what he saw in front of him scared him out of his mind,
For it was a cliff,
And one that seemed to be higher than the sky itself,
And he was required to jump.

Of course, he was unable to bring himself to do it,
And he knew he needed a little push,
So that the last crooked corner of his mind,
The last piece of normalcy,
Could be destroyed,
So that he could stop thinking about the fall,
And so one day, the joker got what he wanted,
In the most gruesome manner.

It was a hot and sultry day,
And the joker walked,
With a smile on his face,
And a gun in his hands,
To the centre of the busiest road in the city,
At the busiest time of the day,
And began shooting.
Bang bang bang!
He shot the people down,
One by one, they all fell down,
And he carried them to the centre of the road,
And he formed a pile of real life jokes now,
And he danced at the top of a pile of corpses,
Dancing freely like only the insane, the truly insane, know how,
His hands flapping wildly,
His legs kicking the air,
Shooting down more men who were going to work,
Men who would never bother to laugh along with him,
And despised him so greatly they never laughed at him,
And at the top of a pile of blood-red corpses he stood,
Continuing his assault on the world, and his head,
As he shot countless people down,
Until he managed to get himself to jump from the cliff,
And achieve complete freedom from, and control over, his mind,
The final obstruction to his path to insanity,
As he got the push he wanted,
And he found himself where few dared to go,
Or even think about going.

The joker was in a garden,
A pristine garden of breathtaking beauty,
The reward for a difficult task completed so quickly, and completely.

It was as beautiful as could be,
Grass so green and soft you could lie in it and forget who you were,
Wild fruits growing from massive trees that kissed the sky,
Fruits that were so bright and beautiful,
And so sweet to taste,
The man who ate them would be swimming in a sea of senses,
Even hours after taking a bite,
Rabbits and squirrels hopping and jumping,
Mad with energy from the sights and sounds of what lay before them,
Flowers of bright hues that smelt so wonderful,
They attracted human beings and bees with too much power,
And resulted in countless stings, and countless deaths.

In short,
A sight so beautiful, a normal man,
A man who had no control over his mind,
Would be overwhelmed by what he saw,
And would be dead in an instant.

He found himself in paradise,
In front of a large mansion,
The doors shut,
A butler standing at the entrance,
A robe in his hand.

The joker walked over,
And was offered the robe,
And a few kind words,
"Welcome home, sir.
You must be tired.
It's been a long journey."

And the doors were open,
And he was offered a peek into his new life,
Before he became a part of it,
And he smiled ,
And without a slight moment of hesitation,
He walked in,
And was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all.

I was walking alone that night, the moonlight lighting a clear path for me, as if the entire universe was showing me the way to my awful destiny. The minute I noticed him walking towards me, I began feeling just a little bit wary. The white light seemed to be shining especially for him so that I could see what he looked like, and he looked appropriately gruesome. He was old, the wrinkles slicing through his face, a frail old man who had gone blind with age, his eyes a mere white vaccuum. He had a knife in his hand, and he began to inch closer and closer towards me. I was walking in the other direction now, desperately searching for a way out of the long, thin road that lay ahead of me, but before I could even react, he pinned me down, and put the metal to my face, and carved me open, the blood bursting out of their bodily prison, my screams rushing through the air, but unable to find anyone to hear them, my nerves so completely overwhelmed with pain that they refused to function anymore.

He now sees the world through my eyes.

Ten Minutes in the life of Mr. Andrew Shaun Sidebottom

Mr. Sidebottom, newly promoted Manager of the State House International Tea board, was not happy. Although he had specifically told them not to, they had placed on his door a shiny new metal plate, with the words 'Manager of the S.H.I.T' inscribed on it. It was bad enough that the board had a new modern and effective system of maintaining the databases according to the initials of its members, making the first name on the list, the manager's, A.S.S, but now, he was officially A.S.S, manager of the S.H.I.T. True though that was, whichever way one looked at it, he did not need it to be officially recorded in databases, however modern and effective they were. He decided he would do something about the whole affair later, and went off to the direction of his house, before making a sudden change of plan, heading towards the local pub instead.

There was something in the air that day, something Mr. Sidebottom realized as soon as he had suddenly turned towards the pub. He felt strangely important, as if he was a part of something bigger than himself, bigger than anyone else. The people he passed seemed to notice as well, and they drew away from him when they saw him, as if they were clearing the path for him. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, allowing him to observe everything with a new found clarity, and finally he found himself in front of the pub. He took a deep breath, heaved his chest, settled his hat, and entered, ready to change the world.

He entered the pub, sitting next to the lonely old man, and ordered a beer. They both drank silently for several seconds, and Mr. Sidebottom looked back at the scene around him. The pub was filled with people he did not know, people who were having fun. He suddenly felt as though he was not part of the scene, but watching it objectively. He felt disjointed from his immediate surroundings, the only thing real being himself and the beer, everything else part of some sort of unknown world, something he could never be part of. He decided to talk to the lonely old man.

"What are we doing here?"

The lonely old man did not respond, but he stared at Mr. Sidebottom, as if he was noticing him for the first time, even though he had been sitting next to him everyday for the past year, which he was. He went back to his drink.

"We're sitting and drinking."

"No, I meant what are we doing here in an existential sense."

The lonely old man went back to his drink, sipping several times, before he finally provided him with the benefit of his experience.

"You're quite the disturbed soul, you know."

"Does my being a disturbed soul make my question any more difficult to answer?"

"Your question is difficult to answer as it is."

"What are we doing here?"

"Look to the heavens, and you will feel an answer."

"The heavens provide no answer, just a distraction. The stars look pretty."

"Yes, indeed. One would be tempted to say they look very pretty."

"One must not yield to tempation."

"A good concept, in theory. In real life, however, absolutely useless."

"You learn your theory during real life."

"It isn't possible to study during the examination. Nobody is prepared. That is why everybody fails."

"Then what am I doing? All my youth, I felt like I was studying for something, preparing for something."

"You were preparing for life."

"I was alive at the time."

"You were preparing for the rest of your life."

"But I don't feel like I learnt anything."

"You didn't."

"Then what was I doing?"

"Preparing for life."

Mr. Sidebottom realized they were not getting anywhere, and he understood that there was no forward, no backward, everything went round and round in circles, no starting point, and definitely no ending point. He looked at the lonely old man again.

"You're quite the disturbed soul, you know."

For the first time in his life, the lonely old man made eye contact with Mr. Sidebottom.

"I know."

Buttons buttoned. Shirt tucked in, ironed smooth like his manner. Hair parted. Clean shaven. He was the suit wearing, democracy-loving, above-average, rich, young, and successful American man. They swooned when they saw him on the television, when they met him on the street. They had fallen in love with him without meeting him, they trusted him without knowing him, and they believed every lie that came out of his mouth. All he has do was flash his smile. 

But something was wrong.

He was too perfect, teeth too perfectly aligned, hair too perfectly combed, body too perfectly toned. There was something unsettling about him. He could not have been made by God, for God never bothered with the finer details, and his finer details were finer than anyone else's.

 

And yet today he was worried. 

For the first time in his life, in his massive air-conditioned office, as he sat behind his desk, staring at the pile of paperwork that lay before him, he started sweating. 'There is too much work for me', he thought, 'Even I am not capable of all this work.'  

The phones rang, all at the same time. Mr. Jones on line 1, Mr. Owen on line 2, Mr. Johnson on line 3. 'Sir, I need you to go through this paperwork', his secretary said, 'Also, your 5.00 appointment has been shifted to 4.30. Oh, and your wife called. She expects you home by 7.00 tonight.'

Outside, the traffic was getting noisier and noisier. Horns blaring away, abuses hurled back and forth, everything becoming louder and louder, threatening to reach some sort of climax, but just when it seemed to, only ignoring it and going further on.

 

'I need time, I need time.', he moaned, and without thinking, he closed his eyes, and for the first time in life, he prayed.

Suddenly, all the noise and chaos from everywhere dissapparated. His paperwork was no longer in front of him. The room was dark as night, silent, and it was bare, the only inhabitant being him, his chair, and his now empty desk. 

And then it happened. 

A ring of fire formed around him, seemingly engulfing the office, but in reality, whatever that was, somehow not causing any harm. Someone stood before him. Satan. He leaned over until his face was a breath away from his.

'What do you need?'

'I need time. I need the world to stop, I need time to think.' 

Satan smiled. 'You have five minutes.'

 

The clouds turned black, covering the sky, covering the world, and at one particularly spot, seemed to be sucked outwards, a big hole forming in the sky. The heavens had retreated. God had forsaken humanity. He could not help anymore.

He opened his eyes. Everything was stuck. Water in mid air going into his glass. His secretary tripping, about to fall, someone about to help her, someone laughing. Cars stuck in a silent traffic jams, noone honking, but everyone looking upset and angry. Two lovers in each others arms, in a passionate embrace, held together by time.

 

But he could move. He did not bother to be awestruck. There was no time for disbelief. He only had 5 minutes until time started again.

 

When his work was done, his sweat evaporating, his calm, confident manner reappearing, he smiled as he glanced at his watch, only to see it stuck. But still, surely five minutes must be over by now?

And then realized the horrible truth. 

Time was stuck, and five minutes would never be over! And he withdrew into a little corner, praying for forgiveness but hearing no answer, praying for mercy but only hearing a cruel laugh instead. 'I only gave you what you wanted. I stick to my word, you know. You have five minutes.' 

And he saw himself grow old in his office, submitting to the wrinkles that cut his face open, with everyone else staying the same, waiting patiently for their turn to grow old, waiting for five minutes, waiting for eternity.

COLLISION

Raju Singh was fat. He was short. He was unhappy. He would switch on the television, and he would see the thin people, the happy people. They would always smile. They smiled when they talked to other happy people, when they walked on their light-as-air shoes, when they ate food that made them stretch their lips even more to the point of saturation as they talked about how it was oh-so-scrumptious, when they slept on their comfortable beds, when they brushed their shiny teeth,when they read bedtime stories to their happy children. Even when they were unhappy, they faked a smile.

"I shall become thin.", he announced to noone in particular, just himself. He did in the elevator, and the people stared at him, but he no longer cared. They laughed at him when they realized he was serious, and he felt embrassed. But his mind was made up. He went to the gym.

"I wish to join the gym. How much does it cost for a year's membership?"
"That will be Rs. 1000, sir."
"Rs. 1000? No way! Make it Rs. 25000 and you got a deal!"
"25?! That's not possible! How about 8000?"
"15000 and that's my final offer!"
"Slim chance, fat man! Maybe I'll go up to 12000. But nothing else!"
"Fat chance, slim man! Maybe I'll go down to 13000. No more!"
"Alright fine, you win! 13000 it is."
"Whoo hoo!"

Raju Singh danced about, shook the man's hand, signed the papers, and notified The Telegraph about his plan. The news was in the front page the next day, and the story was picked up and pursued by The Times of India, The Hindustan Times, and soon The Guardian and other foreign newspapers. Reporters came in from everywhere, from all the cities of the world, each one asking the same questions. He gave interviews wherever he went, he was pursued on his way to the office, on his way from the office, in his car, in his house, in his friends' houses. It did not matter where he was. He was being followed.

The next day, he went to the gym to start his training. The cameras were everywhere. They followed as he ran as fast as his body would allow him, a few hundred metres an hour. Reporters walked leisurely behind him, occasionally overtaking him, occasionally tripping him, just to see him fall. Each time he fell, it would become harder and harder for him to get up, and he finally he could no longer rise. The journalists sang inspirational songs for him to lift his spirits, and when they couldn't do it, they lifted him up themselves.
Two people lifted him up, one on either side. They were huge men, bald, with facial hair, the usual tough guys so that one can visualize them easy. One man walked towards him.

"Listen, I know its tough, but you gotta hang in there."
"You don't know how tough it is for me!"
"Sure I do. I got problems too, you know."
"But you're smiling."

The man went closer to Raju Singh's face, and his nose flared.

"I do have my problems."
"Like what?"
"My mother's in a coma and my father turned out to be a homosexual."
"So your mother's a vegetable and your father's a fruit. Big deal!"
"That's a crude way of putting it."
"You should have an explanation mark there, you know."
"Really?"
"Really."
"They matter?"
"They matter."
"That's a crude way of putting it!"
"Much better?"
"What?"
"Much better."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Oh golly gee! Thank you so much!"

He walked away with a smile on his face, or he walked away with the smile on his face intact, stronger than ever, overcoming even the depressed, forcing their lips to straighten at the very least, and curl like a satisfied cat in the opposite direction at the very most. He became a supermodel-cum-politician. His million-dollar smile made him a million dollars, and his presidential smile made him President.

Or did becoming president make his smile presidential?

Why is president written with a capital P?
It happened naturally.

"Oh, sure, walk away now, just when its getting tough! I knew you'd do that!"
"What did you just say?"
"You always walk away when the going gets tough."
"I dare you to say that again."
"You always walk away when the going gets tough."
"Gasp! How dare you?!"
"You dared me too!"
"Gasp!"

One of the huge bald men with facial hair walked over, one finger pointed at the other huge bald man with facial hair, the other at the gasping man.

"I haven't introduced the two of you yet, have I?"
"No you haven't."
"A.K.Dhar, meet O.K.Kar."

Which is which? Nobody knows.

Raju Singh realized he was free, and he ran. They never caught him. They never had a chance. They were introducing themselves to each other, and Raju ran like the wind, blowing all obstacles out of the way, even the elderly.

When they realized he had gotten away, it was too late. He was in sunny Mexico, relaxing on a beach chair, a glass of vodka in one hand, a bottle of vodka in the other. There was someone beside him. Someone else on a beach chair, someone else who had gotten away. An elephant, wearing dark glasses, a gold chain, and striped purple trunks. They were alone.

"I heard you got away from them."
"Yes, yes I did."

The elephant smiled, his shiny white teeth reflecting the sun.

"Boy, you and I are going to change the world."

Who are you?

I am John Doe.

That is your name. It is not who you are. If your name was different, you would not be a different person.

Who am I?

It is impossible to tell. You are not one person. You are various people, various personalities, rolled into one. Who you are depends almost entirely on where you are. You are a certain person with me, and you are a different person with somebody else. We have shells, various exoskeletons that we exit and enter, depending on the situation. You change who you are because you want to fit in. Because you want to be accepted. And you have changed yourself so many times, you have formed so many versions of yourself, so many different shades, that now you no longer remember which 'you' is real, and you are not sure who you are, and you cannot feel who you were. 

Who are you?

Silence.

This was the end

I remember the day it ended. He lay down on the beach, looking at magnificence all around him. The dark clouds hung over him menacingly, the wind rushing the sand out of the area, as if it was being evacuated. He looked up, and he saw me coming towards him. He smiled a faint, uneasy smile, his lips curved towards the left, but straight at the right. A billion year era was coming to an end, when I wanted it to continue so bad. I offered to hide him away. After all, it was my world. No, my universe. He refused my help. He said that he should end where he had begun.
We spoke about everything we did, about everything we could have done. All the wars he had fought, from Alexander to Hitler to Bush, all the inventions he had made, all the people he had killed, the jokes, the laughter, the grief, everything boiled down to this one last moment. He told me he understood, he told me he was sorry in a strange, nostalgic, melancholic kind of way. I knew it was time, and I felt his presence, I drank him in, one last time.
The waters rushed through, the tide had been crossed a long time ago. When he knew of his fate, he had tried to repair the damage, he had made an attempt to find himself. The ocean gathered momentum. Not the waves, not a tsunami, but an ocean. A giant wall of water, it reached the heavens. It surrounded him, a wall of blue-black, and he saw his reflection upon it, how disfigured he had become. He stared at the image of himself for a second, and then it engulfed him. I saw it from above, the death of genius. Just before it happened, I thought he looked up at me with the same odd curvature of the lips. But it didn't matter anymore. He was gone.
It was now my turn to sit on the beach, and observe the beauty of a world about to end. The stars shone through the clouds, there were so many of them, they were ready to come to me, to finish off what remained. A bright light drowned the others, it lasted for a second, but it was enough. The world was gone.

The adventure Arthur secretly enjoyed, but told everyone he hated, as he had a reputation to maintain.

Arthur walked into his living room to find an octopus sitting on the sofa, flashing its tentacles at the television, knocking it over. It was deep purple, Arthur's favourite colour, and so he did not mind as much as he would have to see a lemon green octopus. However, he was still rather angry. He walked over to James, who was on the living room sofa, reading the morning news.

"James, your an honest fellow."
"Certainly, sir."
"Your a modest fellow."
"Not at all, sir."
"But you allow me to take credit for your work. Why else would I employ you as my butler? After all, your reading my newspaper."
"Well, I may be humble outwardly. But in my head, I am better than anyone, and hope that everyone thinks I am the man."
"I do not care about what goes on in your head. Anyway, James, old chap, how do we get rid of the octopus?"

"I don't think we can get rid of it, sir. No, it must be killed."

"Quite profound, James. So how do we kill it?"

"Well, it must look like an accident, sir. How about a drug overdose?"

"Capital, James! I'll be right back!"

 

Arthur left the room, came back later with a suitcase, opened it to find various coloured briefs of the Dollar Underwear kind, closed the suitcase, went red in the face, left the living room, went to the drugstore, and returned to the living room five minutes later to find James taking aim at the octopus with a shotgun. James shot the octopus in the tentacle, which resulted in it flinging its other tentacles about, which in turn resulted in the destruction of Arthur's expensive sound equipment.

"Dammit James! I thought we were supposed to make it look like an accident."

"So did I, sir. But then I remembered that we are living in the U.S.A"

"Splendid, James! And for that, I shall present you with a nickname. How about Butler Boy?"

"Don't call me boy, sir."

"Well then. How about just butler?"

"Sure, sir."

"Well, then, butler, old boy-"

"Don't call me boy, sir."

"Oh. Sorry, butler, young man. Is that my expensive sound equipment?"

"What expensive sound equipment?"

"Those expensive bits of metal on the floor!"

"There WAS no expensive sound equipment."

"Oh. Ok, then. Wait a minute! Are you trying to hypnotise me?"

"Of course not. You will do what I say-"

"Dammit, James!"

"I apologise, sir. You are my slave-"

"Butler boy, butler boy!"

"Aaaaaaaaaah!"

Arthur thought he had finally beaten his butler in a somewhat amateurish battle of wits, but realised two seconds later that it was blinding physical pain, not mental anguish, that was the cause of James' scream. The octopus had pierced through his leg, and was flinging him around.

"Relax, James. No need to worry. I'll make sure I survive."

Arthur exited the room, re-entering it four minutes later with a suitcase and a sheet of paper.

"I've just been to the solicitors, James. If you sign right here, I shall receive all your money after-Oh my God!"

"Yes, I do believe the princess, the dutchess, and the pool boy-Oh hello James. Your back."

James was having tea with the octopus. Arthur had obviously underestimated James' extraordinary powers of diplomacy. 

"Arthur, won't you join us for some tea?"

"Why, sure. Don't mind if I do."

Arthur sat, and the biscuit entered, followed by another, and then some tea. His mouth was full, and then he realized what was about to happen. It was the worst possible ending to a day that begun with such hope. There was no way he could save James and the octopus. His mouth was full, and there was no time. He had to sneeze.

The microseconds in between the knowledge of the sneeze and the execution of it seemed to last an eternity, and Arthur's life flashed before his eyes, a life that was well-lived, and yet, only half-full. He remembered his childhood days as a quaint little village lad, his years as a musician lawyer, the case in which he represented Steven Tyler and won, and the case in which he represented Steven Tyler and lost.

James looked towards him, and Arthur stared, a stare in which he tried to penetrate into James' soul, a stare in which he tried to tell him that everything was going to be alright, that they would live, even if he wouldn't. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and Arthur regretted all the wrong things he had done in his, as previously discussed, well-lived but half-empty life.

Then, out of nowhere, it happened. The sound that launched a war. Bit by bit, biscuit pieces flew out as if they were escaping from the dark prison that was Arthur, as if they joyously escaping hell, and they fell on the rug. The tea dripped casually, as if it was strolling out, and formed a puddle around his pants. Arthur looked around him, and felt the wind from the vaccuum cleaner blow all over his face. He was alive.

Outside of a little hut, six year old Netzteil, son of a peasant, stood. It was midnight, and flames surrounded him the soon-to-be orphan. He stood in the midst of the fire, oblivious to everything except what was happening in front of him. It was his father. The nobles were taking him away, along with all of the hundreds of others. His father struggled against their might, but his hands were bound, and his mortal body was no match for the iron rod. Everytime he struggled, they swung their weapons into him. In the end, he fell to the ground unconscious, and the dignified nobles were disgusted with him. They were forced to stoop and pick him up. Netzteil could no longer suppress his rage. They had taken away everything, their land, their money, their lives. They could not, they would not, remove his father. He picked up a small stone, and threw it at the noblemen. It him one of them on the cheek, and the crimson dripped out. He winced in pain, and turned towards the boy. But he was gone.
Ten years later, Netzteil stood in front of 3000 of the poorest men in the state. He was ten minutes away from the start of a war. He looked at all of their proud faces, he saw the anger in their eyes, and he shouted at the top of his voice.
" We are the sons of injustice, the offsprings of hate. We are also the gifted men of this earth. But our talents have been stolen from us by those who are unworthy. They are leeches, they feed on our blood till we have nothing to offer them. Then, they murder us. But not any more. Our Revolution has begun, and it is our time to destroy them. It is time for us to rule over them with iron fists. Do not stop until every last castle is plundered. Their pride, their nobility, shall be raped by our fury. We are the voice of a Revolution, and this voice shall be heard by every single one of those rich bastards. And they shall tremble upon hearing our footsteps when they put their ears to the ground. They shall beg for death, but we shall torture them further, slowly ripping out their organs, but keeping them alive to feel their pain, our pain. It is time for a new dawn. It is time for our day. Now, my brothers, CHARGE!"
They did exactly as he commanded. They had taken everything they could lay their hands on. Their ploughs,tools of peace, had been smelted and recast into swords, weapons of war. They plundered, they looted, they choked, they hung, they impaled. They released 50 years of anger in a single day. The nobles never stood a chance.
Six months later, the village was burning again. This time, however, the nobles were being thrown into the flames. Netzteil stood on top of a stack of hay, wearing a large crown that did not fit his head. Beside him, bound to a crucifix, was a noble. Netzteil held a blade. "Now, my brothers, this is a man who cared not for our suffering .Yet, he asks us for pity. You want my pity, you little scum?" And he slashed his knife across his face, a sharp, swift motion. A red line appeared, and it grew thicker and thicker, finally covering his entire left eye. The noble screamed. It was a scream of agony, a scream that represented everything he and the others had been feeling the past few months. It was not a human cry, for humans could not feel such pain. It sent a chill up Netzteil's spine. It was a cry he found very similar, something he had heard many times before.
Suddenly, a stone was thrown from the crowd. It hit Netzteil on the face. He turned around, his eyes red with anger, but it was too late. The little boy was gone.

"'I'm gonna draw a picture, a picture with a twist, i'll draw it with a razer blade, i'll draw it on my wrist."
-Anon.

The story of Mr Mann

Mr. Mann was driving his car, driving his car
to get away, far far away from this
world of men, men who he hated so much,
men who would not let him forget who he was just for a little while.

Mr. Mann then understood where he should go, he should go where others shall not dare to follow him,
Mr Mann parked his car, parked his car behind the alley,
beside the drug store.

Mr. Mann took a knife out of his pocket, a razor sharp knife,
and he thought for a while, a very little while,
and he tightened his grip and he cut his wrists,
slash slash slash, went the motion of his hand,
the blood poured out, blood so red and pure,
and the knife soon fell to the ground.
He was struggling to live, and he slumped to the floor,
dead as his dreams, the crimson still pouring out,
pouring into the street, past a local shaggy dog,
a shaggy dog who licked it, and fell to the ground too,
and it gushed into the gutter, where nobody would see it,
where nobody would care.

The day Santa died

Gagahut Police Station. 24th Dec, 2505.

"You think he's telling the truth?"
"You kidding me? This guy must be stoned or something."
"I dunno...I remember stories about some old man called Santa Claus. My nana loved talking about him."
"I don't care about some stories your nana told you. My guess is, this guy had a similar kinda nana, and he decided to pull of some kinda scam after hearing those stories."
"Yeah I guess so....after all, how can the guy be alive after all this while anyway?"
"Look. We gotta get a confession out of him. This story of his is crazy. I have a feeling he's gonna be pleading insanity."
"Your probably right. Lets go in."


The two men walked into the interviewing room, where there sat alone an old man. He wore a red suit, and a thin, torn sack was on the floor beside him. His beard was white and incredibly long, like he had been growing it for quite some time. He wore a hat, a red and white one, with a bell on top. He looked incredibly silly, and it was something children were expected to wear, not respected members of society.

"Now, Mr..."
"Santa Claus! I've told you a million times. My name is Santa Claus!"
"Sure it is. We'll just call you Shivramanian Krishna, ok?"
"No. Not ok!"
"Umm...how about Shivramanian Ganesh?"
"No!"
"This guy just refuses to cooperate, doesn't he, Johnson?"
"That's right, sir."
"Shut up, Johnson. Stop stating the obvious."
"Well said, sir."
"Dammit, Johnson! Shut the hell up!"
"Sorry."
"Sorry, what?"
"Sorry, sir."
"Dammit Johnson! Didn't I just tell you to shut the hell up?!"
There was no reply. Johnson began to sweat. He had been standing at attention for quite some time, trying to show off his impressive physique. No one, unfortunately, was interested. His arse began to cramp, and he winced slightly, before falling to the ground.
"Now listen, you. Your name is Shombhu." He was not very interested in Johnson.
"Whatever."
"That's better. Atleast now we can move on."
"Whatever."
"Now listen. What in the name of the Lord our God, Spongebob Squarepants, were you doing breaking and entering into 352 homes in one night?"
"I already told you, I'm San-"
"Don't give me that bullshit, old man!"
"There's no bullshit! It's all the truth!"
"Sure it is. You know what, Johnson?"
"What, sir?"
"I think we need to call in the professionals. You heard me, Shombhu? This is your last warning. Are you gonna co-operate or not?"
"Never!"
"Fine. Your mistake. We're calling in our number one detective. He specializes in breaking and entering cases, and he has graduated from the stud police."
"Whatever."
"His name, Shombhu, is Mr. Notver E. Clever. You had better pay him respect, old man."

The two men left the room, Johnson being carried out by his supervisor. Santa, or Shombhu, was devastated. This was not going according to plan, not at all. "This is not going according to plan.", he thought, "I might as well co-operate with these idiots. The sooner I help them, the sooner I get out."
At this moment, the famed detective entered.

"You must be Notver. E Clever. I hear you studied with the studs."
"What the hell did you call me, boy?"
"Notver. E Clever."
"Are you calling me dumb, boy?"
"No! Not at all! You are Notver. E Clever, right?"
"What the hell is wrong with you, boy?!"

Santa was slapped.
"Ow! What was that, for?!"
"Don't pretend like you don't understand, boy! Everyone understands! Shave that beard, boy! Your never going to get into the army looking like that! Get a decent life!"
"What in God's name are you talking about?!"
"Did you just take the name of Spongebob Squarepants in vain, boy?! How dare you, waltzing in here like you own the place, insulting our God, drinking our water."
"They dragged me in here, and you never gave me water!"
"Damn, boy. You are one tough cookie. You wouldn't go soggy in milk, would you? Well, guess what, noone likes it when the cookie doesn't go soggy. They like the wet cookie. You understand me, boy?!"
"No!"
"Damn, boy. Now listen to me. I'm on your side. Hell, there are three sides here. Like a triangle. But it ain't an equilateral triangle. Its downright isoscles."
"What are you talking about?!"
"Ok now listen. I'm gonna make a deal with you, boy. You tell me everything, and I'll make sure you get out real quick. You don't even hafta sign papers or anything. So, like an archaeologist says to a young man looking for a job, you dig?"
"I can't take this anymore! I need my insulin!"
"insu-what?"
"lin!"
"lin?"
"lin!"
"javelin?"
"insulin!"
"insu-what?"
"Aaaaargh! I can't take this anymore. I'm leaving this place. The children can go to hell!"

Santa banged his head repeatedly on the steel table. Blood poured out, and he was soon unconscious. But Mr. Clever understood what he wanted. And he finished the job for him.

The Boy Who Ruined Christmas

Jonathan S. Bedwetter was unable to sleep. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and it was too hot for a man who was used to comfort. He was a child prodigy, he was, although he didn't look the part. He was only six, but he had won 14 Nobel Prizes for his incredible contributions to the field of Literature, Science, and Mathematics, and he had successfully grown a french moustache. He hated Australia, but his parents forced him to move there because he had never got used to the accents. They wanted him to become more global, apparently.

Jonathan didn't know it, but it was Christmas eve. He didn't know, partly because of jet lag, but also because it was summer. He walked down the stairs to get a glass of milk, and maybe a little drink, when he saw him. He wore a red suit, and held a large sack on his shoulder. His beard was long and white, and he had a thick, flowing moustache. He wore a silly sort of hat with a bell on top, making him look rather obscure. However, the thing Jonathan found most suprising was how extraordinarily fat he was. Yes, this man would do just fine as a test subject. There was a lot of fat to be dissolved in him.

Santa Claus was terrified. This was the first time, in the last 3 years, someone had caught him in the act. When the little boy didn't cry out in joy and pull on his beard to see if he was real, and then yell out in joy till Santa knocked him on the head with his sack, he became wary. This boy was not normal. He would have to be cautious.

"Hello." said Jonathan.
"Why, hello little boy!"
"Don't call me that."
"Uhh...uh..sorry."
"You're going to be part of an experiment to lose weight. You will wait here, and I will return. Then, you shall have the pill I offer you."
"Umm...ok."

As soon as Jonathan left, Santa ran for the door. The boy was retarded, and he would not be subjected to a retard's experiments. Not again, at least. Unfortunately, he was a very fat man, and he had not exercised for the past hundred years, and he had barely taken two steps when Jonathan reentered the room. Santa continued his little sprint, but had to stop when Jonathan stood him front of the fat old man.

"Here you go."
"Uhh...uhh."
"Come on."
"Uhh..uhh."
"Eat it. NOW."

Santa was now quite unnerved. The small boy's gaze was tranfixed on him, and it was not very easy to say no to him. He would have to agree with him. If he didn't, the consquences would be devastating. This was not a boy to be ignored. You had to obey his demands. If you didn't agree with him, he would bite you on the crotch, cry, and tell his parents you tried to molest him. Then you would be sent away in a little truck, to spend the next ten years in a place where you yourself would be molested, a place where biting somewhere on the crotch would result on his crotch being removed, re-made, and reattached. So, after much thinking, Santa took the pill, and much to his dismay, the effects were immediate. The fat dissolved out of him in an instant, and the suit fell off. Soon, he was nothing but a thin, hairy, naked man. He gave a little yelp, and ran out of the room, quite fast this time.

17 years later, on Jonathan's first visit to a bar, he found the same old man inside, drinking away, trying to convince the other failures he was once successful. Jonathan had a conversation with him about life, love,football, and how the dirt inside his belly button could be removed with this fabulous new soap. Santa, it turned out, had been fired because he had grown too thin. He had taken to drinking, gambling, and spending his gambling money on drinking. He was now a wreck, but he had gained a little weight. Who knew, maybe in a couple of decades, he would rise from the ashes, and "like a ghost from a tomb", christmas would be reborn.

Peenal Pindi was unhappy with life. " I am short. So my life is short", he had said in his depressingly nasal voice before he tried to kill himself. He was currently tied to a chair, his ankles and his wrists aching, and his nose itching. He squirmed his face about to somehow scratch himself but was unable to. Two men and one woman were staring at him, rather bemused. One man was extremely tall and trying to impress the woman with his long arms. The other man was rather short and tried to impress the woman with his superior intellect. The woman, however, was deeply unimpressed and bored.

"Let's get back to the study then. Why did you try and kill yourself, sir? ", asked the woman.
"Because my wife kept calling me Mr. Pindi."
"So? "
"She's my wife! "
"He's delirious!" exclaimed the short man with the superior intellect.
"Quiet you! Didn't I tell you to keep your mouth shut at all times unless I asked you to speak?"
"Yes, ma'm."
"Did you just speak again?!"
The short man gave a little squeal and ran back to his corner, hanging from the ceiling with his hands, trying to make himself taller.

"My nose itches. Can you scratch it?"
"Sure." she said. However, she did not move. She seemed rather preoccupied with the notes she was making in her notepad.
"Ma'm, can you please scratch my nose?"
"Yes yes. That's nice." She was now staring at the short man. She was doing this because the short man's pants had fallen off. The short man hadn't noticed, and thought she was staring at him because of an inevitable truth. He, Muchacho Lorenzo Philipino, possessed sex appeal. He had always suspected it. Now he knew it was true. He decided to strut around, flex his biceps, and maybe life Mr. Pindi with one arm and do the disco with the other, when he tripped over his pants and fell to the floor. Visions of him doing the uptown funk with the woman dissaparated. The woman now began to write frantically. The short man guessed she was making notes on his behaviour, and went to the corner to sulk. He took out his mobile phone and called his mother.

"Mr. Pindi, can you-"
"Aaah!"
"What's wrong?"
"You called me Mr. Pindi."
"So?"
"Don't you remember?! I hate being called that!"
"Really? That's interesting." said the tall man suddenly. An evil smile spread across his mouth, and his eyes seemed to gleam. Mr. Pindi was sure he was having satanic visions and begun to chant his mantras.

The tall man approached him.
"Mr. Pindi Mr. Pindi Mr. Pindi Mr. Pindi Mr. Pi-"
"Oh my God! Oh Raam! Oh Chondro! Oh Raam Chondro Gopal Ray!"
Suddenly the noise stopped. Mr. Pindi opened his eyes. The tall man was kneeling on the floor, his hands tied behind his back. There was a hamburger in his mouth. He tried to eat it, but it dropped to the floor. The tall man started crying, tore his hands away from his ropes, picked up the short man, threw him away, sat in his corner, began to sulk, and called Dominoes.

"This is going nowhere. Mr. Pindi, why-"
"Ayee! Raam! Gopal! Ow!" The woman had slapped him. She walked away, leaving him tied to the chair, unable to move, unable to eat, and unable to urinate. He spit on the floor, and his teeth were red with the stains from his paan. Soon, the tall man left, carrying the short man under his arm. He was left there to die.

He was found 3 days later, after the woman had commited suicide. His face had almost sunk into his bones, and his skin was so dry scales had developed on it. His face was pale, and green veins were clearly visible throughout it. His eyes were no longer the brown they used to be. They were white, and the iris and the pupil could not be diffrentiated from each other. His rib cage was clearly visible, and if you looked hard enough, you could make out where the heart used to beat. The anorexic detective said,"What? He looks alright only." His teeth, however were in perfect condition. They were only a little red.