Starting off with the notes that Sikander Shah
left behind in his haste to escape the insatiable
appetite of applied intelligence, Faizan a.k.a.
Abdullah and his accomplice, one “Yoshimida,”
managed to fashion a rudimentary incendiary device,
which resembled nothing so much as an
aluminium dildo sporting ribbed protection.
This was embarrassing. But they had not
the time (nor the inclination, if truth be told)
to go back to the old, rather dilapidated
drawing board. Thus the intrepid
comrades-in-arms, having fortified each other
with shots of bombastic invective, sallied forth,
subatomic doohickey in tow, arriving
at the scene of a crime shortly after
said crime had been committed. An
inconsequential crime, if you must know.
Standing there in the heart of the unpoliced bazaar,
they held aloft their priapic weapon and,
chanting a chorus to what one eyewitness later swore
was the beat of a well-known Allan Faker number
(she couldn’t recall which), flipped
the switch marked “boom,” causing
much damage to themselves and to the
sixty year old newspaper boy. The ’paper boy’s
rusty bicycle, however, survived the blast,
merely tipping over into a foetid puddle standing
idly by the side of the road.
The first words of their chorus, the
only ones they were able to recite before
the ill-fated detonation, had been drowned out
for the half-dozen or so punters at
Feeja Bhatti’s All-night Roadside Pectopah
by another, more lethal blast:
the noxious dhamaal of a sated Jamal Shah breaking wind.
minos – octomber 2008
