Where my artistic rage ruined the perfect PG rated Indian rewrite of the Reservoir Dogs
The plan is that I assist three gentlemen in robbing the Bank of Haryana and in return they publish my story on their website. This was after I had read my three thousand five hundredth and seventeenth rejection letter from a publisher. So if anyone ends up dead at my hands you know exactly what to say. Artistic repression. A beautiful fucking thing.
Four man bank heist. They give me suits that make me feel employed, gangster shades, ID cards (fake), a cool getaway car with Rage Against the Machine playing on the loop (that shit is irresistible). In a room where the air conditioning is rapidly returning us all to the ice age, a tall white guy in a sombrero, with a skull insignia on his hatband, starts telling us our code names.
“This is Mr. Coquelicot.” WAAH. COOL. Coquelicot. Picture Lancelot
riding through forests fighting sorcerers, witches, warlords and
kings.
“This is Mr. Mikado.” YAAS. YAAS. YES. Bank of Haryana, you been kamikazeed.
He points at me and says, “And this is Mr. Bubbles.” That name is stupid even for a disgraced village barber. I act professional and wave at everyone. It is just a name, after all.
“And I am Mr. Sarcoline.” Fuck me. Why did they…It’s just a name. Not a big deal. They might even change these later.
2.
I will be the first one to admit it. This isn’t going at all like planned. I googled and you know what Sarcoline, Mikado and Coquelicot are all colors. Real original, right? I mean someone needs to tell these guys that the whole world has seen Reservoir Dogs. Also, all the robbers died in the film. So what are these fuckers trying to say?One thing will keep bothering me until forever. Do they know that Bubbles is a powerpuff girl?
Also whenever we go out to eat, Mr. Coquelicot keeps telling us how its against his principles to tip the waitresses. I should tell him that I have seen Reservoir Dogs and put an end to this bullshit. But I bite the bullet every time because I want to see him rub his finger on his thumb and deliver the this-is-the-smallest-violin-in-the-world-playing-for-the-waitresses line. We are in India, I want to remind him, too far away from the moral hazard posed by the evil tip giving civilisations which, I am sure, end somewhere on the eastern border of Europe.
As far as heists go, Bank of Haryana is doable bank. Not one of those too-big-to-fail kinds with laser fields that you have to dance across while hip-hop blasts through your ear phones. More of a too-easy-to-nail kind, with underpaid and overweight guards ready to drop their guns at the first sight of trouble.
Mr. Coquelicot is our computer guy. Mr. Mikado is our chainsaw psychopath. Why do we need a chainsaw psychopath? Like most other things in the world, I don’t know. Maybe they ran out of regular burglars. Relax guys, this is still PG rated because I am told he has never had to use his chainsaw on anyone except a cat.
Mr. Coquelicot assures me, “The cat had it coming.”
11: 30 am: Mr. Coquelicot walks into the bank to activate the bug.
11:35 am: He comes out. They are having lunch. This early? Yup. Let’s wait an hour or so. OK.
12:30 pm: Mr. Coquelicot walks into the bank to activate the bug.
He comes out. Still lunch. Holy. Mother. Cow. What now? Let’s wait and see. Ok.
There is a Starbucks opposite the bank which we don’t visit because we might be dull and poor, sir, but we have better taste than that. I interrupt Mr. Sarcoline’s story about a husband who does bad things to his wife by asking him, “Is this the one where the girl uses an industrial grade adhesive to glue this guy’s penis to his belly?”“You have heard this story before?”
“Nah,” I say, “Just an educated guess.”
We wait it out in the car in magnificent silence after that. The heist finally happens at half past two thirty when they open shop again.
3.
In the evening we find our ways separately to The Beller’s Knell bar. The gang is holed up right under the air conditioner. “I really didn’t dig your story too much.” They give it to me straight. No warning, foreplay, condom or lube. At this point everyone is nodding their heads. Mr. Coquelicot more than most.“It is good. It is nice, even,” Mr. Sarcoline says but goes on to add, “But that is precisely the problem. It is too nice.”
Mr. Coquelicot is like, “Yeah. It feels like it was written by an advanced AI that’s pandering to us lowly humans. Like it wants us to know that it is pandering to us.”
“What the fuck?” This is going to be my first emotional outburst amongst my newly acquired homies.
“I don’t know.” He says and turns to look at his fingernails. I am sweating like a pig that has figured out what the pen is for. Why did I even want to be a writer? It feels like the worst form of exhibitionism.
“What do you not know?” I ask Mr Coquelicot.
“I, we, were discussing this. And we came to the conclusion that you have a lot of potential and this story is definitely not your best work. And so at this point, we are unable to publish your story.”
“That is impossible. That story took me six months to write. It is only five pages. That means an average of thirty six days on a single page. A volcano does not roar for six months, driving the islanders out of their minds only to shower them later with oreo smoothie. It is a masterpiece and then some. It has to be.”
“Then that might be the problem. You overcooked it.” Mr. Sarcoline said.
Mr. Mikado raises his chainsaw. It whirrs through the wood in the
ceiling. A beam falls on our table. Three waitresses scream and run
out of the building. I agree with Mr. Mikado. I agree with any reviewer who
can move a chainsaw like that.
“But I helped you rob that bank. I was shot at. My face was on the
camera. What more do you want me to do?”
“Do you want me to be honest or do you want me to be your friend? Mr. Bubbles.” Mr. Coquelicot looks at Mr Sarcoline and winks.
“I am not Bubbles. You called me Mr. Bubbles because you three wanted to
keep all the cool names. But fuck all that and tell me why you disappeared through the second exit without letting me know, you cowards? I was fighting five guards on my own. I fractured a bone. I had to put it together with a towel and a pot stirrer so I could walk here. The only reason I haven’t killed the three of you is because you promised my story will go up on your website.”
“You can call yourself whatever you want, Bubbles. You want to be
called Majenta?”
I feel something the size of a fissionable scoop explode inside my chest.
“I don’t want to be called Bubbles. I don’t want to be called majenta or black or a tint of bluish yellow. Just publish my story.”
“Mr. Bubbles, why don’t you give this a thought for a day or two?”
“And then?”
“Then you can keep those thoughts to yourself. And never call us again.”
I bite into Mr. Mikado’s chainsaw and break it into two. I must have
been sad for too long because it tastes like butter. Lightened of his
dearest implement, Mr. Mikado jumps out of the building to be killed
by the rocks below. I break Mr. Sarcoline’s spine on my knee. I crush
Mr. Coquelicot’s skull and say, “Do you think I am living up to my
potential now, Mr. Coquelicot?”
I am walking out when Mr. Sarcoline calls out my name. He is alive. He
is whispering something. Oh God. The adrenaline and the rage flushes out of my system. Is he apologising? There is no undoing this. Even if he survives he will probably never walk again. What have I done? All of this for one stupid story. I get down on my knees to hear his last words, to seek his absolution.
“It still sucks.” I shoot him in the chest.
“Too many points of view.” I shoot him in the head.
“You tell when you can show.” I get a machine gun out and cut his body
into a thousand neat packets.
“You should have sent it through Submittable as a pdf.”
“At least, I am not dead. Mr. Sarcoline.” I force a smile on my face.
“Atleast, people don’t call me Mr. Bubbles, Bubbles.”
On my way out I puncture a gas line. Police sirens can be heard cutting through the traffic. The Beller’s Knell explodes. Many tongues of flame leap into the air above, consuming everything inside the building. I wait until it all turns to ash. Then I walk home with slow sure steps thinking about my next story.