Chapter XX2

Midnight Madanmohan couldn’t feel his legs anymore. Squatting on the little ledge under the fourth floor windowsill, he had re-read all the messages from his ubercranium’s mailbag in the last two hours.
He peeped, spotted Bob and Tuco, MAD’s chief operative, rapt in attention as a man dressed in military livery, read out from a notebook.

The radium needles on Midnight’s Rolex would meet in less than 15 minutes. “Well, it’s time to interrupt Bob’s little soiree. The hour’s approaching,” Midnight mumbled as he loaded his peashooter with the cereal clip. 13 minutes to go. This was Midnight’s biggest solo project ever. After this, he had promised himself, he would start recruiting.

He invoked the spirit of his grandfather Kamraj Dennis - an Indian American biotechnologist who headed the CODE’s biochemical research projects. Dennis, before he disappeared, was working on CODE’s ‘breakfast’ project. His team had developed cornflakes that were dried on an ultraviolet film of the mashed Cicare, a highly toxic wild berry that thrives in Amazonian wilderness.

The breakfast was to be part of a Citadel Intelligence's arsenal in political assassinations. A flake fired from a peashooter would offload the highly toxic Cicare that would then swim through the bloodstream destroying everything on its way. Death came swiftly and left no trace. Only the smell of popcorn.

The project never took off, Dennis disappeared and no amount of Citadel Intelligence ferreting traced the 'breakfast papers'. Till Midnight, a small-time felon based out of Coimbatore, received it by an anonymous speed post. Only a message was scrawled thus on the first page of the papers:

“By midnight, under moonlight,
When vampires roam, the killer’s cappuccino will foam.”

Midnight, to this day, maintains that the message took the blinkers off his mind’s eye. In the years since, the Internet had made him a celebrity, his website cerealkiller.com (After Hybrid's famous reference to Midnight after the latter cleaned up a CHETA area nest at former's behest) was often inundated with fan postings and requests for internship. eBay now sold Midnight memorabilia – key chains, jackets, Zippos, cereal bowls.

If Murder Inc. ever went public; Midnight would make a killing on from his ESOPS.

However, it was the sobriquet ‘Midnight’ that gave him his mystique. The job would always be done at the stroke of midnight (Reader note 6: All times are local).

And now as Bob stifled a yawn as his security advisers wrapped up their daily briefing and his little cuckoo clock announced the hour, the athletic frame of Midnight stepped in from the window, the peashooter ready.

The nozzle cut a silent arc in the cigar smoke-filled room and Bob watched his Security Council drop dead, a cornflake for every council’s jugular.

“You are lucky your dead dont bleed,” said Bob, mildly amused. "My carpet would have been ruined. That wouldn't have been funny for you.“

Midnight now looked around. He could have been in a photo studio, just like the ones he had seen around Coimbatore Municipal bus stand. “Looks like you've got the family tree in here,” he gestured to the rows of poster-sized portraits on all four walls. An etching of the family insignia dominated the ceiling.

“30O years and all the bastards did was a little more than fill up this wall,” Bob sighed.

“Well, at least they left you Kraal to rule,” offered Midnight. “Now, let’s get your whiny ass outta here. There’s not much time. I’ve got the amphibian docked at the jetty.”

****

Two hours later, Basha heaved himself over Bob’s window, chopper between his teeth. He stepped over the Kraal’s security council and read the little post-it note on Bob’s pillow -“Po da Dai”. Meanwhile, Pappachan savaged the Queen-sized bed searching for popcorn.

Chapter XXI

The chihuahua is a fragile genetic anamoly, which unlike most of its canine cousins, will try very hard and yet not be able to lick its own balls. Nobody's quite sure if the salty succour of its own crotch would indeed help keep its eyeballs from popping out. In Pappachan's case, the large protruding eyes were permanently focused on its master, Basha's crotch. And it didn't help having to make sure its feet fell in line while keeping pace with the master going ding dong up the valley side, not with sand from the beach working up a cocktail drenched in sweat right at the point of its y-fronts.

'Yelp, hic, rrrr...'

'Bhu hu hu ha haa haw haw'

Master and chihuahua stop dead in their tracks, cringing at the beastly, wolfish laugh that hit them from a point high above in this vast nothingness, agitatedly poking at their (own) crotches at the same time. At some point in the evolution of the Chetas and the creation of Kraal, the dogs had gotten their own bitty transmitters and responders implanted - the scientists couldn't figure a better place than in the dogs' crotches to implant these chips. In the matter of a reflex, Pappachan yelps out an SOS to cousin Stinkerbell.

'Yelp, bow wooo wow - bhu hu hu ha haa haw haw - yelp'

Aeons away, Stinkerbell had just fought with her lady, who wouldn't let her hump the Video trolley. Things were sure getting out of hand, and someone in Kraal must have an itch in his crotch. - J.S.

Chapter XX

She had decided that its going to be a quiet evening - she had had enough of the loud clubs and crowded bars. Besides, it was about time she dug into that Crianza she had picked up on her trip.

It was not for the want of trying, but Aloysia was having trouble making the big breakthrough. Everytime she thought she had found her ticket to greatness, she soon realised that someone else had been there before. The frustration, the desperation. She sat there, staring at her fishbowl as her tropical fish kissed the glassy insides.

And as if one of them wanted to tell her a secret, she leant towards the bowl...And suddenly, it occured to her. "If there is no problem big enough, I will create one. And then solve it"...Brilliant...Foolproof...

She opened up her journal. "Dear Journal, Today I thought of the plan. The plan to take over the world" she wrote, in a rather unexaggerated manner.

She sat back in her lounger and detailed the plan out.
First, she would create a web page, an anonymous one, and plant it on the Scientific Kraalian site. She would then hire Rufus, the Search Engine Optimisation expert, to nuke cyberspace and make sure she got a high rating. This page was going to be it.

What if it was proved beyond doubt that men were not from Mars and women were indeed not from Venus, but infact that both descended from the same sub-species, say the Rasamopithicus from far off Bendhakaal galaxy? Then, by Amendment 19 of the Constitution of Kraal - all intra-planteray conjugation would be strictly illegal.
And since the male Kraalian sperm had mutated to travel through latex, and the females cannot be on pills because that would prevent them from drinking - there was just one option left : Abstinence.

And this is where she came in.
Three and two seater couches with intermediate arm rests. Bucket seats at the rears of automobiles. Beds with electric partitions. She would patent them all. She would be rich.

There seemed to be only one hole in her argument. Alcohol. Gulp! - V.V.

CHAPTER XIX

beep
beep
beep
beep
beep

"fuckin' alarm", said Tittoo as he slammed the snooze button. Hard.

In less than 20 minutes, he had shaved, showered, and eaten his weekly dose of fortified plasmoiodomethylprotein pills, referred to as PIMP by the latest pharmaceutical ad jingles. He would now be able to go several days without food. Normal human beings who had adopted PIMP as an alternative to cooked food would last 2-3 days before fatigue was writ on their faces, but Tittoo Unnikrishnan was special. With years of mental and physical training, he had pushed himself to a limit others could only dream of.

It was the most important day of his life. Now came the moment he had been trained for since he was 7 years old. As he splashed strong after-shave on his face (to neutralise the colour of the chemo-receptors implanted at several locations on his face so they were rendered impossible to detect), he said to himself "if I do survive this mission, I'll find the sonovabitch who designed the 9 minute snooze alarm and shove my alarm clock up..."

His thought was abruptly interrupted by a terse sounding ring on his telephone. He immediately forgot about the fact that he was eternally pissed that his alarm clock didn't give him a round number of minutes to sleep, like 10 minutes.

"Is it time?", he said.
"Not yet. Leave in 34 minutes...", said the voice at the other end. "And don't call me until the job is done."
"Fine", said Tittoo as he hung up the phone.
"Bastard...", said Mario, as he listened to see if Tittoo had really ended the call. "Bastard, but he'll do the job like no one can"

13 minutes later, Tittoo dialed a number from the unlisted phone that sat underneath his bed. He exchanged a few terse words and hung up.

***

Mario's fingers typed faster than they ever had.

Fat Bastard: Boss
Stan Da Man: What's it now, you goat brained wart?
Fat Bastard: We have Titan on board. He's ready to execute.
Stan Da Man: Hmm... Titan.
Fat Bastard: I've asked him to leave 34 minutes from now.
Stan Da Man: Fine. And don't piss me off no more, you slut.

***

Tittoo spent the next 21 minutes reflecting. This was probably the last chance he'd get to spend quiet time by himself. The past 24 years had gone by fast and his memory was just a blur. But he remembered every minute detail about the year before that. The year he turned 7. He used to be known as Tittoo Unnikrishnan to his friends. Now, the few people who knew he existed simply knew him as Titan. Like a machine. Manufactured to exacting standards. Designed to perform. Useless if broken, abandoned if there's a malfunction.

"Abraham"

"Yes sir"

"Arockyanathan"

"Yes sir"

"Babykutty"

"Present sir"

"Cherian"

"Yes sir"

...

"Unnnikrishnan"

"Yes sir"

He still remembered the bloody roll call. He wondered where most of the boys were today, whether they were alive, and what names they went by. He recalled the good times he and his best friend Rudra Rejimon shared together. They were a part of an inner circle of boys in his school, whose age and expressionless faces belied what their brilliant diabolical minds were capable of. They called themselves the Cybernetic Hazardous Ethereal Terror Agents. CHETA for short. They decided they'd rule the world when their time came. They had a good thing going. Until Tittoo was whisked away from the school with the inadequate explanation that he was to receive a special kind of education.

Tittoo wondered where the rest of the boys were. The CHETAs. He knew about the whereabouts of one of them, who today, was an important cog in the complex CHETA machinery. He had just spoken to him and informed him about what Bob wanted him to do. Tittoo had been trained by Bob's men. He was on contract to do as Mario instructed him to. But his soul still belonged to the boys... aah, the boys. - R.S.

Chapter XVIII

Basha cringed as he waded through the shallow red waters and into the beach of Bhoot Kraal. Pappachan, his pet chihuahua, was in tow. Basha had set foot on the land of the infidel. He tried to remember when he had last cringed. He cupped his balls and grimaced as he recalled the time when the imam had circumcised him with coconut fiber reinforced steel wool. The imam's deft, practiced, and rather gleeful swish n’ shimmy was countered by Basha crudely and equally gleefully hacking him with a blunt and rusted butcher’s knife. That was his first gig. He then restricted himself to butchering animals and the odd pesky Christian missionary and was all set to accept a plum job as chimney-sweep in the Gulf States when the Borivlian Chetas enticed him with five 12-yr old virgins and hired him as their hitman. His most recent gig was the three bongs he set off at Shankar’s joint to kill Nick. And now it was time to strike in the very heart of the infidel.
But first....prayers. If one might overlook the small matter of Basha being a cold-blooded killer and pedophile, one would find in him a believer and devout Muslim. He looked around for the sun but none was available in the green skies of Kraal. “Vhat bleddi!” he muttered and pulled out a little compass which spun around in circles. He spun round and round in the opposite direction and then slapped the compass a few times until the needle settled. A checkered green and blue lungi was promptly spread out in the prescribed direction and Basha knelt down in the center and mumbled his prayers:
“Lai ila Lai ila Laila
Laila O laila lai ila.."
The fog in his head cleared and a beguiling calm descended as he pictured himself sitting atop the Devil’s stone pillars in Mecca and smoking a hookah as a bevy of Shakeela lookalikes bent down provocatively in slow motion and hurled apples, also in slow-motion, towards him.
"Fuck it," he decided. He would pray his ass off when he returned to Borivli. Pappachan lolled his tongue and bounded around enthusiastically when he saw his master reach into his knapsack and pull out a hookah. Basha assembled the hookah with a series of deft maneuvers, lit the mixture of krush, northern lights marijuana and inbred parthenium and watched the fumes filter through the thorium-enriched water. He took a long, smooth drag and chuckled in amazement as Pappachan outdid him with a longer, smoother drag.
"Allah be praised!" he exclaimed as man and dog enjoyed one of Allah's finer creations over the next hour. Finally, Basha dismantled the hookah and fed the bulb of thorium-enriched water to Pappachan who lapped it up in a flash. His yellow skin gleaming through the red netted sleeveless vest, and lungi fluttering in the gentle sea-breeze, Basha packed his stuff and set off towards the palace of The Supreme Everything of Kraal.
"I'm gumming to get you Boab," he whispered.
Pappachan stayed back at the beach and furiously scooped out two holes. After crapping in one and burping in the other, it flipped a few turtles over and humped a few trees before joining Basha on his long hike to the palace. - R.A

CHAPTER XVII

The Kasinos here operated on silver chips. Stan thought that the place looked like ferris wheels within ferris wheels. Stan started razing E street, twenty blocks away from where he stood, with his processor plugged into one of those Joker Poker machines. His juices were ready for Aloysia. He was ready for that one last reverse spin before he cut her cord. Of course, Aloysia knew he was headed towards priesthood. She rapid guessed when they broke off a randy liplock, with Stan squirming like an eel. “It’s not like I have to be celibate or anything…” but she was already sniffing some crystals. Saving the world with a few chips in his bag should be easy. The fall of 27 automatons – one molten mass that would drip off Kraal. His juices were ready for Aloysia. The café racer that he ripped off Cyclops was quaking - the adjustable shocks massaged his balls. Cyclops’ shiny head lay in the middle of the street without a home. He’s fallen out of the orb anyway, so Stan needn’t ride like a sophomore. “Wank the Lord,” screamed Stan, “The father, the son and the holy fucking ghost.” A fuchsia phantasm whipped itself into a cloud and Stan smelt sickly cotton candy. Soaked in enflurane. – L

CHAPTER XVI

Frankie Tarzini was in charge of the Arabian Sea wing of the KETTLE (Kraal-Earth Shuttle). He was the bastard son of Sonny Tarzini. Sonny was a small-time goon in the Sicilain mafiosi who dared to mingle with the ‘Sabre’, Don Luigi Sabratarre. More precisely, he mingled rather passionately with Salmonella, the Sabre’s mistress, and was forced to flee Sicily in a Parsi pickle boat headed for Mumbai, The Pestonji. The agent at the Mafiosi Relocation Service had taken advantage of Sonny’s rather rudimentary knowledge of the English alphabet to convince him that he was actually boarding an American pasta delivery boat, The Pesto. Not one to be cowed down by such minor geographical glitches, Sonny cut his mustard rather well in Mumbai and soon became the undisputed king of the olive oil business in the region. Undisputed, that is, until the Chetas arrived on the scene with their Krush and their coconut oil and seriously weakened the Tarzini stranglehold. An uneasy truce was brokered between the two families until Sonny broke the peace by ordering a hit on Ooman. The Tarzinis bore the brunt of the Chetan vendetta spree and surviving members sought refuge with Thomas Hybrid, the maverick scientist and renegade Cheta. He put them in charge of his latest brainbitch (Reader Note 5: Hybrid fondly referred to his inventions as his ‘bitches’), the Kettle, and in return they pledged their allegiance to the Out-of -Towners. Frankie was Salmonella’s son due to Sonny. Being an illegitimate son, he was kept out of the coveted Mediterranean Sea Kettle Service and had to settle for the dangerous Arabian Sea sector, perilously close to the Borivlian Chetas.
Stan had to dive deeper than usual to get to the Kettle air pocket in the sea floor. “Damn blast these tsunamis,” he muttered as he entered the air pocket and knocked on a door that read:
Frankie ‘Taxi’ Tarzini
“Yo Frankie! It’s me Stan. Open up!”
“You talkin’ to me?”
“Yes you blubbering idiot! Open the door.”
The door opened and a balding man wearing a yellow polo tee that barely concealed his well-rounded paunch surveyed Stan for a moment.
“Stan. My man! How you doin’ ? Come ‘ere. Come ‘ere, gimme a hug.”
Stan held his breath as Frankie’s paunch came crashing into his midriff.
“You look beautiful. Jus’ beautiful. ‘ere, gimme a kiss.”
Stan cringed as Pauli planted a wet sloppy smackaroo under his right ear and then his left.
“You pucker up like that again and I’ll gouge your eyes out, you dashed guniea! Now get me to Kraal. Quick! Something’s come up. Have you heard anything?”
“I heard things.”
“Don’t use that wiseass shit on me. Pray fucking tell me what happened.”
“What happened? Badabing badabop badaboom. Someone set off a coupla bongs at Shankar’s joint.”
“And Nick? Have you heard from him?”
“I’ve sent Pauli to find him. He should be back any moment.”
“And who the devil is Pauli?”
“Relax. Don’t worry about Pauli. Pauli’s allright. He’s my consiglere. ‘ere, lemme make you some nice pasta while we wait for Pauli.”
Stan watched as Frankie sauntered up to the stove and dunked a handful of shrimp into a grimy pot after biting the tails off.
“It’s all in the garlic I tell you. Gimme some good garlic and some nice Sicilian extra-virgin olive oil and I’ll…” His rambling was cut short by Pauli who entered and placed a parcel wrapped in banana leaves in front of Stan. Stan opened the leaves and found some dead fish and grated coconut.
“What the flying fuck is this?”
“It’s an old Irritynurazhanganasseryian message. It means Nick sleeps with the fishes.”
“I’ve heard enough,” said Stan as he sat in the teleporting chair and waited for Pauli to wire him up. He grabbed Pauli by the collar and yanked him close. “You keep your eyes and ears open. If something comes up you inform me right away. Capiche paisan?”
“Capiche”
Pauli flicked a switch. In an instant Stan would be teleported to Kraal. – R.A

CHAPTER XV

It was the second day of the Rolling Stones concert at the island with no name, deep in the Indian Ocean, and all web-links led there. Display-drivers, network-adaptors, and even worms, all jostled for bandwidth, as pretty much the entire universe of rock fans tuned in. (Reader Note 4: It is little wonder that the Rolling Stones are still alive and will be too, for a while. Robert Johnson can eat his heart out; these guys had actually sold their livers and gall bladders to the Devil himself. There is an internet legend doing the rounds that Mick Jagger threw in a couple of inches of experienced rock-vocalist dick too. And they even corroborated Johnson’s claim (In ‘Oh Brother Where Art Thou? (Paramount, 2001) that the Devil is a white man. This they did in a 2017 interview with Mojo.) Among the many avid fans hooked on to the broadcast was none other than the yet-elusive Stan. After he’d camouflaged all his tracer programs and cookies, he found himself a cosy corner on the Worli-Bandra sea-rail, and didn’t budge for the next week, knowing well that they would never look in there. The last he heard of the situation was that Operation Bongo might be activated, and not knowing at all what that meant, he had informed Mario to keep all systems on go. The concert started soon after, and he didn’t really care what happened now. He was happy, a soft mellow overpowering Keith Richards kind of happy. Then, he looked askance at his usual processing unit, lying on the seat next to him, and saw the light blinking furiously. They must have gone mad trying to get in touch. Suddenly, his own alternative gamma-cranium buzzed! But how could it, he wondered, no one but Mario knew this handle of his. And Mario, of course was too lazy and too stupid to even worry. He logged in...

Stan Da Man: Yo Mario, whassup dude?
Fat Bastard (Mario): Emergency, boss... emergency!
Stan Da Man: Yeah?
Fat Bastard: Yep boss, they’ve asked to activate Operation Bongo.
Stan Da Man: So go ahead and do it, bozo.
Fat Bastard: But boss...
Stan Da Man: Don’t ‘if’ and ‘but’ me, mo’fucker, just do whatever you have to.
Stan Da Man: And don’t bug me for every little thing!
Fat Bastard: What about the cyber-nukes?
Stan Da Man: What cyber-nukes?
Fat Bastard: The one we need to activate, along with my boys.
Stan Da Man: No one told me about no frikkin cyber-nukes!
Fat Bastard: But you told me to get it all moving for Op Bongo, didn’t you know about the nukes? All eleven of them
Stan Da Man: Fuckin hell!
Fat Bastard: They’re good to go, anyway... just gimme the word. All I need is the password
Stan Da Man: Who has the password, Einstein?
Fat Bastard: You do, boss, you do
Stan Da Man: And who’s Da Man? Huh?
Fat Bastard: You are... You Da Man
Stan Da Man: So go fuck yourself and don’t bug me no more... I’ll ping you when I need to. And don’t talk to ANYONE, understand?
Fat Bastard: Roger that.
Stan Da Man: Over and fucking out, freak.
Fat Bastard: Yessir, Boss.

Stan logged off, beads of acrid sweat streaming down his face and back. Cyber-nukes! He thought. No way. Even Bob wouldn’t dream of nuking all of cyber space. It had to be that evil witch Aloysia, sweet little Aloysia (sweet my arse, he thought). He logged off the concert broadcast (what the heck, he’d see them the next decade anyway), fitted his original issue gamma-cranium (which was by now buzzing with missed pings) and packed up his hacked alternative processor unit. He decided that he’d have to save the world now. He strapped his bum bag on, walked to the edge of the speeding craft, and executed a perfect swan dive into the cold waters of the Arabian Sea with practiced ease. – D.H

CHAPTER XIV

Now Manya, she was something else. Conceived on the third night of the waning moon in the month of Ashaada, she was always going to be a minx. But it was not that which made her special, it was her ability to memorize phonebooks. Entire phonebooks, and rattle their contents out alphabetically ordered on pin code. She even tried getting into the Guinness Journal, but only managed to get an honorable mention. It irritates her every time she thinks about the inventor of the motorized pogo-stick. She’s an intelligent girl though, makes complete use of her talents. Her first boyfriend worked at the local coffee shop, which had placed a half-page ad in the Yellow Pages. She’s now caffeinated for life, in a state of a perpetual buzz. Then there was the caddy, who gave her stolen golf balls, which were later used for her fake bosoms from her first serious relationship – with the plastic surgeon. The dimples on her cheek seemed to go well with the ones on her breast. She had contemplated taking them out when they broke up, but she met Tom. He liked them, in his own weird dimpled way. And what was she going to get from him? She didn’t know yet, or maybe she did but just wouldn’t tell. And what was he going to get from her – that’s another story isn’t it? – V.V.

CHAPTER XIII

Rudra, as Tom was known to his mates on SlashAndGash.org, had decided to home from work today. After having ironed out the last global constraint violation, he looked around. Darkness, the kind he liked; darkness, but for the light coming from his screen. The screen of his new PowerRegister – that work of art, tear-drop shaped. It came in different feels, but he had found an instant liking for the Bathtub Blues. Darkness – the kind that sometimes gives you nostalgic flashbacks; a violent feeling of wanting to be back; a craving for the old. “I could try the thought-to-text feature,” he thought. He made a mental list of people he hadn’t paged in a while. And as he refined his list, mail windows opened and closed. He opened his drawer and pulled out a bottle of triple distilled arrack, even as he remembered exactly why he hadn’t bothered pinging these people. “Oh well,” he sighed, as he poured himself a strong one – as if he could pour it any other way. “Macha, it’s been a while…” He topped up his glass and downed it, to cleanse his mind after having thought of that bastard. Its not that bad, he won’t have to mail him for a while now. The words for the next one took a little while longer. “Hiya, where have you been?” The cursor blinked. He took another sip. “It’s the same old same here.” He sipped, the cursor blinked a little while longer. “Send message without substance?” the dialog box asked. “Yes of course you dimwit” he said, and thought. It just got harder with every glass, but the photograph of him on holiday on the cubicle wall did look better. “Man, that bitch sure was something,” he said out loud, as he looked at the warped image through the bottle. His stomach churned, partly because of the drink and partly because of the loneliness that had come over him. He had just sent out more mails than he had over the last three forthnights (Reader Note 3: A “forthnight” is a period of time lasting two earth-weeks followed by one night of heavy drinking). “I’m sure there is something about alcohol-soaked synapses that prevents thinking,” he thought, as he Googled the MetaMedLine database. Naada. “Mmm… someone must patent that,” he thought. Little did he know that his grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren after that, would have to pay Value Reduced Tax over bar-counters far, far away for this one thought of his. Two days later, his suitably inebriated lawyer decided to file for the patent. – V.V.