The Fugu, and the Dog.

“God knows I tried my best to learn the ways of this world, even had inklings we could be glorious; but after all that's happened, the inkles ain't easy anymore. I mean - what kind of fucken life is this?” 

                                                                                           ― D.B.C. Pierre, Vernon God Little

The dog was found dead at 11 last night. Jesus Christ, you should have seen his soul, blown to pieces. The dog had the shape of an eagle, and spoke like a man. ‘No’, it said, when asked if it wanted a hug. The air was wet, and the creak of bare branches made the scene more emotional than it deserved to be. Black notes on a Piano solemnly played, with devils playing B-flat. He was warm in his bed, recalling the long dead. Police said it ate a Fugu without slicing it properly. They found a note next to the body – ‘Sashimi/Chirinabe. Liver preferred”; concluded its Fugu. I knew the truth. She knew it too.

A mail stretched through rows of heavy archways, bowing and curving across mirrors of eternity, before showing up as +1 in his life. Borlotti beans. Panda Paws. Needed a Hug - Long, tight. Waist.

His dad told him -  ‘Vacuous head leads to murder of ethics. And when your ethical model doesn’t lead you to the right, you’re murdered.’

And tonight, Fugu killed him. Or so, they thought. Everyone did.  I knew the truth. She knew it too.

The dog wondered why things stayed blur. He dropped out of school, because of his illness. He started painting and writing, and that, with time, flowed into a moonlit career. He was famous, and had a lot of friends, and enemies. But he loved everyone. And everyone loved him. So he thought.

I knew the truth. She knew it too.

The last I met him, he told me he wanted someone to trust him. Trust him that he didn’t kill the light. There was dark there, and I knew light had been killed. She knew it too. But I trusted him. She did not. The dog said – ‘Things, this way, are just perfect. We meet alone, in the end’.

I was back to the spot, staring at the dead dog. For a moment I saw him write Sorry with his tail. Wagging it swiftly for a pulse, cutting the thin air silently, barking to the black, waiting for the light, moving slightly to his right to adjust his right rib against the stone which I had kicked while stubbing the last cigarette I had on me. I knew he wanted to smoke – ‘Puff’. She knew it too. Puff.

It was dark by the time they took his body to his father’s grave. There was no grave I knew of. But they said there was. The ambulance started; so did the rain. The warm, misty petrichor reminded me of the day I first met the dog.

 It was raining, and there was light. A mail stretched through rows of heavy archways, bowing and curving across mirrors of eternity, before showing up as +1 in my life. I was alone, staring at the screen, when I saw the darkness strike. It was comforting, is all I remember. All I want to. Borlotti beans were on the plate, with sauce dripping from the brim. Julius Caesar saw the ‘J go off when the sauce struck the paper. I took my hands off the keyboard to wipe the speck. But the spot remained. I was annoyed. Needed a hug- Long, tight. And that was when I saw the dog - Crawling through the mud, playing with the snail between his teeth. He had Panda Paws, and could talk. ‘No’, it said, when I asked if it wanted a hug.  I knew he wanted one. She knew it too.

The Police guy tried to speak sense – ‘The poison, a sodium channel blocker, paralyzes the muscles while the victim stays fully conscious. The victim is unable to breathe, and eventually dies from asphyxiation. There is no known antidote. The standard treatment is to support the respiratory and a circulatory system until the poison is metabolized and excreted by the victim's body’ - Showoff.

The dog spoke that day – ‘The unexpected threads in your life join one day, and it no more remains a thread. It becomes a mystery of Beatles, and Rupert Murdoch. It brings us all together, in silence. Do not ask me of what is ethical, and what is not. I do not speak of today, or of the life I have around me. I do what suits me, and then one day, it all joins as one, and everything I do suits me. I am comforted with my mother, and with the father who does not own a grave. I die when I reel on my feet. And I am alive when I see what I want. The only way I’ll sleep forever is when I don’t see the black – Not see what I want, or if I eat Fugu’.

No one knew he existed. But he had a lot of friends, and enemies. Debauch - di-‘bȯch, -‘bäch. He had the mind of a wanderer, and the soul of a static. I was with the airs of a dangerous dog; he was with a boy of filthy and knowing innocence. We were good together until we realized that we weren’t together.

There was a stench of Vaporub when I woke up. I was lying down in an alley which led onto a back street. She was hanging upside down – the mocha of amazon. Smelled like musk. I took a broken glass, dripping as it was, and peered through it, to a handful of women who had huddled around the string that tied her to the sky. I knew I had seen them before. She knew it too. A greasy café’ festered in what could once have been a library. Books, I loved. She loved it too. Or, so she said. I cut the string, and filled her in the glass. Dripping as it was, she fell on me; scattered like a sack full of wooden crumbs after a tantrum. ‘Can you believe your face’?  - She asked me. ‘Have we died, or is it that light has come in your life, ‘cuz the dog said we would be together if he dies, or if we die’. ‘How do you know about the dog’, I asked. ‘I don’t know about you, but he showed himself to me one day. Fixed up like a Mantis, but with a head, and legs. Looked like an eagle. Deja-vu  has struck because I have seen this before. And these women. And you. And us. But this is not all that I saw. Or, at all what I saw. Saw us in light, under a roofless limbo, where love sounded clear like coins dropped in cathedral’.  I just stood quiet, nose up to the breeze, listening to the melody of surprise that the dog lied about not showing himself to anyone else, but me.

 ‘Calm, and ethical – He asked me to tell you to be’, she said.

As lion and tigers stir on the shore waiting for the sun to go low, I lay there waiting to be woken up -Calm, and ethical.

And while she was scattered around the glass, the dog came - moving like a float, but with more resistance. I think it was the stench of him that made her weak. And, it was the light that caused his Panda paws. But he was coming, and was close. ‘I cannot stop seeing the bad, or what I shall not see.  But the world here is so fucken’ beautiful. If you ain’t here already, you should come. Feel free to skip light, that’s all. My home is a peeling wood dwelling, but there is leisure abound. Debauch, they call me.’ I took the broken glass, dripping as it was, and slit his throat. The last Aztec journey of the dog was started – Of magic, and sorcery. I took a paper and wrote with his blood – ‘Sashimi/Chirinabe. Liver preferred’

“I die when I reel on my feet. And I am alive when I see what I want. The only way I’ll sleep forever is when I don’t see the black – Not see what I want, or if I eat Fugu”.

We'll wish this never ends.

We can live like Jack and Sally if we want
Where you can always find me
And we'll have Halloween on Christmas
And in the night we'll wish this never ends
We'll wish this never ends. - B182

THE END.

Today I am 23; He is Dead.

I have a kid inside me, everyone has. The one inside me is one-legged. He lost his leg when I was 17, and he was 8.. That kid got up this morning, and said to me, “I think I am no more a kid. I feel my life is over, ‘cuz I was meant to be a kid, and I don’t feel so anymore. I feel like giving up, because I stumble every day, over everything”. I told him 2 things: 1) One-legged can’t stumble, and 2) There is always a little more toothpaste in the tube. Think about it. He hugged me, smiled, and slept off. Today I am 23; He still, is 8.

I have a kid inside me, everyone has. The one inside me is one-legged. He lost his leg when I was 17, and he was 8. Day before yesterday, after I saw my Verbal score being massacred, totally uncorrelated to my overall score, thereby yielding to an entire new era of guilt and hopelessness, I thought of waking up the Kid. I nudged his head with my elbow, to which he did not respond. So I turned on ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’ on maximum volume. He got up with a scream, with his left hand twisted around his elbow, his palm of the same hand curled up to the inside, as if holding the Guitar hook, making it look as if he was holding a Guitar, the way Slash did while playing with Duff McKagan and Matt Sorum for a Randy Castillo tribute concert, in 2002. We both went to the Biere Club, grabbed a few Pints, and discussed where do babies come from? He said, “Don't bother asking adults. They lie like whores. However, diligent independent research and hours of playground consultation have yielded fruitful, if tentative, results. There are several theories. Near as we can figure out, it has something to do with acting ridiculous in the dark. We believe it is similar to dogs when they act peculiar and ride each other. This is called "making love". Apparently it makes grown-ups insipid and insane. Some graffiti was once observed on a Chick’s t-Shirt, that said "sex is good." All available evidence, however, points to the contrary. So in spite of the pleasures involved in it, and the zero moral dilemma, and the Nietzsche like curiosity surrounding the word, I’d rather recommend you to waste your energy on Beer, and Head banging.” We sat in 335E and came back home. Today I am 23; He still, is 8.

I have a kid inside me, everyone has. The one inside me is one-legged. He lost his leg when I was 17, and he was 8. I took the kid to St. Patrick’s Church, near Brigade Road, on last Christmas Eve. We sang Carols, and hugged random girls. Girls who looked good. And were drunk. And were not with their boyfriends. While returning, with a smile on our faces, hope in mind, Coffee in hand, a pack of Dunhill in pockets, and a thought that we can know everything about happiness, and the world, we saw a board outside the Church that read ‘CHRIST IS THE ANSWER’. Confused, I asked the Kid,” But what is the question”, to which he replied, “When I purchase a food item at the Nilgiris, or MORE, or some other Supermarket, I can be confident that the label will state how much riboflavin is in it. The Indian government requires this, and for a good reason, which is: I have no idea. I don't even know what riboflavin is. Though, I do know I eat a lot of it. For example, I often start the day with a hearty Kellogg's strawberry Flakes, which has, according to the label, a riboflavin rating of 10 percent. I assume this means that 10 percent of the Flakes is riboflavin. Maybe it's the red stuff in the middle. Anyway, I'm hoping riboflavin is a good thing; if it turns out that it's a bad thing, like ‘Riboflavin’ is the Latin word for ‘Cockroach pus’, then I am definitely in trouble. So the question actually is, who can tell me what Riboflavin is, and thence my friend, CHRIST IS THE ANSWER”. We sat in the car, came back home, had a little Red wine, which we had got a day before from 4 Seasons, and sang noels’ from The Sheffield Carols. Today I am 23; He still, is 8.

I have a kid inside me, everyone has. The one inside me is one-legged. He lost his leg when I was 17, and he was 8. Today I am feeling sad, and lonely, and hopeless. It was still only nine o'clock when the kid set off on the last leg of his journey, feeling old and dirty and incapable. You probably know the feeling if you are over eight. The kid never made eye contact. A cat does, but cat’s eyes don’t even look entirely warm-blooded to me, whereas the kid’s eyes looked human except less guarded. He used to look at me as if to say, “What do you want me to do for you? I’ll do anything for you.” Whether the kid would have in fact, done anything for me, is another matter. The kid was at least, always willing. The kid taught me a lot about life, and love. He said “Women love men because chocolate can't mow the lawn. Men love women because they are the loveliest things on God's earth. Some women prefer to love other women. Equally, and without any biasing in place, some men prefer to love other men. There is a word to describe this kind of behavior, Love.” Today I am 23; He is dead.