The Mask Of Phantasm - 55 Fiction.

“I want to sleep with Mallika Sherawat tonight.”

“She is so far away, and moreover, will she let you come in? What about security? Instead look at those pair of beautiful legs, hairy and erotic”

It was like the deep Amazon forests seen at midnight, nothing was visible.

“Mom”

“Go on”



*Slap*



“Fuckin mosquitoes!”

__________________________________________________________________________________

My second brush with 55 Fiction, a result of a nightmare I had a few weeks ago.

Note: Will be back with fresh stories after November 29th!
And sorry for the unrelated picture, it is meant to mislead :D

Psycho Boy Jack!.

[Disclaimer: What follows is an extremely disturbing and derogatory post, filled with excessive gore and coated with massive doses of abuse, anybody who reads it should do on their own will]

The best thing about murder?

It’s an addiction. They say dope gets you on a high, orgasm shows you nirvana, and nicotine bends your mood. I say a pint of boiling blood beats all the above. Blood straight from the arteries. Cannibal is a name those punks at the police station gave, and the world accepts it. Cannibalism is just hype, it is nature. There are snakes which eat snakes, whales which eat their kind, man is just acting to be reclusive, innocent, but deep down there is a dork in everyone.

Good things come in small packages. Well, if not exactly, those plump little chicks at the basement of the overpriced pubs think the same. Hot things come in small clothes. The oomph of those curvilinear cleavages, the hips and the thighs. 36-24-36, add up all the numbers, you get six. Six, say it at about hundred words a minute, you end up with sex. That’s what all they want. Femme fatale, the ultimate truth. Feminism is the thrash they made up to blame the Y chromosome. Girls are sex, not anymore. They are hot, hot as in blood. Hot as in food. Hot as in pain. There is nothing as tasty as a woman’s thighs. And nothing s fulfilling as their pleading last look.

Observation. That’s the keyword for any murder. Just like you pick out the vegetable you want to cook, one needs to pick out the individuals. Women taste better and digest faster. The fat content in them gives pep to the flavor. The roasted meat has a unique tenderness. If you want to eat a man, you shouldn’t be a man. Whores were considered to be delicacies in olden days. Their willingness to sell themselves was their weak point. One night and a great fight later they always tasted better. But someone started getting suspicious. The pimps upped their surveillance. Those sluts in the pink panties are no more what they seemed to be.  They have you surrounded with an arsenal to blow half the earth. The puss is cunning, the watchdog, cruel. AIDS amplified the need for cleaner blood. An army and AIDS saved the tarts. But nevertheless, the AIDS virus cannot live without a live blood source for more than 5 seconds. And I always heat the blood before drinking.

Tonight’s victim, a 26 year old cunt, living by herself.  Cunt because she has no right to live, no one to cry. White, plump and hot. Hot in my type of way. White is the preferred skin tone, as white when smeared with blood looks like a Mona Lisa in the horizon. The unparalleled beauty sinks, leaving dark redness behind. Food always should appeal to the eye, and then only it is worth eating. The skin does the magic, the rest, ask my taste buds.  Sex is the one which gives away most of the murderers. If sex is your motto, go fuck a whore. You don’t fuck the food you eat right? Misconceptions? Talking about them, it reminds me of tigers. Every fuckin muscled man is referred to as a tiger. “He looks like a fuckin tiger”, “Here comes the tiger”. Fuck, I even met a woman who called me a tiger. The next thing I remember doing was proving her wrong. I’m no tiger, I’m the Lion. A tiger, though it kills its victim in cold blood, does not eat it right away. They leave it stale for some time and continue with the feast. A lion, is the king of the jungle because, it eats as it kills. I eat while I kill. The best part, no Vitamin A is lost when you cull and gobble those eyes. Black or brown.

Show some compassion in this damned world, every little fuck will be behind you. Be it be a street dog or a stray hooker they’ll land up on your bed, dancing in your pants. The 26 year old cunt I was talking about, the victim for tonight is the latter. Some shitty call operator in the big corp. across the sewer, her life was in doldrums. A guy who cheated on her, parents who fucked all time, friends who jeered. After three shots of vodka, she cuddled up on my bed. I let her sleep, blood with alcohol doesn’t taste well, ever tasted coke with tea?  The vodka hit her hard. She slept like a baby. Babies are the tastiest, but they are rare to find. Mothers are the hardest to fight.

“Where am I?”

She was still in the alcohol induced stupor. I took my knife, the one with the gleaming cruelty etched on its blade. The kind which Bedouins use to chop off Camels heads. With one little swish, I cut her wrist away. The swish even though it seems quick, should be hard or the knife won’t pass through the bone like butter. Just like a rooster whose head get’s chopped off, the lady started wriggling, but the chords held her in place. A small plastic basin beneath her wrist collected the blood, dark red and soothing. The saliva secretion in my mouth attained the zenith. I got on to a high.

The human brain always mystified me. Envy, love, hatred, intelligence all under one skull. The first time I saw it, I was aghast! I expected a mass of nerves but it was more like a Sorbitol jelly. The glistening nerve tips of the scalp induced a pale red color into this jelly. Just like one consumes a raw egg, I broke the skull and drank the elixir. The warm and soothing mixture burned the insides of my stomach, this is ground zero.

The nail polish on her nails looked battered like those houses in the paint advertisements. But what’s a fun trip without memorabilia?

I opened the closet. Any unassuming biology student would mistake me for an anthropologist, except they won’t be alive the next moment to know that they were wrong. Ivory like nails smeared with small brown spots lay neatly arranged in little formaldehyde flasks collected over the years.

“I am no butcher,

But I am the savior of the crap class,

I endorse the cause of ineloquent bitches,

‘Cause they need to be slit up and consumed,

After all food is next God”.

Just like one disposes off the tons of toxic waste into those stingy septic tanks, I dispose the body into those hapless heap of lifeless shit, ignored even by the warrior clans of housefly.

“Food, food everywhere,

Walking down, slick and bare,

Food, food everywhere,

You can have it only if you dare”

This is a man eat man world. Just that people are superficial. The inner demon is always is pushed down, it’s given a makeover. You can’t paint a sparrow black and call it a crow can you? The darkness which lurks behind those strata of fat around you heart, needs to come out, famine is the marketing strategy show off word used by those fucked up seed companies. Look around, meat is always tasty, wherever it comes from.

Welcome, to my world, 

-Psycho Boy Jack.

[Note: This story is as original it can be, no verse has been inspired or intentional.]

If I were a Baby Again!

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 4; the fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

I posted a Facebook wall post a few days ago which read “God's best creation: It is not those hot chicks at the mall, or those greasy lil bitch pups, nor are those towering fjords. It's more human. It was you and me, years ago. Its kids. Until the age of four. Education ruins them thereafter.”

Let’s straight away deal with the topic here, “If I were a baby again”. A baby by definition is “A very young child (birth to 1 year) who has not yet begun to walk or talk”.

A human child has the maximum retentivity in the first four years of his life and with the gradual passage of time it decreases. During those first four years the child’s brain lacks the key area of enacting as it is still learning to connect with the new world outside. And do any of us actually remember what we did when we were a baby i.e. when we were one year old? The answer is no for any normal person unless you are a child prodigy.

Hence what difference can one make even if they were a baby again? Realistically this topic has no value, scientifically and artistically I call it crass to even think in those lines. There could have been remorse or pangs of guilt if the topic was “If I were a teen again”. But as a baby, we do not have any option!

“If I were a teen again,

I would get back being a gentleman,

If I were to be a baby again,

I would rewind and just not be born again!”

Well, apart from this, If I was a baby again, I would just pray that I be born to the same parents, because they are the most loving lot in the whole world. Who can ask for more?

[Bless it on my bad mood, this post is less effective, but this was what I was planning from the start!]

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

The Unsung Duet!

"Based on a Series of True Incidents"

“Baal waali ladiki”. That was the name I decided to give her when I saw her for the first time. You might start wondering, why the name “Baal waali ladiki”, why not anything else? Well, the answer is simple; she has a huge tuft of hair on her head, which is iconic (That doesn’t mean all the other girls living nearby my house are bald, their hair isn’t iconic that’s all). I read a fact somewhere that the human eye can detect a match struck 52 kilometers away in an undisturbed environment. I’m not pretty sure about that statement, but I can detect the “Baal Waali Ladiki” even from space. Every morning she is the signal of my luck. If I find her in my bus stop, that means I didn’t miss the bus, if don’t that means I have to choke my wallets and literally drain out the last of its contents. I have been watching here since the last fifteen months, day in and day out. But I act as if I never know of her presence at all. I don’t even remember a day during our daily mix up at the bus stop where we even exchanged a look. I wouldn’t have bothered about this “Baal Waali Ladiki” if not for extremely charming and cute looks and not to mention, her fuckin father.

Here enters one of the many villains in this story, dressed in a pair of overused shorts, with hair which is in contrast with his daughter’s, white and all scraped down. If the daughter’s hair could be compared with the African rainforests then the father’s resembles the grasslands in midst of the Sahara (how green it is!). With a sick and over protective haughty feeling, this man drives his daughter to the bus stop every day, drops his daughter and moves ahead only to park his car a few feet ahead. Every fuckin day I feel those evil eyes glaring at the daughter, through the rear view mirror. Fuck man, what kind of father is so protective these days? After all eve his daughter has a life, and also the poor fellows looking at her daughter also have a life. I stand in that self pitiable situation, with a “what the fuck” look on my face, for fifteen minutes every day. I can’t do anything except to drool and dream, drool inconspicuously, as I believe any trace of saliva below my lips could start a nuclear war with her father as the villain, or what’s more, he could even run me down with that rusty old Maruti of his.

After a year and half of nonstop drooling, a small voice inside my head, asked me to go a step ahead. In one of the many day-dreaming encounters, I felt her black locks of hair fall across my face. The routine duets sans the beautiful panorama and glitzy costumes. These day dreams inspired to get more out of the situation. But Alas! The Gods decided to play their game of chess with me as the King. I was sitting a square away from the queen, with an enemy king in the middle. It was either check mate or ‘fuck’ mate. There lay trillions of possibilities for a miss, but only one move for the queen. My grey cells went into swift action, they devised a plan.

The next day I morphed myself into a self obsessed fashion avatar. The trendy pair of Adidas replaced the routine formals, and I gave myself a chic hunk (I was faking it, by holding up my breath for a little more than normal) and strode down the road to the stop with a pride so superfluous that it would make every King on this earth hang his head in shame. But I didn’t realize that fate would play marbles with me, as I neared my goal post, the ball vanished and as I approached the bus stop, the girl vanished signaling a tragedy. I missed the bus. What followed later can be accounted under the section “Post tragic trauma”, but as I don’t have one in my blog I guess we should move on.

The Dinosaur:

No, I’m not going to give a Jurassic twist here, but it is just the stage for the classic entry of another person. Here enters the second villain of this titanic ‘tragic’ story Mr.Dickhead aka Dinosaur. The reason behind his seemingly gigantic name can be attributed to his bloated face and a peculiar mass of hair above his head which reminds one of the head of a Stegosaurus (One need not be paleontologist to know what it is, watch Jurassic Park). One look at him and you will firmly believe that Man evolved from Chimpanzee’s of Africa. So Mr.Dickhead, as his name seems to suggest is a pervert, and mighty big shameless flirt, who could handle multiple love stories with girls in his own class without getting caught. Every day Dickhead purposely sits behind our dear old “Baal Waali Ladiki”. What starts with a small smile proceeds to become peals of laughter and our usually reserved young lady shares some really happy moments with him, much to my amusement (I forgot to add, the girl under observation i.e. “Baal Waali Ladiki” is a very reclusive person, and Dickhead is one of the few people whom she talks with, presumably as Dickhead is her senior).

So one day with firm determination, I confronted Dickhead and indirectly gave him a hint, “Dude, please do leave some girls for us, please!”

I expected a harsh reply but Dickhead never lost his cool, “Hmmm, it’s a rat race mate, chop chop or might not get anything, try try till you succeed, which girl are you talking about anyway?”

I didn’t quite understand what he said, but I got the essence of his speech, and it didn’t take time for me to realize that perverts can be professional too.

A bit of research into his background gave me interesting results. Every day while flirting with B.W.L. Dickhead used to secretly follow another girl in the bus (popularly referred to as AIDS patient, as her physique just endorses the fact, Err myth!). Talk about hitting two birds with one stone, dudes like this one are the greatest threat to the male kind, the overuse and later recycle. And recycled products aren’t exactly the ones which match my taste. For a while I envied Dick (head), later I realized that flirts like him are best to be ignored, because ignorance is the only thing he can expect in the future.

The Master-Bat(i)on:

The title misleads right? I know about your sick, pervert mind. Well, my mind is equally sick too, the title conveys the actual crux of the story, follow it in whatever manner you may, you shall be blessed.

A little after I stopped ignoring Dino’s Dick, I found peace. Let me describe you the reason behind all my fantasies for asking this girls name. She is about 5 feet 9 inches tall (No, I didn’t take a tape and measure her, a rough estimation!), cute, fair (I wouldn’t bother about the color, but she is what she is!), cute again and super sexy. The only thing which brings out a shiver in my knees is that, she is from a pucca Hindi background and me from an out and out traditional Telugu family. Well, being born in a traditional family does not necessarily mean I should hate Hindi, but I hate (on the contrary, my entire family idolizes Hindi, it sucks!). One of the very few words I know in Hindi include “Tere Maa ki”, *beep* *beep* *beep*. Apart from that, I should be truthful; I have enough courage to break windows in front of the whole college but not enough substance to talk to a girl. That is the sole reason, why you are bearing this five page ‘hormance’ (horror romance) here.

After a few days, lady luck decided to bless me. Cupid also felt that the time was ripe for setting his weapons into action. Poor dude, in the world of laser aided nukes, our little old underwear (?) clad boy is still relying on the love tipped ancient African arrows. No wonder, the divorce rates are high.

I was walking down the huge hallway when suddenly I found B.W.L. sobbing silently. One look at her and you will be cheated, but my ultra thick celled brain detected a chance. I strode up to her in a casual way, and asked her what the problem is. In a barely intangible voice she replied, “I lost my record”. Well, talking about records, what the monitor is for a computer, the record is for a student. It can be billed the entry card for Lab session and as the report card for the overall performance. Many a time, these records end up being written by friends, neighbors or even sisters, but nevertheless in India anything can be gotten for a chocolate. I asked her when the lab was,

“In the afternoon session”, another intangible reply with the sobs increasing in intensity.

With an air of induced confidence, I told her not cry (while my sadistically motivated eyes were admiring the beauty of her eyes) and sat down on the staircase and sat down to work. A record generally is a conglomerate of a random 70 pages of shit aided with diagrams. Whatever you write it should fit in 70 pages. One can liberally use obscene language, pepper the scientific formulae and even rape the subject no one bothers. Three hours, thirty five pages. It wasn’t easy, but for her I could do anything.

Three hours (fifteen minutes) later, I looked up.

“Finished”

“Ditto”

We got up, arranged the pages in proper order and looked into each other’s faces.

“Thanks, without you I would have flunked in the lab exams”

A little balloon rose from the bottom of my heart and ended as a pop somewhere in between.

“Never mind, I did my duty, friends?”

“Yea, friends”

She extended her arm, and touched my hand.

A shot of acid ran through my nervous system, true to the name, I became nervous.

And then she took her arm and,

Slapped me right on my face.

I woke up, only to hear Anuraag shouting “Ma****hod, bus mein bhi ghusa de be, mere record laya ho kya?”

“Wtf??”

Sad, it really was.

Edit: An Epilogue: Vipul posted an excellent comment which blended with the mood of the story and I feel, it's another worthy ending! Here it goes!

"All the best with ur cupid tale.. i hope u talk to the BWL nd suddenly the 'maruti' uncle jumps in - "Hey beta.. i've been waiting at this bus stop for so many mnths in the hope tht one day this cool guy will talk 2 my girl. Will u marry her?" ;)"

[Till date I haven’t talked to B.W.L., I seek help O my fellow bloggers. Drop in your suggestions.

P.S.: If you are the “Baal Waali Ladiki” mentioned in the above story, I’m sorry about being a bit abusive about your father, I couldn’t help it! Moreover, you look cute!

Note: My next post can take ages, so please don’t wait!

You can now download the "Fight Club" Ebook. Click here.

Download the complete Imdb (Internet movie database) goofs list. Click here.

Download the complete Imdb trivia list. Click here.]

This is your Life - Fight Club 10th Anniversary Special.

16_Various Artists - This Is Your Life.mp3

And you open the door,

and you step inside,

we're inside our hearts,

now imagine your pain,

is a white ball of healing light,

that's right, feel your pain,

the pain itself,

is a white ball of healing light

I don't think so.

This is your life

good to the last drop,

doesn't get any better than this,

this is your life, and it's ending,

one minute at a time,

this isn't a seminar,

and this isn't a weekend retreat,

where you are now,

you can't even imagine,

what the bottom will be like,

Only after disaster,

can we be resurrected,

it's only after you've lost,

everything that you're,

free to do anything,

Nothing is static,

everything is appalling (evolving),

everything is

falling apart,

You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake,

you are the same decaying

organic matter as everything else,

we are all a part of the same compost heap,

we are the all-singing,

all-dancing crap of the world

you are not your bank account,

you are not the clothes you wear,

you are not the contents of your wallet,

you are not your bowel cancer,

you are not your grande latte,

you are not the car you drive,

you are not your fucking khakis,

You have to give up,

You have to realise that someday you will die,

until you know that you are useless,

I say let me never be complete,

I say may i never be content,

I say deliver me from swedish furniture,

I say deliver me from clever art,

I say deliver me from clear skin and perfect teeth,

I say you have to give up,

I say evolve, and let the chips,

fall where they may,

I want you to hit me as hard as you can

Welcome to fight club

If this is your first night

you have to fight.

[ Fight Club, is a movie by David Fincher, released a decade ago, it is one of the finest pieces of art in the history of cinema. A dark satirical comedy with a visually aesthetic style, minced with witty dialogues and intense action, this modern thriller will just blog those little grey areas of your brain, apart! If you haven't watched it till now, please do, for once you will realize life is not boring after all. The complete essence of fight club can be gotten in the above song. I almost forgot to add, this movie's soundtrack composed by the Dust Brothers is an epic itself. Please do check it out.

P.S. : No part in this post except the one in brackets is original, credit goes to the guy who wrote this song and David Fincher

P.P.S.: Posting on Saturday!]