The Dusty Yellow

The dusty yellow ghost is no myth. You, at the height of disbelief or disrespect or ignorance, may call it a hypothesis; but not a myth. People do not call it dusty yellow. It’s just me- I call it so. Now let me hold a shiny glass ball thingy, wear the tunic and shoes of a prophet and  lead you through a few centuries into the future. The place where you stand now is so ordinary, no different than any other cyber infected terrain in a no longer- actually- physical world. Air over every chunk of the earth is paralyzed by electro magnetic madness. The internet in its new attire rules the place over. People (should we call them virtual?) live by the cyber corrundrum and for the cyber corrundrum. Everything is virtual. When you take notes, ‘you’ do not take notes- your synchronized electric inculcation does. Now let me introduce the dusty yellow. Inspite of being a ghost, dusty yellow does not haunt mansions (or computers, should I say?). It just exists in its solitude and floats around invisibly. Many years ago when the dusty yellow was actually dusty and yellow, its domain of existance was global. People used to amuse themselves by knowing each of its elements one by one. Those elements were of course not as beautiful as blinking letters on a palm tab, no. But er.. it had life.

For the greater cause , they say looking at a cleaner city. They also have pet forests, yes. As people went very close to the greater cause, it was no longer a cause. It was just the process of embracing the easy way. In Yontachi, China they have a museum. ‘The age of the print’-  they call it. They built it and then they keep it with a singular delusion that the dusty yellow lives there.

Phosphorous Factory

The outskirts of the DarkCity is haunted. The ‘River of the dead’ flows right through the walls of the city. The nights are terrorized by a satanic pack of wolves with a bluish green aura. Then there is this Phosphorous factory with huge towers looming high in the gloomy skies. There is no night guard, only wraiths floating randomly over the fortress portals. The timeline over the country was sabotaged ages ago. Sometimes it will just stall keeping the night, night or the day, day.

The supernatural elements, which shroud the city, would fade off after the palace gates. In the Royal courtyard of Burton II, one could only find peace and harmony. Once a messenger from an ally lost his perseverance before the king and shot a question about the Royal wizard. A smiling King respectfully denied the possible existence of any Royal Warlock. The messenger was perplexed and it was only diplomatic excellence to send back a messenger like that.

Now if you ask about all these, the king had paid for all of them. The wolves and the red moon came as a set. Because of its seemingly common appearance and its being so cheap, the King was disinterested in it until the Queen started to insist so badly, propelled by her love for artistic charisma. The wraiths, a hundred of them, were bought on a nice discount. To get the timeline altered, the King had to wait for three months after applying!

 

All went nice except the Phosphorous factory. The incredulously huge mansion was a recommended purchase with the wolves to sustain their uncanny aura. After 3 months of the erection of the factory, it had already consumed phenomenal area of the city graveyards. At this point, Burton II outsourced the input. An outlandish company came over, toiled for some months, and there spurted the first gush of the black water, so viscous with blood and bone fragments.

In the coming months, the River and the factory were made to synchronize, making the system fully automatic. However, for an unhappy ending, the queen realized that the Phosphorous Factory could not be covered under warranty anymore, after all those third party tangle mangle. Now for the Royal Court, the nights are terrorized by the Royal bedroom altercation. Nobody sleeps. Evil they say, Evil!

Sample

“I don’t know what she did in the closet just before going out with me… you know, a man can expect a lot… but the bitch… the bitch… [Sobbing] Oh I got it all wrong!” said the stout little Bill.

“…he was right and he knew he was right… he thought the fucking angels would come down and take him away… you know who fucked him eh? Ha! I did! And I did it in style. You should have seen how I finished it off…” The flat-nosed lawyer kept on boasting.

“To ensure safety for the society, the current leaders should be brought down and burnt” Tom Dick and Harry seemed to have made a statement before the eager nobody!

“…we were in no lesser trouble compared to the initial stages of the Eastern Poland. The Alpha team was all blind from there and the only sniper remaining was me myself. I checked my Solly twice and cocked her for good…” A lean old man with a blonde moustache turned out to be unusually verbose.

“It is not worth it and who will say anybody can possibly undertake such an assignment, which is otherwise not possible also, without the intelligent application of the facility, yeah the facility” Just like everyday, if you miss Johnny when he starts talking, you’d better miss the whole talk.

“…our big Tommy rigged her nice with his 30 pound dick ha! Cheers to the hero,” “cheers…!” [Chorus] Tommy was evidently a baseball hard hitter!

“..you know it right babe? Yeah… and what about you honey? Ah! Okay… so we are good to go! I love it when I conceive somebody!” Said the punk guitarist.

“This story, as you see it, is very irrational. You got to go through a changeover somewhere in the middle…” That man had thick glasses put on and was talking to a cool middle-aged guy who believed that one day he will be…“NO” utters the listener!

“I love you, my son, more than I love your mom and that’s why I brought you here, we should get closer” A real block and a chip of the old block was talking.

The Old boy Harry “Gunner” Green casually observed all the customers at his place while filling a Victorian glass with Black Russian. By midnight, he had concluded it for the nth time that you get the finest sample of the society off guard at the bar.

“Loose lipped, imprudent, impudent, sometimes loving, and sometimes filled with burning hatred; the jolly bullies rise and shine.” Harry tells his cat as he closes his classic pub in the Brigade Street.

The Wheelman

Dashing through the urban jungle half-naked in my open jaguar, I am a wheelman. My flagship tattoo spreading over my left shoulder blade and those glasses I wear give me looks. I play on the throttle, slide in and out of the trailing truck convoys. Now my stereo feed me hallelujah, only in a little absurd way with unusual rise and dip of notes. To make it clear I can tell you that, in fact, I do not have any problem with Jesus Christ. I am the succeeded anomaly to liberate the folks to the next level. Look at me and then once again see the obsolete old syllabus meant to inculcate faith for the sake of order. Again look at me, I will give you a knowing smile and you will return it, that I know. The new roads of the state are wider and uniform. It is better to be more chaotic and randomly mad. My porcelain parents think that I am delusional. There are millions of such parents. I am not at all worried to admit that they are so normal for all I want is the punk absurdness, which makes everybody unique. Oh, am I giving you hackneyed stuff? Relax; at least we should be far away from the world’s most hackneyed stuff, which people gather to hear.

Oh, this cold gush of wind carried me away. Speeding past a grumpy van, still playing on the throttle, I am a wheelman. I transport people.

Compromise

Simmonds could pass off as an English citizen despite his being of a German spy. The SS was quite rational on using his dead, English father. His esteem for his nation was never questionable, which the SS came to know after he had been through many ordeals beyond the enemy lines.

On May 7, 1945 the announcement on the conclusion of war trumpeted the streets of London unleashing the spirits of hundreds of thousands. They laughed and danced in the streets like there is no tomorrow just because they got a glimpse of the same. For the following couple of days, England stepped down and braced chaos and loved it.

Simmonds, despite his losing of his handler, was still stationed in London holding fast to the legend of a salesman. He spent almost whole of the perfect summer day in his small gloomy apartment. Lost in contradictory thoughts he was a desperate gentleman at the verge of snapping. All the hollering from outside, he would simply listen to that, as if pain would sooth his delusions.

Simmonds stole a Silver Ghost, the next day, from a very lively Covent Garden. He walked up the street, hands in pocket, indifference clouding his face. All the pain and hatred he would have most probably taken with him.

Later the unfortunate owner of the car found it 17 blocks away though it no longer looked like one. The hood was neatly ripped off and the cylinders were all caved in. There was no interior and on the body, a big eagle was carrying a sign.

One of the many

A thin man with grey whiskers over a relaxed pretty face was leaning back in a wooden chair by the window of an irrelevant country club. It was all gloomy in the inside. An inert smile stuck on to the huggly-wiggly bar girls on toes. The cheap incandescent light bulbs and worn out furniture seemed to have institutionalized the regular visitors.
The thin man in question had already had half a dozen shots of Vodka and still his hands did not fail to hold his cards close. He was not one of the loose tounges, yet none of the casino gamblers ripped out of a Bond film. Once in a while as he plays, he would lift his head to scrutinize his fellow opponents, all drunk and still steady. The window was not closed against the faint drizzle outside. The Eastern wind would gush in attempting to scavenge the spirit and smoke in the air and would never go out.
The thin man went by the name ‘Trump Jack’ obviously after his magical weilding of cards. Some people believed he had in his tab a lot of luck. Some bragged that he cheats. His friends would say it is all out of experience and then the bar girls, oh the awesome little kittens, would suggest with gleaming eyes that he is a wizard. Truth was but sheer contrast.
Jack started playing cards with his dad at the age of five. Numbers were always his friends, lingering vivd in his mind, solid and reliable. He won’t forget a card once it touches down.
The story goes on. But some details never existed. For instance, he never went out and applied for a job. Then he never attended a High School entrance test. While taking a walk through the busy broad ways, he would never look at the LCD screens surrounded by tuxedo rats. He never tried to understand what is meant by percentage. He never had a mentor and therefore no ambitions too. The worst case is that he never talked to his kid brother who used to sit late into the nights cursing the math homework at hand.

Missing paperweights

Take interest in the boy fidgeting in the manager’s chair. His green eyes speaks of rage and disgust. Now look at his schoolbag lying pathetically by the door; he doesn’t want it. Dad will come out of the restroom anytime now and unleash the routine soothing and smooth talking about school, attitude, behavior and all similar shits and the next scene will have both of them sitting side by side in a speeding limo. But take interest in the office scene. Rewind a little.

‘Okay Pete, just a second’ tells the tuxedo fatso opening the restroom door. The boy stands up, picks up the fancy paperweight on the desk and slowly walks toward the window. He sticks out his neck to look at the society below, small as insects and they crawl over the bathroom tiles. High speed cars as it is from there are not like the ones in Fast and Furious. They are a sickening lump of shit. Pete extends out his hand carrying the paperweight. ‘And we have a winner!’, he imitates the gentleman from the last night’s dance competition and drops the flat bottomed glass ball.

You ask the long faced secretary about the manager. She will say he is a pervert, quickly adding this: ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean that! ho ho! It’s just that.. you know.. he likes to steal the paperweights.. yeah quite intriguing isn’t it?.. I mean what gives ho ho!’

The desk

The desk could be walnut or may be mahogany. But whatever it is, it is beautiful. Somebody’s masterpiece. Massive and glossy, it occupies one of the biggest rooms of the 45th floor. When closely examined there is more. The drawers sport magnificently engraved symbols. The desktop has weird scars on it. The legs are symmetrical until you scrutinize them. Now a piece of white bandage cloth with considerable blood stain on it sticks out of the second drawer with the symbol Omega. You gasp,  step back and look around. You can still hear the constant office buzz. There is nothing eerie except that there is nothing eerie. You walk toward the door and there you stand. The desk is placed at the exact center of the white marbled floor and otherwise the room is quite empty! Oh wait, there is a cross hanging on the wall and below that a portrait too. Without looking at them further, you leave the room and shut the glass door behind you. Your assignment on this floor was to deliver a blue letter to the brass. And along the way, you became curious seeing the glass door which is still ajar. The thick black letters on the door read ‘Late former boss’.

A Ninja Story

An old stout man- Yoshitaka stood on the Bayton bridge. His long coat was struggling against the wind. As the surroundings grew dark washing off the crimson traces of a quick mating, he walked down the bridge to his soundly parked car. The man tilted his hat down, leaned on the car and lit a cigar.

By the end of the exotic chocolate flavored cigar, a young Ninja, disguised as a civilian, appeared out of the darkness from the other side of the bridge. He trotted to the man and greeted in Chinese. Yoshitaka started to speak slowly. As the Ninja watched him carefully, his eyes were getting wet. With the rising of each syllable of the old man’s words, the Ninja’s stone face became more tight. It was all about a bloody tale and a dirty feud. Man kills man, mind drinks blood.

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The Ninja bid farewell to his master and headed to the hotel where his victim slept sound. He was once again transformed into the killer bug. The yellow tint of the streetlights and the stark red tail lambs drew a pane as if it was a graphic novel. The Ninja checked into the hotel, received the keys and had his suitcase carried to his room.

———————————————————————————————–

Martin Page was about to go to bed. He had to live in the cheap hotel for two more days. The uneasiness of the business, to Page was a queer thing. When it’s not there, there’s more uneasiness. It was the first time he was dealing with the mafia. Capone Alessandro himself asked his service to turn all those black money into white. He knew he was growing up. In a couple of years, he would get closer to the Giordano family, grab all luxuries he can, live like a god. Staying in bed, Page thought about his soul. It’s not going to pass the gates of heaven. He chuckled softly. Then it would go down to hell and tear apart a few more Yoshitaka souls. He chuckled again.

———————————————————————————————–

The Ninja was an expert swordsman. Having mastered the deadly skills of Kung-Fu, He could kill like slicing a butter cake. He always believed in the superiority of Kung-Fu, always wondered what a man can’t do if he’s a dedicated disciple. Back in China, once he had fought ten thugs all at once to save a poor sheep and his Katana ridiculously pierced them dead. His mastery in the art brought him honor and that honor wiped out his sins of kills.

He walked up the stairs to the top floor and reached at Page’s door. He had his sword unsheathed, gleaming in moonlight. He knocked at the door with the hilt of his sword and stepped aside. Eventually, the footsteps of the poor Page began to trumpet in the ears of the Ninja, he was now focused, keenly observing every movements nearby. As the bolts of the door were withdrawn, the Ninja came into a stance, the poor Page would step front only to get cut into two pieces.

Martin page had lousily rambled to his door. It could be one of the messengers of Alessandro. He casually looked through a narrow crack in the door and saw a ninja sculpture placed right at his doorstep. On rubbing his eyes, he was able to perceive the reality, it was a true assassin, a Chinaman.

The Ninja was still as a rock, waiting for the door to open. His hands didn’t tremble, his heart beat was steady. One minute passed and he heard the cocking of a gun.

‘Ah.. fuck you Chinaman, go to hell with that spoon.. fuck.. fuck.. ha.. ha..’

A hysterical Martin Page with a Thompson fired through his door into the brains of the Ninja. Blood spurted out and formed a pool and in that pool fell the Ninja’s spoon of honor, lifeless and cold.

Backseater guru

Vladimir was a taxi driver. He had faith in fate and he really loved the thought of fate being customized by your actions. He didn’t like his fellow taxi drivers talking about the existence of a godsend traveler in the streets who would possibly travel in their taxi one day and change everything at once. Vladimir would just quote Saint Ruberto for them ‘Do not wish for a bright tomorrow twice for our Lord doesn’t want get bored’.

In a foggy night, a strange, anachronistic man came to the cabstand and told Vladimir a place. Vladimir showed him his cab and went over to take the driver seat. In five minutes, the cab was cruising around the town. Despite the thick fog, Vladimir drove real fast for he knew every turn in the town better than the ups and downs of his wife.

Before the man in the backseat could reach his destination, they were stalled under real bloody conditions. The cab had hit an old timer killing him. Everybody except the dead man was cool. Vladimir slowly got out. Watching the dead body bleed, he lit a cigar and turned to his traveler.

‘Oh boy, you killed somebody?’ asked the traveler with a lazy smile.

‘Never mind man, I’m not new to this, I’ve hit many and killed all of them. I confess everyday and I’m clean.. yes!’

‘Oh really? then it’s good. How many have you killed dear?’

‘May be 11 or 12.. I don’t remember..bah.. what’s in it anyway?!’ said Vladimir.

‘You don’t know boy, do you?’

‘What?’

‘I’m the newest man version of god and I’m sent here to spread his message!’

This time hearing the man’s serious declaration, Vladimir didn’t say anything, but thought ‘He could be a man god and I should start worshiping him!’

‘Wonder why I tell you this? You’ve sinned and that too by using the eternal prime number!’ said the backseater still finding comfort in the confined cab.

‘But I haven’t!’ uttered Vladimir.

‘Oh yes my son!, you have. If you’ve killed 11 men or even 13, you won’t even get a redemption in the troublesome days to come!’ the backseater guru seemed to be so mean with his game of words.

‘Oh pardon me my lord!  I have realized my sin!’ sobbed Vladimir and fell to his knees.

‘I’ll kill some more people and make it even. Oh god please forgive me!’ Vladimir couldn’t control himself. He didn’t even notice the backseater guru getting out of the cab and walking away.