the great adventures of a fallen star part iiiiiiiiiii

I make the impossible seem possible.

I am the greatest superhero ever to come out of the state of Maryland or even the D.C. metropolitan, tri-state.

A black, triple X t-shirt; dark grey sweat pants that magically hovering under my butt; roughed up Timberland boots missing a shoelace; a faded black bandana covering my long, curly, black hair; a black Ghostface-style jacket made from fake rabbit fur is far from normal superhero attire. Spandex and cape was the style for the last millennium. I am your unconventional hero, armed with only a 52 lethal assault array of chaotic force that lies in a small box, which rests in my pocket. Once taken out, the shock and awe powers will leave opponents in dismay as if they were hypnotized, followed by the underhanded words, “pick a card.” Word. A menacing and lethal combination of style and charisma, to my knowledge, is unattainable by the average American youth. I make it look easy. I give David Blaine and any other fake me out magician a run for their money. I am so damn good at times I amaze myself. It should be illegal that I possess a deck of cards in my hand.

Not only is my sleight hand quicker then the eye. Every movement is stealth like that of a cheetah possessing lightening quick reflexes. But, I also have the sleight of mouth. Every letter to every word unites to formulate a sentence which can cause many affect to the feeble human mind. Affects vary from anger to confusion, to anger again and sometimes confusion. Every now and then I do make people laugh or smile, most likely to quell my ever growing boredom.

♠

Silence is the best answer to the stupid. The fool has his answer on the tip of his tongue.
-Arab Proverb

With highly technological gadgets orbiting his environment like satellites, our new hero is filed with the stress of making a mere eight dollars an hour. From batteries to microphones to wearing a black collared polo shirt as his uniform, this child was on the route to survive college life. Stocking shelves, taking inventory and having to meet monthly sales quotas can take a toll on a young man. Plus, the added pressure of school and other social aspects encircled by the university life can add boulders to a growing man’s shoulder.

This hero was slightly over weight, unintelligent, and unattractive. He was in infatuated by a young girl who possessed a hypnotizing smile. He would walk her to class and wait ever so patiently for her; at times he would even attend her classes; even though his campus was 25 miles away. His relentless attempt of romancing went unnoticed. And before his very eyes, the young heroine was swept off her feet, falling madly in love with another man.

What can a man do when his heart is shattered? A million pieces, facing cardiac arrest, the hero has no choice but to live his life. A broken heart can never mend, and a broken heart can make a man do terrible things. This man started his journey back to single life in a terrible way, making only one mistake.

Cable connectors and wireless communication devices, our hero returns to his weekend job at Radio Shack in the local mall. Behind the register, as he assists the herd of battery consuming shoppers. When finally a customer arrives, 40 at age, old enough to be his mother, they start conversing in Urdu. She asked politely about his studies, and he replied stating he was a student at the University of Maryland. She then asked if he knew of her nephews, (the rule with Pakistani’s is that there are 2 degrees of separation.) He replied, yes, he knew of them. He could have stopped there and continued on to a lovely conversation about curry and samosas with the elder women or in Pakistani terms auntie. But he was now full of spite and jealousy, and as if the weight has taken its toll, he said one of them has been fooling around with a girl. This Aunt had no idea how to react, Pakistani culture is much different then the premarital sex or relationships that occur every other second in American society. The immodest sexual practice is new trend for humble Pakistani immigrants.

♠

Words. They are powerful things. Nations have fallen. Wars have been commenced. Lives have been slain. The power of words is the most unexplainable phenomenon in the universe other then my forever increasing cell phone bill.

People do not know when to shut-up. They keep talking and talking expecting nothing will happen with their inane ranting. Severe headaches and migraines can form, even small tumors known to cause cancer, with all this blah-blahing. Mental contusions can cause mental illusions, which therefore may proceed with a beating causing bleeding, bruising and contusions. It is spectacular how the human tongue works without thinking as if it has no correlation to the brain.

♠

During a dynamic debate that discombobulated the psych with my salafi advisor, my phone began to vibrate. I do not like ringers, nor would I pay a ridiculous amount for the latest ringers advertised. It’s another way the man has devised to swindle me out of my non-sufficient funds. Anywho, the phone vibrated, I never answer the phone immediately. Good things are worth the wait, and nothing is more gooder than me. Noting it was Hassan, my mentally dilapidated cousin, I tentatively ignored the call. In theory if it was important, he would call back.

He called back.

He asked where I was, what I was doing and who I was with before I could I even say hello. Noticing a great deal tension in his voice I instantaneously noted that something was wrong. He then stated someone was going to die tonight, and ordered me to meet him at his house as soon as possible.

My salafi advisor overheard our conversation and recommended that I stay away from trouble. I cogitated to the advice advised by my salafi advisor. If I were to heed his advice more often, I would not have a story to write. I wished him peace, and went along my merry way.

A long car ride between my salfai advisor’s house and my cousin’s house can unravel many thoughts that play in my mental theater. I am infatuated with those thespian mermaid twins that my imagination conjured, and Daffy Duck serving us cotton candy by waterfalls made of chocolate milkshakes like a Willy Wonka factory. Bugs Bunny making funny jokes with an Arab accent, I love my mind and the short entertaining theatricals it plays. But before my imagination could turn indecent and vile, I arrived at my cousin’s house. Darn.

Before entering the basement of his house, questions after questions flooded my brain. Why do I always wear sunglasses indoors? Is it permissible to tuck in one’s undershirt into their underwear? Most importantly, is it uncivilized to floss my teeth with my long hair? Oh, and why am at my cousins house; and who is he going to kill?

Upon entering I was greeted with cacophony and vivid group of people, reminding of an immigration office. There were at least fifteen people, maybe sixteen, possibly seventeen and eighteen, if I was included. Heavy hitters, rowdy rapscallions, treacherous thugs, who are careless when it comes to human emotions, human welfare and laws that preside over them, were still left in the dark on the reasoning of their attendance.

Who shall wreak the eternal slumber after the nightmare we bestow?

After calming the swarm of people, congregating in the crammed basement, Hassan addressed the crowd.

“we are gonna kill that son of a female dog.[censored]”

“who?’ Someone in the crowd rightfully inquired.

“azim.” Hassan answered. “that homo told my aunt eye was messing wit a girl. then my aunt told my mom and now i’m in trouble. she went 2 radio shack 4 batteries and all she got was his stories of me.”

An apology can never be a panacea for most sensitive issues. If Napoleon would have apologized to the native Haitians in Papa New Guinea, would a second world war have transpired? The answer is no. Plain and simple, using history as an example, apologies don’t work. If Michael Jackson just keeps on saying, “my bad” after all his Ninja Turtle themed slumber parties, would that be acceptable? NO. No weapons of mass destruction, so what? Gandhi was a pacifist, and look at India, now harboring Al-Qaeda terrorist. Say no to diplomacy say no to terrorism. Say yes to Paris Hilton.

What was my role in this debacle? After all, I am good for instigating a quarrel. Now to sound braggadocios but I can rouse up a conflict between Martin Luther King and Mother Theresa on who can pacify the conflicts in my life. Accordingly, the hoodlums gave me the phone after connecting it to our new victim; and told me to do what I do best.

“meow.”

“huh?” Azim questioned not sure if what he heard.

“I tawt I heard a puddy cat.” I replied to his confusion.

“what the fudge?” He responded, leaving him even more confused.

“I did, I did hear a puddy cat.”

I could expand more on our senseless conversation, but due to graphic words and regrettable statements I would rather not offend any readers. But, there is a methodology that I abide when confronted with such matters.

Three rules to infuriate an adversary:

1. Insult their mother.

2. Insult their sister, if there is no sister applicable then proceed to insult another female family member such as an aunt, niece or my personal favorite their grandmother.

3. Insult their mother.

He gave us his address. Mission successful.

Sixteen or seventeen maybe even eighteen individuals including me departed from Hassan’s basement to teach this poor fellow a lesson. You see, this child, Azim, was coerced by our persuasive technique to get into an altercation. It would be rather nefariously inhumane of us if we would pound his head in without a sufficient motive. So, we angered him enough to seek a legitimate reason to pound our heads. Everyone in life has certain strings that can be controlled; I was to be that marionette to put on show not only for the readers but the sixteen or seventeen other delinquents.

To make a long story short we arrived at his house, only to see him not there. Actually, we were not sure which house was his; so we called him to step out and meet us at another spot. (We had no intention of meeting at another place, this was our surprise tactic.) While someone called him one of Hassan’s friend opened up his trunk and started handing out weapons. I would hate to be stereotypical but his Asian friend handed out a pair of nunchucks. A few baseball bats and metal pipes were dispensed out as well; those always add excitement to a fight.

Juggling his keys, Azim ran out his house and towards his car. Visibly intoxicated the stench of the vile alcohol could be seen through his actions, barely able to run as if his body stood on rubber pegs. His judgment was impaired; it took awhile for him to realize that he was surrounded by 16 or 17 even 18 hostile people.

I have never seen fear as I did strike on that man’s face. I saw the white’s of his eyes even in the midnight hour that glowed like being powered by an Edison invention. His hands and speech began to shake, barley able to hold on to his car keys. Now, given the anarchic circumstance it would have been the perfect opportunity to apologize. A man’s ego sometimes is too powerful for a 5 letter word to disperse from their tongue.

Hassan confronted the poor man, asking for a simple apology. He was circled by us hoodlums like blood thirsty vultures on to their prey, who were curious as to the outcome of the situation. He reached in his pocket and quickly grabbed his only life saver, a cell phone. Hassan slapped it way, the echoes of it breaking were the only thing that was heard, when all of sudden from afar a voice was heard.

“hey, azim!” A man, who was witnessing the whole catastrophe from his porch, asked. “u need help?”

“no.” Azim responded as if he could handle the situation in diplomatic means.

“ok, bye.” The voice disappeared in the darkness.

That was a minor inconvenience to cure our little problematic parasite. There was a long delay and it seemed as if our trip was fruitless. We hoodlums were beginning to get restless as Azim was relentless on not apologizing. And, before we could encourage Hassan to either fight, or bounce; he stuck him in the face with his fist. I seen it in slow-motion as the impact of the hit made Azim do a total 520 degrees, pleasing the whole crowd. Then, to add insult to injury, Hassan kicked him in his large and cumbersome behind.

The problem with Zike lies within the fact that he does not care. He does not care for his family. He does not care for his house. He has nothing. No job. No car. No money. He has nothing and is nothing. So if we deal with him in military manners like the Bush regime; how would he retaliate? If the problem lies, then who knows if the answers are true?

"This ain't funny so don't you dare laugh. Just another case about the wrong path, straight and narrow or your soul gets cast." Slick Rick, A Children's Story