Pawn of Paranoia - 1

(Been blogging for 4-5 years now, changing blogs, changing layouts, shamelessly publicizing and so on. Some of my writing was supposed to be published but it never did work out. My dream is to get it published someday. I just need some motivation for that to happen. Please do come back to this space at least once every week. If you guys can give me some motivation, nothing like it! Thanks :)


He stood at the edge of the terrace, five floors above his death. He wanted to plunge into the certainty of death and end all the other uncertainties. He wanted to destroy the web of complexity and senselessness that his mind had woven around him. Just one more step to death…

With that thought he took a step forward and dived head-long into the sea of tar and concrete below. He was unlucky enough to survive the fall. In fact, he was really pissed to open his eyes in the hospital and realize that he was not dead; he was not in heaven or hell; He hadn’t even minded the thought of going straight to hell for eternity, because hell seemed better than what was going on in his life.

1 year ago…

In the confines of his miniscule home in a crowded locality, Raman the inspector was executing a series of knuckle push-ups. He was young, fiery and intelligent. He was rising among the ranks of the police force with amazing agility of mind and body. He had cracked 3 murder cases and 4 burglaries, and had an unblemished record as a detective par excellence. Now, he was working on a case involving a serial killer. This particular killer’s obsession was that he would decapitate the head of the victim and take it with him. No one knew what he was doing with the heads. The heads just went missing. There was no sign of robbery, there was no motive for murder, and the victims seemed to be random. Raman was assigned the case.

It happened for the first time just after he finished the push-ups.

“So, are you going to find the killer?” A deep voice questioned Raman from the shadows.

He was startled for just a millisecond but his reflexes were as sharp as the edge of a Swiss-knife; Raman’s hand bulleted out onto the table and clutched his .32 caliber Webley revolver tight and pointed it towards the voice in the darkness.

“Come out of the dark now. How come I didn’t hear you before?”

A lean, bearded man stepped out of the darkness into the narrow radius of light, the source of which was a single bulb which illuminated just a fraction of the room.

“I am one with the shadows, Raman. My name is Serriver. I have been asked to tell you that you are the one who has to save the world from doom, and to guide you through this.”

“Are you crazy? There is no doomsday. Who are you?"

“Raman, Raman, Raman. Wasn’t I being absolutely clear about who I was and why I’m here? Put the gun down. Here, let’s talk.”

Serriver sat on the ground cross-legged. Raman slowly lowered his revolver and sat down face to face with Serriver.

The light bounced off Serriver in a translucent, ethereal way. His eyes were black as black can get. He started talking.

“This world is going to be doomed. All the evil of the world has been compounded into one single being called Hangi. This Hangi is engineering the biggest nuclear weapon in the world. He plans to cause a nuclear holocaust and wipe out all life on this planet.”

“I know I’m dealing with a crazy idiot who is wasting my time. What do you want?”

“Look, Raman. I have been destined to help you out. You cannot hurt me. Your mind will not allow it.”

Suddenly a shot reverberated in the tiny house, shaking its foundations. Raman couldn’t believe it because it seemed to him that at the exact moment when he pulled the trigger, his hand involuntarily pulled back and made the bullet go elsewhere. Serriver was still sitting there, scratching his beard thoughtfully. He hadn’t even flinched when the shot was fired.

“You’ve got to learn to trust me, Raman. You cannot hurt me. I cannot hurt you. That’s the way it’s going to go. You have got to kill Hangi. Maybe a century ago, no one would’ve thought about nuclear or atomic weapons. And yet, in 1947 the fateful atomic bomb blasts in Japan wiped out two whole cities. Today, nearly six decades later, why is it so difficult to believe that a weapon to destroy the world is being engineered?”

Raman held his head in his hands. This was not making sense to him. Who were Serriver and Hangi? Why did they have such weird names? A headache started creeping slowly into existence. A slow, pounding ache which laughed through the pounding and caused immense pain.

“Hangi is powerful. He is the compounded evil being, and has many resources at his disposal. He will send people to kill you all the time if he knows of your existence. Keep your head down. Stop hunting down stupid idiot serial killers and wasting your time, because if you don’t stop Hangi, the mother and father of all killers, he will annihilate this planet and there won’t be anyone left to kill.”

“Why did it have to be me?” Raman questioned.

“You are the best of the best. You just don’t know it. You are the elite and you wield the power to save the world.”

“No, no, no! Get out, you piece of crap!”

In his frustration, Raman picked up a book and threw it at Serriver, but just like before, his hand seemed to lose control in the last moment and the book landed elsewhere.

Through his bearded and lean countenance, Serriver smiled. It was strange to see this figure, translucent and ghostly, sitting there and talking about doomsday.
Suddenly, the sound of sirens could be heard. They were getting closer.
“There, his agents have found out about us. See how fast he functions.” Serriver shouted through the alarmingly increasing noise of the approaching sirens.

“But who are they?”

“They are cops, corrupted for his cause. They have been mentally poisoned to strike you down.”

“But I am a cop too!”

“Ah, but your mind does not bear the venom which they have!”

“Ok, now what am I to do?”

“Run. Run to the terrace.” Serriver counseled.

Adrenaline pumping through his entire body, Raman grabbed his revolver and sprinted up the stairs to the terrace above the fourth floor. The sirens were getting closer.

“Now what is to be done? I don’t want to gun down other cops, good or bad.”

“Then why the hell did you bring the revolver?”

“That’s like my safety net.”

“Run to the top of the water tank. Quick.”

Further down, Raman could hear agitated voices. Probably the corrupt cops were searching for him. But they would never find him when he was hiding on the water tank, the highest vantage point on the terrace. He climbed the ladder to the water tank, pulled the ladder up so that the cops couldn’t use it to get to him, and sweaty and exhausted, he fell asleep on the water tank, his heart thumping loudly, mind boiling in turmoil.

In the morning he opened his eyes, and saw the unusually black and translucent eyes of Serriver piercing him.

“That was close, but this has just started.”