Our story begins on a stormy night like most stories do. It is a highway. Dark.
The bassline builds up.
Enter synth. A car comes up the highway. Our hero is in the driver seat.
He is out for blood tonight and he has made up his mind.
It has to be a stranger. Not Sneha. Not Rishi. Not Abhishek. Not his boss. Not the HR. Not the fat guy in accounts.
Nothing can get back to you, he thinks, they should not connect anything back to you. A random victim. A motiveless murder. A homeless person. Someone asking for a lift. 1:23 AM near Bypass. I will get someone. And I will beat his skull with the crowbar so bad and so many times, I should be able to see my piss trickling down his neural pathways.
Brain full of piss, he chuckles as he imagines the autopsy-in-charge rolling his eyes, talking to the investigators, our killer seems to have…umm…relieved himself in his…umm…brain.
The man will probably be in a cloak, crawling or limping, a loser nobody gives a shit about. Hell, even I am a loser nobody gives a shit about but that is not going to stop me.
I can’t seem to face up to the facts
I’m tense and nervous and I can’t relax..
Our hero nods his head to the rhythm. He checks his speakers, they are worth fifty grand and they are as convinced as he is in his mission. Bless the RJ. What a song to make a debut to, what a backdrop for my mass murdering spree. He taps his steering wheel as sings along with Byrne. A truck approaches from the opposite end.
Let’s fuck with him. Why the hell not?
He drives straight on to the truck. The headlights and the horns could’ve woken up a stillborn but at the last moment, he makes a fast swerve, the bonnet of his Mercedes getting a slight scratch. Sparks fly. Fuck! He loses focus for a millisecond before he cheers up, what the heck, I am having blood tonight.
Anyway, coming back to our victim, he continues thinking, I will drive the crowbar through his groin, puncturing his intestines. He will probably choke out blood and I’ll do this behind my car parked against the highway. And if anybody sees me, well I will make sure no one does, ’cause
Don’t touch me I’m a real live wire! Woohoo!
David should have added a woohoo at the end. He makes a mental note of making a personal cover of the song when he reaches home and he’d add a woohoo at the end of it.
A bunch of prostitutes ogle at his car. May be I can take one for a ride, rape her and leave her. Don’t most serial killers start with prostitutes? Shit, I don’t have a condom. I don’t want herpes. I am just starting on my mass murdering career for chrissakes.
He sees the homeless. They don’t seem to end. The homeless under the highway that never seems to end. The tungsten light doesn’t seem to end. The city never seems to end. But tonight he is going to burn a hole through this dungeon of sameness.. Tonight he is going to be a
Qu’est-ce que c’est
He presses his foot down the accelerator. 90mph. I am a rich ass boy. Driving a big ass car. Cops ain’t going to stop me. Fuck tha police!
No person in sight. End of winter. It’s drizzling. He is anxious. What if I don’t find anybody tonight? I’m not on my meds. I’ve not been on them for weeks. Mother doesn’t know. I’ve been on a paid sick leave. I have to go to work tomorrow and I have to kill somebody tonight, ’cause I am a psycho killer! Woohoo!
Run, run, run, run, run, run, run, awayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Everybody run away. Run away. Run away.
Run away ’cause our man is here. We do not have psycho killers in this city. There is bloody, two-bit politics. There is dirt. There are stupid, fat men and women. Activists. White collar fucks. Lazy policemen. A murder in broad daylight in the middle of a bazaar requires federal police. CID is such a joke. Every crime requires federal police. Money fuckers fucking the city day in and day out, political stooges, Gujaratis and Marwaris. To hell with them. Tonight I break out. Tonight will be the beginning of a new sensation in town. Listen up bastards, I will bring this city to national, wait, international spotlight. Psycho killer out on loose. Maybe someone will figure out I drive a Mercedes. Or some such car. Mysterious psycho killer on the prowl, recently escaped out of Pavlov, the most dangerous criminal ever to have walked on the streets of this city, all government officials on high alert. Please stay indoors. He can and might strike at any moment. This announcement was brought to you by the city police in public interest and safety….
We are sorry to interrupt your regular programme with this special announcement. A psychopath, a heavily armed dangerous man is out on the loose, on the city streets. He escaped from Pavlov asylum an hour ago and can be at any point and anywhere. He might be in your locality. Please stay indoors. Lock doors and windows and do not answer even though it’s a stormy night and someone might ask for help. Even if you are outside, do not respond to any stranger calling out to you for any reason. All government officials and police have been put on high alert. I repeat, please stay indoors. He can and might strike at any moment.
What is this? Am I hearing things again? This cannot happen. Why has the song stopped? A psycho killer out on the streets? Is this my mind talking to me? Am I going schizo again? I know I am a psycho. All I want to be is a psycho killer now. Please don’t fuck it up. Please don’t fuck it up. Please don’t fuck it up.
He increases the volume. There’s some static and the song is back again. Frantz slapping the bass and David Byrne’s subdued baritone brings our hero to peace. It is raining hard now. He switches on the wipers.
You start a conversation you can’t even finish it.
You’re talking a lot, but you’re not saying anything.
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed.
Say something once, why say it again?
All I want to be is a psycho killer now. Please don’t fuck it up. Please don’t fuck it up. Please don’t fuck it up. The tool box is staring at me. Fuck you!
He opens the tool box. Gets his medications out on the seat. Prolixin. Lexapine. Trilafon. Mellanil.
Fuck off, he shouts, as he opens the window and throws his meds out. I don’t want to ever see your face again.
The demons are out. Much better.
Why the fuck isn’t anybody out on the goddamn road? He presses the horn. Once. Twice. Thrice. There’s nobody. The road doesn’t seem to end. This way I am going to be at the border, he panics. Do I have to drive through a military outpost and kill some soldiers? They rape women. No one’s going to blame me even if they shoot me. I am a person with a history of mental illness. I come from a reputed family and I work at one of the top multinational companies in the IT hub of the town. I am an upstanding citizen and I pay my taxes. But before I die, I am going to fuck some fuckers up, that’s for sure, ’cause I’m a
Qu’est-ce que c’est
Damn right. Far better.
The car is shooting through the storm. He cannot hear anything in the buzz of his AC. The wipers aren’t any good even though it cost his dead father an arm and a leg. I wish I could ejaculate in his brain. Brain clogged with semen. Do they have a name for such a disorder? What if semen changes tracks and somehow ends up in your brain?
He sees a man finally. Limping. He immediately slows down his car. His neurons, fucked as they are, fucked as the doctors tell him, isn’t as damaged as they think they are. I know what to do now, he thinks, this is my chance and I won’t fuck this up. I will slow down my car. He won’t be able to hear it. It’s raining hard. I will switch off the headlights. Let the radio be. I will walk out quietly. I will get wet. Mother won’t bother to ask me tomorrow what I was doing so late at night.
I am a mentally ill individual who is slowly but surely showing improvement and soon will be able to rejoin regular society anyway.
He slows down his car. The man doesn’t turn back. He is limping and he has a cloak on him. Poor, helpless motherfucker. For a second, the milk of human kindness seems to tell our hero to not follow through with his masterplan. But
Ce que j’ai fait, ce soir-là
Ce qu’elle a dit, ce soir-là
Réalisant mon espoir
Je me lance vers la gloire!
Headlong I go for glory, he says to himself, je me lance vers la gloire. His French is bad but that’s not the point here. He gets the crowbar out. A thirty pound stainless steel crowbar. The moment it is hit on the head with the force of a hundred pound man, its teeth crashes through the cranium, cracking the skull and holds on to a chunk of the brain. When pulled out, the piece of brain splatters out on the street. The man is as good as dead at that point even though he is still standing and has half his neural system working. That way as he penetrates the limping man’s intestines, he is going to feel the pain. Unless he inflicts pain, it’s going to be for nothing.
Fame is alright. But he must be painful. Precise. And fierce.
Our hero is walking on tiptoes. Tomorrow a handicapped man will be found brutally murdered near the Bypass, on the way to the airport. What a sight, what a news for incoming visitors. The chief minister wants to make our city look like London. For a second, he wonders, what if he smears the man’s blood on her face on one of the hundred thousand placards with her face on it. He will think about it later.
Somewhere, some paces behind, the song is crashing to an end. And so will our story. David Byrne singing out to the heavens above and the hells in between –
We are vain and we are blind…
He is millimeters away from the limping man. This has been fantastic so far. He is shaking with ecstasy. His cock hasn’t been this hard in weeks. He can’t help imagine the climax as he drives the crowbar into the man’s head. White fuzz on his boxers, yes, but fuzz of peace. Fuzz of beauty.
He is out for blood tonight and he has made up his mind.
I hate people when they’re not polite…..
He raises the crowbar and screams loudly to the man’s ear, with all his guts, with all his breath, as if, if it weren’t raining, he could be heard within a hundred yards, “Madarchod!”
The crowbar aimed at the man’s skull, the man turns back at him at the speed of light, and replies, “Haan tera.”
For a moment, our hero, probably starts to giggle at the sudden reply, but he is stopped in his tracks, as the man has already thrust an iron rod into his stomach.
He feels like his heart is going to burst. His blood pressure drops. And so does the crowbar.
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh…
The sound of the rain, the storm, no more. He can hear the song clearly. It’s crashing down on the top of his head as if a skyscraper fell down on him and he is going back to dust. The bass, the synth, the crunchy guitars and Byrne are crying in the middle of the night, with no one to watch this spectacle. What a way to go. Who would’ve thought. This is such a massive joke. If I am alive to tell the story…
The limping man pulls out the rod and thrusts it in our hero’s throat. He chokes out blood. Well, he keeps thinking, my brain still works. They had given up on that. It is going to be such an embarrassment if this fucker now cracks my skull open and pisses in it.
As his eyes start to lose vision, he sees the dark soldier of death, with his dark face, and his limp, looming over his almost lifeless body, bending down to pull out the rod.
Then he hits our hero hard on the head, unspooling his brains, white fuzz trickling down his eye.
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh……..
The song ends and the RJ starts talking about post-modern relationship crisis and millennial couples suffering from urban alienation as our hero starts to go to sleep and the last thing he sees is the limping man unzipping his pants and dangling his cock out.
Oh how embarrassing.
(A humble tribute to the fantastic song by Talking Heads – Psycho Killer)