The Proverbial Execution

It is 1533, a more civil era successive to an eponymous War of the Roses; soon after a time when provincial England set out to relentlessly usurp unwanted thrones, ravage scurvy harlots and partake in sexually repulsive behaviour which by tradition was assumed to be the birthright of English aristocracy (as is evident through numerous historical references). Queen Elizabeth I has just been injunctioned to the throne The venue is set in a deceptive and vile Elizabethan colony of putrefaction in West England; and the stage is set for an intense throttle of bloodbath and gore.

The townspeople have gathered around to witness one of the greatest executions in English history. Five counts - stand aligned, one next to the other, waiting for their heads to be severed by order of the Queen of England. The checklist for the evening contain the following names of nobility soon to die by decapitation -

Count Fenny of Pembrokshire
Count Nathaniel of Appleby
Count Ponsenby of Spinstershire
Count Cuthbert of Stokeshire
Count Farrow of Trannyside

The reason for the passing of such a capital judgement is best known to a select few of the royal house, including courtiers, senior members of the clergy and worthless nobility. Word has it that the accused were amassing unusually large sums of gold and other forms of wealth through clandestine bargains with the French - lascivious corsets and young Parisian eunuchs in exchange for English camomile.

The Queen's carriage draws in ostensibly, just in time in front of the crowd that has now come to assemble itself around the executioner's podium to view the bloody spectacle. The hooded, dark cloaked slaughterer is whetting his blade as the Queen and her royal entourage make their way to the Sovereign Seat. Once they reach, the Queen hastily sits down without waiting to address the crowd as is usually customary of her at such riveting proceedings . Apparently she's been having her own share of bloody cramps for the past three days.

"Tell me again, Henry, but why are the counts getting executed? Isn't it normal to make unaccounted for earnings when you're part of nobility?" enquired Lord Lindbergh, Duke of Essex as he addressed his man Friday.

"Yes, m'Lord so it has been till now. As of the recent edict by Her Majesty, everyone, rich or poor must surrender a sixth of all their earnings in gold or kind to the treasury to acknowledge that England will prevail on no outside elements for aid or assistance in times of unforeseen ill-happenings."

"And our counts here failed to pay up?"

"Its a little more intense than that m'Lord. They have even failed to disclose the whereabouts of their treasure troves. None have come forward to speak up and confess to the location. It is rumored that they are all part of some evil society set upon supreme world domination and have positioned themselves amongst us to infect our minds with vile thoughts. They have been acclaimed to converse with witches and are said to be disciples of Beelzebub himself. "

"Yes...well no chance for a raise in pay wages this year too, I suppose."

"No m'Lord!"

"Hmmm...so who's the executioner?"

"Your man-servant m'Lord, Baldrick."

"What? Are you out of your mind Henry? Baldrick; that smelly, worthless cretin? That little dung whalloper with a putrid sense of cooking which amounts to a fraction better than arsenic mixed with cowpat from the devil's own satanic herd of cattle?

"Yes, m'Lord."

"So what's the plan? How does he propose to kill them? Make them smell his pants?"

"Well, he claims to have a long lineage of executioners including his father - Sodoff Balders."

"Henry, the only pride Balders can place in his ancestral line would be for the shamefully tiny fortune they made out of selling sodding fertiliser to near Europeans on the claim of French face extract."

The crowd suddenly goes silent...dead silent. The executioner approaches the first victim, Count Fenny. As he raises his axe, the gleam of the blade swims over the sea of onlookers before it deals a massive blow to the back of the neck.

THUD!!!

The audience bob back from the fatality of the scene as the executioner gets ready to approach his next victim. Baldrick begins to grin as he takes notice of the yellow puddle forming near the count's feet.

"Just a couple of moments for a prayer and maybe a song to take your mind of things," jokes Balders as he raises the axe once again. This time the head rolls off the podium onto the floor below. The body twitches for a few seconds before it finally gives in and meets its maker.

Count Ponsenby begins wailing on about something he has forgotten to tell the officials about. The clicks of his chains chatter away as his feet tremble violently. Aclicketyclacketychimpanzee...!
Soon, Baldrick makes sure the clicking stops. And once again, the crowd goes silent after brief shrieks and screams, just to gather themselves.

Cuthbert stands tall and faces the audience with a renewed violence in his eyes. He was always one to denounce any knowledge of anything, once captured. Although such confidence is purely a waste at such a critical juncture. Once more, the head rolls out but not before a throat vein gets severed and squirts blood.

Lindbergh stares on silently as the crowd looks on in raw amazement at the sight of the last peron to lose head. But something is unusual this time round.

"Is something wrong, Lord?" enquires Henry, sensing the concern.

"Something is always wrong, Henry. The fact that I am not a millionaire aristocrat with the sexual capacity of a rutting rhino is a constant niggle....but right now that isn't what bothers me."
As Balders lifts his blade to complete his final errand for the day, he notices how Farrow is almost shivering from the view in front of them. The already decapitated heads lying before him has already twisted stomachs and people around have come to terms within a brief moment of vomit.

Suddenly, a cry out from the podium trails out all across the square. Farrow yields to pressure.

"Wait!!! I know where the gold is hidden. I'll talk! Please spare me..."

Lindbergh knows Balders. The man would wrestle his own mother for an hour extra in bed, and certainly wouldn't halt an execution of his own accord if he could save his siesta schedules, even though it meant imminent fortune; unless it were not a direct order from Her Majesty. The order arrives, but only a second too late. As the messenger yells out, "Hold the axe!" The executioner has already crossed the point of no return, completing his final task.

The crowd including the queen gasps as the head rolls slowly across the planks of wood.

"Hahahaha..." laughs Lindbergh as the show is now finally over and people are now preparing to disperse.

"Why do you laugh m'Lord?" Henry asks, perlexed.

"Hahaha...Henry...the Queen should begin to learn from the Greeks," sniggers the nobleman.

"What is that m'Lord?"

"Don't hatchet your counts before they chicken."

The Politically Correct Pail

"Pipe down, this instant people," wheezed out Mrs. Frescia as she very gracefully placed Principles of Alkalinity and Solubility for the Slow Practitioner very neatly next to her box of chalk and duster.
"My head feels like its just been through a mincer. This migraine will be the end of me if not for all the chaos that you cause me each devastating day of pedagogic vocation I have to undego with you."

The class shushed themselves immediately, as Frescia let the noise die down on its own accord.

"We're really sorry miss," apologised Kevin from the end of the class. "A migraine must be quite a headache, is it not?" he inquired with a cheeky grin pasted on his face.
No sooner had he completed his silly statement when Frescia extracted a short stub of chalk from her box and launched it towards the rear. One and three twenty seventh of a second later the little dusty writing implement was sailing its way at breakneck speed above the sea of heads just before it landed a sharp sting right above Kevin's temple. He winced at the pain and cowered down, his smile condensing and his face flushing from the abrupt embarrasment. The class, unable to contain itself broke out in a frenzy of commotion comprising of cheeky chuckles and diminutive giggles while Frescia stood dreary eyed, still nursing her aching head.

The pupils once again, sensing the tension emanating from the front of the room, conducted itself in good grace and quietened down immediately for fear of provoking any further aggravation. Frescia's eyes rolled while she exhaustively thought, 'I've to be in a room full of half dimwitted, overly spunky kids, fill their every waking moment with a love for learning, instill a sense of pride in their ethnicity, behaviorally modify any disruptive behaviour, observe them for signs of abuse, fight any culturally fascist beliefs they may harbour, anarchist ideals, the war over drugs, be a paragon of virtue larger than life and encourage a respect for the cultural diversity of others, while also teach them chemistry. And I have to do all of this with a piece of chalk, a book, a bulletin board and a starting salary that scores under pimp commission. I need alcohol and valium.'

A quiet knock on the classroom door was more than sufficient for Frescia to allow herself to breathe a sigh of relief from chaos and the class to dwindle back into the usual chatter.

Ten minutes passed and the door to the room opened once again, having Frescia enter slowly, looking a lot less sick than she had been before she went out. The class went silent once again. Behind her followed an unfamiliar male face into the room of bewlidered looks. The looks of instant curiosity were more than prominent on each fellow's screwy face, leaving the girls to stare in lascivious awe at the man in question.

He stood 6 feet tall, well built with a face that seemed too bucolic and chiseled for a roomful of chemistry students.

"Class, meet our freshman entrant for this year - Jacques Gaultier."
The class recited in unison, "Hiiiiiiii....Jacques!"
"Hello," came the reply from the new entrant as he smiled and scanned the crowd in front as if looking for a mirage of some welcoming smile.
"Jacques here is from Colmar, France and it's his first time in our country, so I trust you will all make him feel completely comfortable in his new hometown and school," continued Frescia.
"Yes miss," came another unified reply as she silently thought to herself, '...bloody inconsiderate fucks. I hope this one brought his brains along from France. French kisses, French wine, French toast, French movies and French breath. Nom de dieu de putain de bordel de merde de saloperie de connard d'enculé de ta mère. Its like wiping your arse with silk.'

Frescia ushered him towards an aisle between the benches where there appeared to be vacant seats. Jacques made his way down the class amidst the coveting stares of the young women and the disgruntled look of haughty young men. Apparently, Gillian Cooper was the one who got the chance to smell Jacques' cologne. Jacques sat himself beside her after greeting her with a smile and a smart but soft spoken "Hello." Gillian smiled back and beckoned with her hand towards the chair beside her, informing him of its availability. As Jacques occupied his location, he was trying to cognitively ward of the inquiring stares of the class. Frescia noted the unwarranted attention Jacques was geting and boomed out to the class to get out their books and get ready for another session.

Butch Bailey yelled out cheerfully from the back,
"Miss... does that mean that we have one of them abse...err...absiday...ummm...new people in the class?"
"The word you're looking for Mr. Bailey, is 'abecedarian' and no he isn't out of elementary school. It'll just take him some time to get used to our scholastic routines."
Butch cowered down in his seat to dispel any focus from his side of the classroom.
"Use a new word ten times and it shall be yours for life" came the proverbial announcement from Frescia.
Somewhere at the back of the class Rajat Shourie was chanting away in cheeky softness, "Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda, Amanda"

The topic for the day was a practical approach for students to find the chemical composition of pond water; namely alkaline, nitrite and nitrate.
"Right class, this experiment will require a few samples of ammonia compounds, nitrites and possibly a biologic converter and most importantly some pond water. Who's willing to undergo the laborious task of going over to Speyside and filling a canister full for the experiment?"

Frescia looked around at a crowd of apathetic faces before her eyes settled on the new entrant. "Maybe the young man who's just joined us may like to take up the task at hand...yes Jacques?" Jacques' face lit up, not really at the thought of going through manual drudgery, but just for the simple reason that he was chosen for a task on his first day in a foreign school.
"Ms. Cooper, would you be so kind as to gather whatever little is left of yourself and accompany Jacques around the school premises so that he doesn't lose his way?" continued Frescia, more an imposition than a requisition.
"Sure miss, I'd be glad to be of help."
'I'm sure you would' thought Frescia as she rolled her eyes praying for the day to end sooner.

The pair walked out of class, and the school compound with Gillian leading the way. She held Jacques hand while walking, affixing a stare that could almost burn a hole into the side of his face.
"Is it too far from here, Ms. Cooper?" inquired Jacques oblivious to her gaze, as they walked almost a metre into the ground.
"Call me Gill. It isn't too far."
"Shall we drive it down?"
"Up!"
"Up?"
"Yup, its over the dune just near the foothill. You own a car?"
"Well, yes. My father does atleast. Its his. I steal it early mornings to avoid the bus."
"Isn't that a dangerous decision to take?"
"A man with such muddled priorities does not deserve such a fine automobile. Arthur had his Excalibur, I have the Ford - close!"

Gillian giggled at the amusing replying, and followed him towards the car lot.
"Goodness, you have the brand new Ford Crown." she stuttered when she caught sight of the vehicle they were approaching.
"I'm impressed. You know about cars, yes?"
"Oh yes, I work part time in a garage after school hours."

The pond looked beautiful, just as it always did. Frogs ribbited and little freshwater fishes performed their gymnastics for no particular audience.
Jacques filled up the canister, a brimful and latched on the lock to secure the container. They lingered near the pond overlooking the picturesque countryside and Gillian stood alongside Jacques, utterly thrilled at being together with a devastatingly handsome Frenchman in a charming suburbia. Her shortlived fantasy was well...shortlived when they agreed that it was time to head back.

Jacques carefully maneuvered the car over the fairly steep elevation. The coming down would be quite an effort considering the car was heavy on chassis weight and Jacques was saving up on fuel consumption leaving the gear on neutral to let the car roll down on its own. As the descent began, Jacques kept his foot on the brakes to curtail unnecessary acceleration. The ride was smooth and the Cooper girl was smiling nervously. Something seemed amiss.

The car was accelerating faster now. Jacques futile efforts at keeping the car under control proved fruitless as the car picked up speed. Fear gripped her as she held her seat tightly.
"Go slow." she pleaded beseeching.
"I can't. My brakes are not working."
"What? Couldn't you have told me that before we got into this fucking dodgemobile? Maybe you could recite an Our Father"
"I'm Buddhist."
"What a time to be talking religion."

Faster!

"If we make it through this alive remind me never to introduce you to the rest of my friends."
"I will keep that in mind."

Jacques kept the car straight as it rolled down, stretched over to Gillian's side and pushed open her door.
"Get out!" he yelled.
"Out? Oh fuck you too, you fucking quirk. Keep your hands on the wheel. Christ, I don't wanna die with an unbroken hymen."
"You've never had sex?"
"Let's pretend that we don't know each other alright?"

The car was nearing the foot of the hill when the passenger door flung itself open. Instantaneously, a push and a shove followed, causing Gillian to spill out of the passenger side. She hit the grass and the first law of motion took care of the rest.

Back in the classrooms there was massive commotion. The staff department was running loose like a bunch of wild geese cackling away at other teachers and students alike.
The school assembled near the pavilion outside the school premises.
Rajat was running around looking for Kevin. And after five minutes of dedicated searching in chaos, he found him staring across the ground along with a crowd of faculty. As he reached Kevin's side he inquired out of breath,

"What's all the fuss about?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Don't try me bitch. What's up?"
"Well apparently...(sigh)...Jacques and Gill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water and I'm not talking nursery fucking rhymes here..."

My Visual DNA

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Wasted Weekend of Wheezing

A sinus, whilst still retaining its reputation as a 'sensory minus' may be the most olfactorily disturbing cavity that has ever occurred to my nasal tract.
Sure, we sneeze a gesundheit now and then, but that doesn't mean we should squander away precious money to sedate ourselves with 'great expectorants'.
I've been down with one of those seasonal fevers again for the standard 4-day duration. My head was locked voraciously in 'cold' war with my nose, but they've both s(n)orted out their differences now.
And to speak no less of my voice. The vocals threatened a serious vacationing but came back after complaining of a 'congestion' in throats...err...the roads!

No panni, therefore only bullshit here

Connaught Place.
A prominent Delhi street? I dunno. I just connaught place my finger on it.
I'm sorry, I needed a way to start off this piece.
I'm breaking off from the regular blogarithmic rules of blatant banality of bratty bflubbertyblfgpludigabbafella.
So this blog is not really a blog in itself but more of an understanding. An understanding that I make when I blog. Did that make sense? Answers need not be posted as comments for this one.
Write a story long enough to keep the story going and short enough to keep it sweet. That's one of those melodic lines that imitate fraud fakirs.
So this one time...at office...I was getting an ip address assigned to my desktop and the technician needed to spell out the computer name to his counterpart on the other end of the telephone,
'L...aww??? L forrrr Lyun.
B. B for...uhh... Boi.
T! T-T. Aishu...T...ah for Thendi.
C-Rrow, Two. Ah...LBT02.'

Speaking of C-Rrows. Do you know I'm from a C-rrow malabar catholic sabha? I knew. The technicality of the topic always created a confusion as to why would anyone name a religious sect Zero for any particular reason unless its doctrines prescribe it to be a community full of people with a strong inferiority complex.
Then I learned. I'm Syro-Malabar. Now try and pronounce Syro any other way you possibly can. 'Sigh-row' does sound cool in some elitist manner. Makes me feel like the evil cousin of gyro. But when you postfix a 'Malabar' immediately after, it kinda loosens the ends.

So anyways, getting back to more plausible conversation, I've just come to realise that bankers really aren't smart folks. They just like to think such extremities. They'd rather confuse poor banking consumers into believing that a banker's job isn't an easy one. People that sit in banks just don't know how to converse clearly and effectively.

So there I am, sitting, one week into the job and I've been approached upon to create an FS - Functional Specs for a new development that's going to be happening to the Vectus application wherein we would be assigning new scoring procedures as per policy lab rules (oh my God, its catching on). I type out the whole piece of lit with atleast 4 paragraphs causing the word 'tenure' to occur thrice in each para. I check it-double check it-proof read-fool-proof read it-edit-cut-copy-check-version it-print it and give it to policy managers for approval.

The Head of Credit Risk Management smiles, asks me of the peculiarity of my name and any possible meaning that it may denote and at the same time reads through the FS, when he suddenly scratches out something on the paper and writes below it and twists his face before passing its comment.

'You've misspelt tenor.'

I'm quite certain I haven't, considering I ran the spellchecker over the whole damned thing twice you crazy butcher of documentation.
'Ok sir, I'll get that corrected.'

I take back the FS, go back to my desk, read it over again. 'Tenure', yes that's it, it's correct. I think about it it in my mind over and over again. A particular term of or period of time - Tenure. There are two spellings to the same thing? I look for past documentation, rummage through old worn out box files of yore that lie at the back of the archive chamber of the retail banking office.

TENOR????

Holy Mary, Mother of God, they've been mispelling 'tenure' as tenor for years now. I go to the policy managers just to find out what I can do. And precious advice has deemed me to be quiet about the whole thing.
'Luciano Pavarotti is a tenor and we definitely ain't referring to him when we're making policy rules'
'It's what's been used for years and it'll remain like that. Its correct. That's how we spell it here.'

I go back to my desk and can't help but sit and sob silently as I see myself murder the English language.

Patent is a virtue...and nothing more.

Jin Tao Ling and Rishab Afaq, both opulent members of the Ludovico En' Dante Metaphysical Forum of Grand Fenwick, sit at the coffee table of the reform club trying to decide on a new topic of discussion.
Little are they aware of how they are soon to revolutionise standard procedures of a very commonly executed activity of everyday life.
Jin and Rishab are also thoughtfully executing fluent gaming tactics in their heads whilst also playing Oware - a known variant of the famous Mancala games. The heat of Beirut does not cause the illustrious pair to turn their undaunted focus from the stone tablet before them.
Jin looks up from the game and mutters out loudly, "I am going to lose and you know it, so stop this and let us go into the reading room for some cockscomb and some cornsmut, I do believe I'm starving something furious."
Rishab nods his approval, takes the tablet back to the gaming cupboard and parks it back into its alloted space.
They both walk towards the teak sanctuary at the end of the foyer, now prestigiously titled 'Durban'.
Inside are slothful seniors sitting around, sipping - some on cuban coffee, some on clay oven whisky, while some touching base with some mild opiates.
The gentlemen walk over to Butrus, the host of the saloon, who immediately guides them to a modest space wherein they are taken care of with port, succulent hors d'oeuvres, pipes, tobacco, opium and colombian cocaine. The pair thank their patron and sit down to enjoy the remaining of the evening.
"What should the topic for tomorrow be?" inquires Jin.
"Cows"
"Cows?"
"Cows"
"By cows, you surely do not mean the mature female of domestic cattle of which the male is called `bull'"
"I most certainly do"
"You have been smoking some very expensive hashish my dear friend and I think the price for such savoury herbs is finally rendered you daft? I daresay...cows?"
"Cows are essential to our life on this planet"
"Certainly so, without much doubt, but it surely isn't the appropriate topic for the crowd at the the forum."
"Do you use pegs at home?"
"Pegs?"
"Pegs"
"Clothes pegs?"
"Yes."
"Of course, I do."
"We shall combine pegs and cows and have this discussion."
"Pegs and cows, you are most certainly joking sir. How are we to bring together the correlation of two such disparate variants?"
Rishab picks up the pipe lying beside him and ushers the attendant to his side to help him with the task of filling the opium and lighting it. The attendant performs his task in a most impeccable manner and leaves Rishab with a nicely lit pipe.
Standard smoking room etiquette dictates the smoker to avoid expiring smoke in short stiff winds into the air, but rather to let the fume creep itself out from between the lips and let it hover and cloud above oneself.
Rishab smokes and smiles at Jin Tao, as if he is going to reveal something that no one had ever heard of before.
"The possibilities of combining the two concepts are endless and the patents that may be provided will be very rewarding."
"I don't believe I understand," asks Jin Tao pleasantly puzzled by now.
"Allow me to clarify. Are you aware of the painstaking labour that is assigned into the task of extracting the milk for your early morning coffee?"
"I've never thought it a necessity, although now you make it seem quite a phenomenon."
"It is, no doubt. In fact, the government secretly plans to provide gracious subsidies to the institution or individual who manages to come out with a widely operative and efficient manner to milking cows."
"How strange, although I'm still dubious about its viability. Have you considered a solution?"
"Therein is felt the presence of the inimitable peg."
"My ears are yours as long as this conversation extends."
"If one manages to agitate the udders of the cow via the clamping of a clothes peg then we have in our hand, a solution."
"Maybe so, but then udders require significant amount of constant stimulus to allow for the milk to eject the tracts."
"I've thought of that as well, a thin string tied to the peg can very well solve this purpose."
"I don't see the particular advantage in this procedure. It isn't very different from the one that is being widely followed all over the world now."
"Aha! This procedure significantly reduces the risk of the dairyman being attacked by a vindictive cow. It is also a great way to avoid being the bureau for cattle defecation while milking."
"Hmmm, I see. But, we need more substantial benefits if we are to honestly have our discovery approved by the notary."
"The procedure also allows for multiple cows to be milked at a single point in time."
"How so?"
"Have all the cows fitted with pegs having strings attached to them and extend the strings to the corner where the dairyman sits, milking the cows. All he needs to do is keep pulling on the string for as long as the process requires it.
"Hmmm, interesting , although the pulling need not necessarily be manual. It may be automated via the use of a pulley, a crank shaft and some coal. I have the design lying in my office. I can do the necessary modifications."
"Excellent! I don't think there's a better way to approach this."
"There exists something called a V-belt. It was designed by a colleague of mine from Portmouth - Bartley Colemn. It's a belt that rests on a contraption, that when wired by electricity and allows for one to place one's buttocks on it, allows for a relaxing way to chisel and sculpt a rear, close to that of Adonis."
"Okay, but does this add to our ideas?"
"In a simple way, yes."
"How so?"
"Well if we sit a cow onto an extended machine of sorts and switch on the equipment, and keep milking him at the same time, we should be able to procure ourselves a healthy flow of milk shake, don't you think?"

An Ode to Hector Hugh Munro

Let us dedicate this tune to 106 years of satire and witty homosexual remarks.
Please click on the 2nd track for the pleasurable ode.

This apparently refers to him being in a state of intoxication from the satanic brew.