Back at his condo, S’lime stood out on the balcony overlooking all of Mumpie, his hands resting on the railing and toying with his trusty Colt revolver. He glanced back into the luxury penthouse. There was Laxita, glued to her Facebook profile page, as usual. S’lime sighed, turned around, and looked down at the colt. “You are my only true friend. And now, I have fought with my brother, the only person in the world who loves me -- without getting paid for it. No, not even one Rupee.”
He turned and marched back in with sudden conviction, and confronted Laxita.
She looked up, “You want to check your email? I’m almost done -- just give me another minute, I just found my mother who abandoned me when I was born...”
“Laxita, here..” He tossed her his wallet, his cell phone, and the keys to his car.
She looked up slowly, “S’lime, you are letting me drive your stretch Cadillac limo? I cannot accept.”
“No, babe, take it. You know, it’s just not working out, this thing between us.”
“S’lime, I cannot accept -- here!” She tried handing back the keys.
He shook his head, and gently folded her fingers back over the keys.
Tears sprang from her eyes. “S’lime, I cannot accept your Caddy!”
S’lime, suddenly shaken with emotion, shook his head as his own tears began to flow. “Why?? Why, now, Laxita? Why won’t you just drive away?”
Over on the enormous floor to ceiling TV, the show ‘Even a Schlep Like YOU can be a MILANAIRE -- Well Maybe’ started, and there was Jamal sitting with the host. S’lime stood staring in shock while the host asked Jamal the final question for 20 million Rupees.
S’lime waved his pistol-brandishing arm at it, and snarled at Laxita: “Go! Go back to Jamal!”
“No, S’lime, I cannot!” she cried.
S’lime glared into her face. “Why?! Why not?!!”
“Because, S’lime, I don’t know how to drive!”
In a sudden rage, he backhanded her face, leaving a long cut from his diamond ring. “You foolish slumdog girl! I have a chauffer, you know -- it is your own brother!!”
She fled the penthouse, crying and holding her painful wound.
The TV host stood up and lifted high in the air a clear plastic brief case that all could see -- Jamal, the studio audience, viewers all across the world, and later everyone on YouTube -- a brief case stuffed full with money. “Okay, Jamal Wilkes Bhoothi, slumdog turned suspicious AT&T independent sub-contractor, or whatever your occupation is, for the 20 million Rupees right here under that vast, vast nose of yours... You must answer the FINAL question!!” He leaned forward intently. Jamal leaned back in fear -- also because the host was too aloof to use deodorant.
The host of ‘Yo! Who Wants to be a Milanaire -- Yeah, Right!’ now asked: “Who invented the first weapon that would shoot, shoot, shoot many bullets right after each other, almost at the same time, but not exactly? Hmmm??!”
Jamal gulped and nervously looked at the audience. He wished Laxita was there watching, smiling, encouraging. But he knew no slumdog ever got a lucky break.
The host asked, “You want to ask the audience? I will let you?”
But Jamal shook his head.
“You want to ask me?”
Jamal looked at him suspiciously.
The host continued, “No -- come on, you can trust me. Come..” He suddenly led Jamal out of the TV studio, during the commercial break, down a long hallway, into the host’s posh office, over to the well-stocked bar in the corner, and ordered the beautiful bartenderiss to make him a Mai Tai. He asked Jamal if he wanted a drink. Jamal politely declined. He asked Jamal if he wanted a Coke at least. Jamal’s eyes grew wide with fear, he held his hands up waving them, and adamantly declined.
The host grinned slyly. “I like you, Jamal. The answer to the question ‘Who invented the first weapon that would shoot, many, MANY bullets is ... Gandhi! I want you to win. You see, I was once a slumdog like you. No, really! And just look at me now. Bollywood TV top dog!”
Jamal looked at him suspiciously.
The host led them back to the TV studio.
He sighed, “Well, I am a good host. Just relax, Jamal. Do you want a cup of tea, or coffee? How about a nice Italian Roast coffee to inspire you to become the world’s next Milanaire??” He turned around, leered at the TV camera, and winked. He poured two large mugs of steaming hot java. He lifted a small, ornate brass pitcher with the picture on its side of several elephants break dancing. “Do you take cream, Jamal??”
Jamal waved his hands, “No, no! No, coffee, sir!! No -- something awful might happen!”
The host asked, “You want to make one phone call? I let each guest make one, phone-a-friend lifeline call...”
Whack! The police Sergeant smacked Jamal in the face.
Jamal wailed, “I really knew!”
Whack! The Sergeant smacked him again.
Jamal cried, “But I really knew! I swear!”
Whack! He was smacked a third time. Sergeant Vinnie grabbed his boyhood Louisville slugger covered with all sorts of suspicious stains, and swung it back.
The Inspector laid a remonstrative hand on the Sergeant’s baseball bat. “Can’t you see he is telling the truth? Have you no pity, Vinnie? Where is that sense of fair play you Americans always boast about, hey? Boast, boast, boast, you Americans! ‘We are so rich! We are so humble! We are so magnanimous!’ That is all I ever hear. This poor slumdog needs our help. Sergeant, stitch up all his open wounds while I think...” And offhandedly he murmured: “Ah, yes, go, go, gadget plastic surgeon!”
Just then, the door of the precinct burst open, and in stalked S’lime, brandishing his Colt revolver with dashing bravado. He frowned at the Inspector, growled, “I’ve got a message from us slumdogs...” and filled him and Sergeant Vinnie full of lead. Chief Inspector Gadgetwupi gasped: “Go... go... gadget... memorial..” and a tombstone somberly rose up out of his turban.
As he untied his brother, S’lime spoke: “Go to your TV game show, little brother. Go win your chance to be a MILANAIRE. You will win -- it is written.”
S’lime walked dejectedly back to his condo. What a bad night for him! The power was out again and he had to use the stairs. By the time he got to his penthouse, he was very sweaty. So, he filled his enormous bathtub full of money and jumped in to dry off.
Just then, his boss, who was now the top gangsta of all Mumpie burst into the penthouse trilling in an obnoxious falsetto: “Oh, Lax-EEE-ta! It is I, your mystery online virtual boyfriend finally come to meet you in person! Where are you, my little Bengal tiger of love??” Looking around, not seeing her, he waved in his henchmen who had been lurking behind. “Find her, you silly boys -- but do not touch my princess of sublime delight, for whoever even touches her, I will bury up to his neck in the sand of my world class five-star personal golf course, with such a splendid view of the Indian Ocean, and designed by Donald Trump, I might add,.. and I will release ten cobras on him! That’s some bad can of Rupee-ass I’m going to open on anyone who hurts the love of my life...”
However, the boys only found Laxita’s laptop, still showing her recent Skype video conference with S’lime’s boss and herself, her image shockingly showing the slice along her cheek, the image frozen because Vista had again frozen.
“Boss, would you just come and look here!” cried one of the henchmen. “Chi, chi, chi, look at this mess, would you. Blood spots all over the white carpet. Quick! Someone get a bottle of club soda!”
The boss had turned red. Smoke was pouring out of his ears. His fists were clenched in balls of fury.
Inside the bathroom, S’lime heard noises outside and, hoping beyond hope that it was his ex-Laxita, called out: “Laxita, is that you, babe? Are you coming back to your S’limey-wimey-baby?? “
The bathroom door burst open and their stood his boss in the doorway, glaring in rage, surrounded behind with all his henchmen, each pointing an ominous weapon at S’lime.
S’lime whipped up the trusty Colt, filled his boss full of lead, and shouted, “God, I’m great!”
The henchmen filled the bathtub full of lead.
Finally, one of them noticed what was in the tub, waved his hands, and wailed in misery, “Stop shooting! Stop shooting, you silly, foolish henchmen. Do you not see what we are filling with holes?! That money will not ever fit in any ATM. Oh, chi, chi, for the dismal life of a Mumpie henchman...”
[ Good night, boys and girls! Tomorrow night is the shocking, surprise ending. Sweet dreams! ]
by DoUgLaS kEnDaLl
Author web site-------------> Web Link
Email comments or the Halloween combo to Golden Eagle Estates to---> doug@DougKen.com
:-) <-- warning to the humor impaired and other forum denizens