When You're Strange

On a long winding road lay an old man, not really on the road but by the road, he didn’t wish to be road kill after all…Was he hoping for a ride? The sun was setting, bathing the arid landscape in an orange yellow light. There was a tree by the side of the road, with stark naked branches reaching out to the sky, trying to get over the day? For a long while nothing happened. No one passed by and the man just lay on his back, his arms behind his head, staring at nothing, time stood still. Then a car came along, a red corvette, riding from the far east of the road, riding into the sunset…peering at the visage the man sat up supporting his body weight on his elbows. Realizing something, he sprang up and without sparing a thought he tried to flag down the car waving his arm frantically; apparently he did need a ride! He did have somewhere to go and less time to kill…

                                                  The car slowed down, surprisingly and the man gratefully shuffled to the driver’s seat. The windows were rolled up but they were gradually coming down…the sun had almost set and in the dying rosy glow of the day he saw her and she looked back at him, indifferent and cold…the old weathered man who had a moment before cared little about his state of mind or clothes was suddenly very aware of his shabby attire and general air of poverty. He felt self-conscious and was reluctant to look into her grey eyes. An unusual sense of fear numbed his mind and his throat felt dry.

“Do you need a ride?” she asked before he could say a word, her voice low and sensual. He couldn’t speak a word, just nodded his head in the affirmative and quickly picking up his tattered dusty backpack climbed in beside her. The day was almost done, the last ray of light washed over the horizon, quickly fading to a clear starry evening. The engine hummed and the car took off.

                                                    The man was disconcerted that the two of them had only exchanged few words; he was keen to make an impression on her. She clearly affected him, her beauty excited him yet her silence made him uncomfortable and nervous. She was dressed in all black, black leggings and black silk shirt, with two buttons loose on the top. Her dark hair hung carelessly over her shoulders. She wouldn’t even look at him. He cleared his throat, grunting in vain to catch her attention. After few moments of uncomfortable silence, she spoke, “would you like a cigarette?” and casually fished out a pack from the glove compartment. He squeaked yes, even though he had given up smoking long back and lit one for her and one for him using the cigar lighter socket. She drew in a long breath and let out a billowy cloud of smoke.

                                                    “Where are you heading?” she gave him a quick shrewd look. He gulped and cleared his throat again, “The nearest town would work fine.” She glanced at him again, scrutinizing him from head to toe. They rode in silence, thereafter, the evening deepening into night. The landscape remained the same, featureless and dry. As the miles went by, his nervousness gave way gradually and steadily to an unnamed fear. After a considerable amount of time, they stopped at a gas station, she strolled out of the car, lighting up another cigarette. He filled up the tank for her and she casually handed him her credit card. He still felt uneasy, she seemed sinister in her cold confidence. They went back to riding in complete silence. Suddenly, nodding to herself she turned on her music system, the grave smooth voice of Jim Morrison filled the car, “ Women seem wicked when you're unwanted, streets are uneven when you're down…” She chuckled softly to herself, sharing a secret laugh with herself.  A chill went down his spine, in an attempt at making conversation and to clear the tension between them, the old man spoke, “Where are you from?” She looked at him with surprise, it seemed she had for the time being forgotten his existence.

“Oh far away from this hell!” She laughed nastily. He started fidgeting and his heart was beating faster than usual, something was poking his left side, he squirmed a little and his fingers touched something, something smooth and sharp. She looked at him again her eyes glowing like green embers; he was terrified!  He thought her eyes were grey? He was melting in perspiration. She smiled at him, her teeth even and white, almost glinting like a knife…

                                                    Hot smoke arose with the approaching vehicles, the sun mercilessly glared on the onlookers. The red corvette was all twisted up, the bonnet halfway up the trunk of a tree by the road. Smoke rose from the engine, grey and dank with burnt debris. The police approached the car cautiously.

“Is it an accident? Is that a murder?” whispers were floating all around. The first officer tentatively opened the front door, a woman’s body flopped on the side of the road; a knife had found its mark on the side of her throat. Her black clothes caked with blood.

“Hey, there’s another one here on the passenger side!” His partner hissed as he opened the door. A ragged old man lay on his back, his belly exposed and gutted with a screwdriver.

                                                    She smiled at him, reaching for something in the glove compartment. He didn’t hesitate this time, she wasn’t his first and she wouldn’t be his last, there was no time to think…acting purely on instinct he brought his knife down on her throat, and then he felt something sharp biting at his belly…she had struck her blow…Jim Morrison sang on “No one remembers your name, when you're strange”.

Valar Morghulis

All men must die…but did an epic series spanning almost a decade deserve such a painfully unsatisfactory death? I am not sure…I remember about 9 odd years ago, I watched the first episode of Game of Thrones (won’t say how I could get into trouble for that!) and I remember being hooked. The show created a magical realm of intrigue and mystery, where one pays for being foolish and not playing the game (Ned Stark anyone?). In fact I read the first few books after watching the show, I was that much invested in the story. The show was faithful to the book at least for the first five seasons (more or less). Then something happened…The story in the series was going much faster than the author could write and the writers of the show were given the overall picture and the major arc-points of the characters; and were left on their own to carve their own tale on the show. How the mighty fell! The plots became non-existent from flimsy; characters did things one wouldn’t expect of them…it was a slow burn to disaster. I appreciate the craftsmanship of the show, the grandiose set design, cinematography, background score, and costumes, quite amazing really. However, I feel (I am sure some people might agree with me), the USP of the show in my humble opinion were the characters and their arc, the beautiful dialogues and the political trickery. Somehow, the last two seasons left reason for grand scenes of battles, dragon sweeping fire and incredible cinematography. Don’t get me wrong, I really appreciated those aspects of the show, how else can one bring the words from the novel to life, it’s breathtaking visuals and haunting music did justice to George RR Martins world. They lost something in the bargain, the story lines and plot twists were rushed and the character developments were forgone for the visual artistry. This left a bad taste for many fans and faithful followers of the show. Still people were waiting for the last season with bated breath for two years and it came to a crashing end. I can nick-pick the choices of the show-runners as much as I can, but I mainly stick to two things. First about the night king plot, I guess the Arya killing the night king seemed like a cool twist but years of story built-up around the white walkers and no satisfactory end to their story arc…How did they come about? What did they want? There was a shoddy explanation of the night king wanting to kill Bran to end all stories of human kind (what? Why!)…He sat doing nothing while Theon Greyjoy dies and Arya delivers her killing blow to the night king. Another scene really bothered me when Dany rides on the Drogon and Rhaegal dies, because wait for it Dany forgot about Greyjoy’s fleet!! Her cunning in securing the unsullied and all the milestones she had reached suddenly disappears…she suffers through the poor writing and her final delve into the abyss is underdeveloped and disappointed. A character I looked up to, who said things like 

“I have been sold like a broodmare. I’ve been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any gods, not in myths and legends, in myself. In Daenerys Targaryen”. 

I have thought about her turn for the darkness, it’s tragic but believable in the long short, but the last season was so rushed. It’s as if the writers knew the main points but didn’t know to go from one point to another, several loose ends, beloved characters losing their charms and wit…it was disappointing… 

I did like the fact that the stark children came into their own. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.” Although Bran’s quiet acceptance to the throne seemed a tad disturbing. From “a lord of nothing” he became the king of the six kingdoms and he “came all the way for it”…is he a super villain or what? Very ominous…on that note I would quit my cribbing and move on…to wait for the last two books, he did promise us that didn’t? 

“When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground.” - Cersei Lannister (famous last words anyone?)

Miss Jo contemplates her choice

She lit a cigarette while waiting for her ride. Her phone said the car was fifteen minutes away. It was a hot summer day and her white shirt showed signs of perspiration, especially on her armpits and back. She leaned back on the street lamp by the road while swirling grey smoke about her face. The call came early this morning and she didn’t have time to think, as she got ready for the job. She usually gave her actions a considerable amount of thought. She glanced at her wrist again. Time was ticking away slowly. There was a distant blare of traffic from the main road. Her thoughts drifted to a conversation she had with a friend few days ago. 

“I don’t think I care particularly for animals considered as pets like dogs and cats, if they were farmed as food I would be okay with that.” She made the statement so nonchalantly that her friend looked disturbed. 

“I am not quite sure about that. I mean I can’t eat anything that I would humanize...” He said softly. Jo looked at him sharply, ”So you are okay to dehumanize animals and slaughter them? Does that make it better? I would say that takes away whatever conscience and emotion you might feel while consuming such an animal. Did you know in old days, people would pray and pay their respect to the animals before hunting them? I think if you take away the fact that all animals have feelings as people do you would feel no responsibility towards them when you kill them for food. It’s better to respect them and maybe that’s why it is easy to commercialize food industry to such a giant scale and people think averting eyes frees them of all repercussions and responsibility.” 

Her friend looked puzzled now, “This is a very strange thought, on one hand you are saying that you are okay with killing house pets as food and on the other hand, you are asking to feel for the animals farmed for food? You do realize the contradiction don’t you?” 

Jo smiled at his simplicity, “There is duality in nature. Human beings are the only animals that hunt for sport and kill more animals that they can consume. There is no shame in eating animals, our ancestors did that too, but the practices need to be humane and one needs to respect the animal. There is a blatant disregard of Nature and her laws; humans really feel they are above the law that petty animals and other beings need to follow. A sense of gratitude and empathy towards other beings is the need of the day.” She decided to stop there, since it seemed her friend had lost his interest in her monologue and was more absorbed in his coffee. She smiled at the common fallacy of humans and their constant need to buy their head in sand; if I close my eyes it goes away, this is not concerning me. 

A sudden beep broke her train of thoughts her ride was here. She looked at her watch again it was on time. She stubbed whatever was left of her cigarette on the pavement with her heels. Soft classical music filled her ears as she slid into the back seat and closed the door. She took out the file from her black satchel and started reading about the job. The car moved slowly through the afternoon traffic, the noise of the city muffled by the windows drawn up. The file provided all information about the target, a businessman who worked his way from rags to riches. The job was simple, she were to kill him on his way to meet his mistress in the hotel Rio Grande at 3:00 pm. Her weapon of choice this time was poison, strychnine, homage of sorts to all detective stories she had read in which this poison featured as the star. The means to administrate required a little bit of reading up that she had done few nights before in anticipation of the job. She always changed her MO, this was her style and she usually spent a lot of time researching the means to end someone life. She also had procured all sorts of paraphernalia of poisons, knives and revolvers from what she had read and researched on, so that she may access to say a type of chemical or a specific knife or revolver if she sought it for her job. She took her job very seriously and was immensely proud of her body of works. While reading up on strychnine poisoning she came across a mention of a serial killer from the late 19th century, Thomas Neill Cream who used strychnine to murder several prostitutes on the streets of London. She wasn’t sure of his motives for the killing spree nor was she sure if did he bother to understand his victims before he did the deed, as she did for her job. She read the file avidly, picturing the life of the businessman and why she had decided to end his life. Although, the job came to her and she didn’t go looking for it, her employers knew she needed to know every detail of the intended target and the reason to snuff out a life. The reason needn’t be moral and noble, conversely corrupt and selfish reasons resonated to her more, because they rand truer than the altruistic claims that sometimes her employers made. She knew they wanted this man gone for purely reason of profit and that was okay, but there had to be a reason and she would take her time to contemplate her decision. This was her way and this was the way it had to be done. Pay her respect to her victim. In return, she would divulge her MO and her weapon of choice for the intended victim with them. They made sure things fall effortlessly into fall for all party involved in the little game of life and death. 

The car came to a stop in front of a large driveway leading to the lobby of the Rio Grande. She looked up from her file, she was on her own now, they would sent another ride in one hour to pick her up after she was done. She sighed and climbed out of the non-descriptive black car. Picking up her stuff and her satchel she closed the door. As soon she stepped out, the engine started and the car vanished in a puff of grey smoke. She walked briskly to the reception desk; the lobby was expansive and ornate. It was unusually empty and she saw very few people lounging on the sofa, waiting to either check-in or out. Before she could ask the person behind the desk a question, the phone on the counter started to ring. She picked it up without thinking, 

“He is heading towards the lift, you must go now.” The line went dead. Miss Jo carefully put the receiver back. The man at the desk didn’t bat an eyelid. She turned and made her way quickly to the lift. She saw the lift doors almost closing on her, “hold the door please!” She ran in and thanked the man inside; he smiled at her. He looked different from the photo, leaner and grey, but it was him, her job of the day. 

“Which floor, Miss?” he smiled disarmingly. Miss Jo wondered was his ruthlessness reason enough for him to die? “Twelve, please, thank you”. He nodded, pushing the button; he was supposed to get off at ten. She moved to the back of the lift, there was just the two of them. The hunted, unaware and whistling a merry tune, and the hunter, looking for the syringe in her satchel that would inject the poison in the bottle of wine he held in his right hand. The lift moved up seamlessly and Miss Jo waited for the opportunity to slide in the needle in the cork of the bottle. The lift suddenly rumbled and the lights flickered, it stopped with a large thud. She was surprised, was this part of the plan? He pushed in some more of the buttons, nothing happened. 

“Can you believe that? Let me try to call for help” He picked up the receiver on the panel near the buttons, putting the bottle down. Miss Jo acted instinctively, bending down as if to pick up something and injected strychnine into the bottle of merlot through the cork. She got up, shook her bangs away from her eyes, hiding her weapon inside. The dice was rolled and the stage was set. It was a matter of waiting. The lift started moving again; he smiled at her. “I am not fond of closed small spaces but you made it bearable” He was charming, she wondered how charming he would be when contorting in agony to his way to death. The lift chimed and stopped at the tenth floor, he nodded at her and walked out. She watched walk down the corridor holding his bottle of wine in his arms. She smiled to herself, this was quite easy, but something bothered her. She couldn’t out a finger on it, a nagging doubt. Like when a chewing gum had got stuck to her shoes the other day and she had to scrub so hard to get all of the disgusting bits off. Did his mistress drink too? What if she has put two people to death instead of one? Collateral damage? Should she go back? The lift chimed and stopped at the twelfth floor. She pushed in ten again; she had to make sure he was dead. She got out at the tenth floor and walked to room 1001. He always booked the same suite. She rang the bell, tapping her heels. A woman, draped in a silk kimono opened the door, looking at her quizzically. 

“Who is it?” He asked from the bedroom. “No one, don’t worry…” the woman said sensuously. “Your work is done, what are you doing here?” She whispered furiously and closed the door on Miss Jo’s face. 

Miss Jo stared at the closed door for a moment, so the woman knew, a multitude of events had lead to this man’s death. It seemed she was no longer in control nor was she the lone wolf hunter she had thought herself to be. She slowly walked back to the lift and pressed the button for the lobby. As the lift moved down, she thought about what her friend was saying few days ago. 

“It is easier to be removed from some events in order to function in life. A little bit of abstraction is required. One need not know how exactly the mechanisms of each part and gears work in order to drive. I understand your point about empathy but if we are too involved we cannot function in an orderly way. So you may smile smugly and say things like pay tribute to all animals before eating, but if I do so, I can’t in my right mind consume meat.” 

Miss Jo realized the trap she had set for herself and how close she had come to a blunder. Such a mistake would be unforgiving, leading to her being the target for someone else like her. The irony of it all caught her in a laugher, she indulged in a dry hacking giggle. The lift came to a standstill and the doors opened. Miss Jo walked out of the hotel.