Off The Edge
By Rahul Sharma
Copyright 2011 Rahul Sharma
Table Of Contents
Foreword
1. All in a day’s work
2. Imprisoned
3. Brother
4. Never Tempt the Rain
5. Ghosts
6. Just an Ordinary Coward
7. Master of the Trade
8. A student’s life, a student’s death
9. World War 3
10. The Rebirth of Tyranny
11. Memoirs
12. The Hostage Game
13. Moonlight
14. The Laboratory
15. Soldier
16. The Tigress
17. The Last Concert
18. The Monster and the Angel
19. Highway Robbery
20. The Little Narration that doesn’t deserve a title
21. The Sorcerer
22. The Ironies of Life
23. To Avoid Pain
24. A World of chaos: My mind
Foreword
It fills me with irony when I realize that I am writing a foreword. I have always been one who skips the forewords and goes onto the main book, coming back to read it only if I really liked the book. I have no qualms if you did the same.
The collection you are about to read (or have just read, if you’re reading this after you’re done) is comprised of short stories that I have written over the past two to three years. I first tried to write a short story in the summer of 2009, and within a month, I had finished “World War 3”. So these stories have, over the years, changed in style. I personally feel that my own style of writing has changed drastically between “World War 3” and “To Avoid Pain”, which was the last story I wrote. So, while you’re reading these stories, keep in mind that they may have been written by a single person, but the single person has changed quite a bit between the stories.
Unbiased criticism is gladly welcomed at:
[email protected]. Or on my Facebook page.
Hope you enjoy the book.
All in a day’s work
Mike Milanov felt like a slob. He looked like one too. His unshaven face was topped with bloodshot eyes and matted hair. His thin lips bore evidence of his last meal- a bag of crisps. His large khaki green T shirt hung loosely on his shoulders and billowed about his waist like a robe of sorts. His black pants were baggy beyond normal. This bagginess concealed the items he carried in his pockets.
Mike Milanov was a drug dealer- the biggest drug dealer in all of Rome. He operated alone. No thugs, no gunmen. Milanov personally attended each of his little “meetings”. All over Rome, Mike was known as Angelo-after his renaissance namesake.
At that point of time though, the generally sharp and clever twenty two year old, had taken some of his own medicine. Literally. Angelo was completely doped. Twenty minutes after taking a smoke of marijuana, Mike Milanov found himself sprawled across his bed in his posh two bedroom apartment.
There was a soft ring from a classy looking clock on his designer desk. Mike wearily lifted himself from the bed and fell onto the floor. With a low moan, he hoisted himself onto his feet and, after trudging to his desk, slammed his alarm clock off.
Mike stared out the window at the traffic building up on the street below. It took him a few minutes to realize why he was awake- It was almost time for another appointment. All traces of dopiness vanished from Mike as he pulled on his trademark black sweatshirt. After grabbing a suitcase marked ‘ZZ’ from a long row of suitcases, and pocketing a pistol from the shoe rack, Angelo left home for work. He gave a friendly wave and smile to the security guard as he left. The guard, unaware of Mike’s occupation, returned both.
Within fifteen minutes, Mike Milanov’s number plate-less BMW was gliding across the country roads of Rome. He brought his car to a crawl as he reached a large farmhouse. The mailbox showed the name ‘Zidael Zybysky’.
Russians, thought Angelo as he pulled the car to a stop, were the biggest crime lords. Italians like himself may be crime lords as well, but nothing compared to the Russians. Mike was pretty sure that the farmhouse he was about to enter was crawling with armed guards. Mike also thought it unlikely that his client, Mr ZZ would be present in person. The Russian crime lords always had thugs to do all the work. In fact, even the Italians followed this principle- It was only Mike who differed.
Angelo stood in front of the enormous farmhouse and stared at it for a few minutes, awestruck. He then proceeded to pull out a small piece of paper from his pocket. He nimbly dropped some white powder onto the paper and rolled it up. He proceeded to pull out a lighter and smoke the contents of the paper within a minute. Refuelled by this dose of Cocaine, and brimming with the confidence it provided him, Angelo touched the door of the farmhouse- it creaked open. Taking a deep breath to steady his euphoria, Angelo entered.
The moment he entered, Angelo knew something was wrong.
Four submachine guns were pointing at him, held by four burly American soldiers. Mike found this odd -Russians generally had Russian thugs. Mike froze. The briefcase was held high in his left hand and his right hand slowly inched towards his pocket, which held his pistol.
“Mr Mike Milanov?” said one of the men, confirming his nationality by his accent, “You are under arrest for distribution of illegal drugs.”
Angelo did not twitch. His escape plan was already quickly forming in his mind, aided by the cocaine he had just ingested. He made a puzzled face at the four men and said, “Sorry officers. Me not Milanov, me only delivery boy. Also, I was told suitcase had cash…” Mike took caution to add a rural Italian touch to his voice. He then asked, “This Mr Zidael ‘ouse?”
The four Americans stared at each other. They were told Angelo would come in person, not send some village boy. Well, the biggest of the men thought, we might as well take the guy’s cash, and while we’re at it, why not kill the kid? It would serve as a warning to this Milanov character.
Mike curiously watched the largest man’s face. He was able to read every thought off it. Thus he wasn’t surprised when the American thug demanded his briefcase. After a second’s pause, Mike squeezed the handle of the briefcase and flung it at him.
It connected with a dull thump and knocked the wind out of the thug. By the time the three others had realized their leader was knocked down, Mike had scrambled out the open door. Before any of the men could even train their gun on the fleeing figure of Angelo, he had thrown himself into his car and was whizzing off towards the city in a BMW which lacked a license plate.
The four Americans now focused their attention on the briefcase that lay on the floor. One man bent down and opened the briefcase. Inside, there was no money. There were no drugs either- Just a highly complicated looking detonative device. Three small beeps later, the farmhouse was a large structure of blazing wood, with four charred bodies inside.
Meanwhile, Mike Milanov was smiling to himself. Once again the bomb suitcase plot had worked. His policy of not taking the drugs unless the client could be trusted had paid off yet again. He had hoodwinked the cops and not an ounce of Marijuana had been lost. Singing loudly along with the tune on the radio, Angelo drove home. It was all in a day’s work for him.
~~~
Imprisoned
I used to walk past them every day of my life. They stood behind the glass, frozen for eternity. They stood and watched the world go by through unblinking eyes. They were like constants in an ever varying world. Many a time in the past, when life seemed too chaotic, I used to meditate in front of them about how life would be if I was pale, frozen and good looking.
Now I know. And I wish I were dead.
If you are reading this, then you MUST try and save me! You are my last hope.
You have probably s
een me art the shop, gazing out at the world from beneath an Armani suit. I was once like you: A mobile, carefree human. Now I am frozen for life. Imprisoned for eternity.
Do not ask me how I managed to write this- I do not know. The human mind is capable of performing miracles when desperate. It is adequate if you know that I am waiting for you to help me. To free me from my plastic prison.
I have lived like this for a month now (if what I do is considered “living”), and every day has been hell. Let me tell you how it happened:
I was a regular customer at “Aunty Emm’s Clothesline”- the neighbourhood upscale garment shop. I used to visit the shop every alternate week- either to upgrade my wardrobe, check out the latest clothes in stock or to just pass time. The last was carried out either by helping Aunty Emm with customers or just loitering around and being perpetually amazed by the strangely life-like mannequins.
I personally knew Aunty Emm, the short, stout, kindly middle aged owner of the shop. A perpetually smiling woman, Aunty Emm always welcomed me warmly. She had no objection to my passing time in her shop. She genuinely liked me and appreciated my presence and help.
She had only one oddity in her otherwise normal personality: she was EXTREMELY fussy about her mannequins. I should’ve guessed then and there and never visited the shop again, but somehow, I never considered this odd. I always waved off my friends’ stories about Aunty Emm’s obsession with her show pieces. They were life like pieces, I reasoned with my friends, they probably need more maintenance. However, I too was flummoxed when asked how to maintain a mannequin.
Aunty Emm always ushered all her customers out the door by six o clock in the evening. She coaxed everybody to leave and return the next day with poorly disguised urgency. When asked what her motives were, she used to shake her head, mumble something under her breath and shove us out the door.
“She’s a witch” one of my friends concluded as we walked past the shop. It was late evening and the blinds were securely drawn. “She’s a witch and she’s doing something sinister in there. Those mannequins of hers, they’re……strange”
I countered him with the argument that new and different things were often perceived as strange.
“Have you SEEN those things? They’re like people!! That little one near the window? Doesn’t he look exactly like the guy who moved out last year? The kid who used to annoy us?”
This set me thinking. It had occurred to me too that the mannequin near the window had an uncanny resemblance to Annoying Sam. I decided to investigate Aunty Emm’s nocturnal activities. But unfortunately, like the adage, curiosity killed the cat.
Then, on that fateful day, I snuck into the shop around half past six through the bathroom window. After taking a few moments to acquaint my eyes with the dim interior, I left the bathroom and entered the main hall. The scene was utterly bone chilling.
Twelve people, men women and a few children, lay on the floor if the shop, gagged and bound around their wrists and ankles. The sound of muted screaming was quite audible as most of them squirmed on the floor, trying their best to break through the thick ropes that bound them. All eyes were darting frantically and hysterically for an escape. Then I realized that the mannequins were missing from their pedestals near the walls, and that all the frantic faces looked quite familiar. Perhaps my friend was right…
A strange monotonous chant began to ring out across the room. From my position in the corner, I looked around for the source of this incantation-like chant. Then I saw the final element of the scene: Aunty Emm.
She stood in the middle of the room like a stout pillar. A single candle was clutched to her chest as she chanted in a low inhumane voice. I began to panic.
I watched with growing horror as one by one, the people on the floor froze, and their eyes glazed. It was terrifying. I resolved never to visit this shop again. Unfortunately, fate had resolved that I should remain inside forever.
All at once, I felt her cruel, piercing gaze on me. My blood turned to ice. I was paralysed where I stood as she slowly advanced towards me.
“Well well….extra curious, are we?” she smiled a dangerous, cruel smile. “I was anyway planning on acquiring a new one. I guess you’ll do.”
With that she began to chant. The candle flame began to flicker wildly. I was helpless as my limbs slowly lost feeling. My bones turned to plastic and I lost all sensation. After several minutes of excruciating silent pain, my eyes glazed and the world turned black.
When I regained consciousness, I was trapped. Imprisoned. I have remained there ever since. Immobile, mute and shamelessly naked at times. Every evening, I am forced to go through the same ritual as the others: Being alive but helpless for a few minutes before returning to our horrible life. That is Aunty Emm’s idea of maintenance.
If you read this, you are my last chance to escape from this hell. Please save me. Save the others. Stop Aunty Emm before she creates an entire army of plastic people.
Our fate rests in your hands.
~~~
Brother
The rain gushed down in torrents. It was pitch dark. There was a small street which had no name. It was always addressed as “The little street off the main street” It was neither very wide, nor very long, with about four houses on either side. A single sodium streetlight hissed on one end of the road, blurred in the evening rain.
A single tall figure walked on the street, oblivious to the rain. His long, wet hair clung to his face. He limped slowly and gingerly down the street-towards the street lamp. His left hand clutched his right elbow, pinning it against his side, trying to staunch the flow of blood. His right hand clutched a pistol tightly.
He slowly limped into the orange pool of light cast by the street lamp. He stopped to rest against the pole. His face was contorted with pain, his left ankle was broken.
The youth had rested against the pole for just a few seconds, when a car pulled up at the other end of the street. Like a black ghost, the car silently cruised down the street and stopped just outside the pool of light cast by the street lamp. There were three thuds, as three officers emerged from the black car, banged the doors shut and sprinted towards the youth, who made no attempt to move.
The wounded young man watched with mild interest as the three officers surrounded him, blocking all routes of his escape.
“Mr Jock, you are under arrest for multiple murder and rape. Do not put up a fight, and you will not be hurt further.
The youth suddenly looked at the cop who had spoken with an expression of great curiosity, “Rape?” he asked curiously, “I didn’t rape anybody officer, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”
“But multiple murder?”
“And proud” said Mr Jock, shaking the wet hair out of his face. He slowly observed each of the three officers, his eyes coming to rest on the man who was trying his best to stay hidden in the shadows.
“Well halo there King! Fancy seeing you here!!” he said, most casually.
King froze, half in the shadows. He heaved a sigh and stepped into the light. “I’m glad you recognized me Dan” he said in a deep voice. He stared with revulsion and rage into Dan’s unusual eyes-which were bright red.
King drifted off into memories of those same ruby red eyes. Shining with joy as Dan and King won the tennis doubles championship. Gazing with fear as King stopped the hooligans at the college from ragging him. Twinkling cheerfully as Dan rolled around in laughter, having just played a prank on his best friend King. And finally, King remembered Dan walking away from him, cursing him under his breath.
King was brought back to reality with a start when Dan remarked loudly, “Are you going to kill me then?” The two other police officers cocked their weapons. King, keeping work in mind, also pointed his gun at his childhood friend.
With an alarming burst of energy, Dan moved at lightning speed. With a flourish and two bangs, he sent a bullet into each of the two inspectors, killing them instantaneously. King, unharmed, did not dare to move a m
uscle.
Dan panted furiously, his little energy drained. He glared at King with ruby red eyes. “You know that the people I killed deserved it King.” He said slowly. King nodded understandingly, “They killed your parents didn’t they?” he asked gently. Dan nodded. “But, I’m sorry Dan, we have no evidence on that. So you’re going to have to come with me”
King began to advance on Dan, but stopped short when Dan spoke.
“They were your parents too.”
King froze. He had come to terms with the fact that he was an orphan. But Dan’s parents always seemed to take him in, treat him like one of their own. They let him stay over for days at a time, they bought him birthday gifts and supplies when he needed them…
“You know they were not the richest of people. They couldn’t afford a second child. So they sent you to the orphanage, where they knew you’d get a better life than if you stayed with them, but they still loved you.” Dan remarked quietly.
The street lamped flickered, bringing the brothers back to reality. Dan pulled out a piece of paper, “They wanted to give this to you soon.” He said.
King quickly read the piece of paper. It was a letter addressed to him, saying the same thing that Dan had just told him. He heaved a sigh and pocketed the letter when he heard the click. King looked up and his eyes widened.
Dan had reloaded his gun and held it against his own forehead.
“I have nothing more to do in this life. So goodbye, brother.”
Before King could stop him, Dan pulled the trigger. There was another loud bang and Dan dropped onto the ground, lifeless. King stared, shocked, surrounded by three dead bodies.
The rain continued to pour. The sodium street lamp flickered and finally went off for good.
~~~
Never tempt The Rain
The rain lashed, the wind howled. Torrents of rain gushed down to earth, as though it was destined to be drowned. Trees creaked and groaned under pressure of harsh winds. Sheets of rain whipped the faces of pedestrians.