Wednesday, July 21, 2010

speaking my mind

"That doesn't matter at all, does it ?" Carlos said.
"Ah Carlos! Why do you think so? To me it makes perfect sense. You should have this."
"Think logically, will I really need all that fancy shit -- but yeah. Meager part of it is."
"You see, now you are talking.."
"Um..hmm.." I started laughing and he joined. He always does with his typical laugh with occasional snorting. 
"Sonofabitch, you are a pisser Rony". He continues laughing and his entire body shakes.

Its dark everywhere around. I can barely see the other side of Carlos' face in the light from a distant car. His long greying beard and his scruffy hair are making interesting shiny patterns. And that faint smell, I wonder what kind of shit he carries in his car.

As the car is getting filled with our violent laughter in unison in otherwise silent night, I emptied a couple of 7.65 mms from my Type 77 pistol into his chest with all the precision. All I have to make sure is to wait for the train at the railway crossing to blow its mandatory honk at this time. A couple more missed bullet shots, and a little ransacking of the car. Carlos is another victim of the increasing street mobbing problem. Simple!
"Thats something...", I could not stop wondering why Carlos is carrying so much money with him.

That's how it always works with us. No emotional heart thumping monologues of verses from Bible in front of the victims. Nobody ever gonna tell you that they're gonna kill you. Your murderers come as your friends, they are the ones you know. The ones you think they cared for you. And the blood, I just hate the mere sight of it. But this is something I cannot avoid. I would also love to have some cleaner ways of doing things. Unfortunately that doesn't work for me.

This is me, Rony. I tell you, the big guys are a little crazy. What starts as a friendly argument over drinks turns into a fist-less scuffle very quickly. And they want to kill each other. Mindless egotistic jokers. Now this is where I come. The Friendly Face. The Good Samaritan. The Helping Hand.

I was this proud kid earning more than anyone else in the neighborhood for running errands for the hoods across the street. The errands used to differ from delivering goodies to exploding cars for the bosses. Gradually, I created a special role for myself in the hood fraternity. And, here I'm doing my profession with all the dedication. After-all work is worship.

P.S. An attempt at narrative style. Certainly Pulp Fiction had its impression on me, and so did many of the gangster movies.


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