There is one fact regarding myself that most individuals I encounter, or even come to know very well, never get a chance to realize: I am one fast motherfucker.
The decision to steal the baby was, in hindsight, motivated to a large extent by emotions rather than logic. After all, I must admit it was quite a rash act: I abruptly snatched the infant and began running. There was no plan, mind you. Nor was the act exactly covert; in light of the entire scenario that had unfolded prior to the actual theft and chase, a crowd of individuals had become fixated upon myself and the horrendously selfish woman with whom I was interacting.
Nevertheless, though, I ran. And I ran fast.
At first, there was no strategy; it was to simply run, hoping that my speed would result in my salvation. But alas, such an aspiration was little more than an empty dream; for the evil woman I was running from was driving a car, and an impressive one at that. While my feet were indeed a source of impressive mobility, they could not rival the speed of an automobile.
I quickly realized this, and thus began traversing common roads, roads which cars could easily travel. She followed me diligently, and quickly gained distance. Meanwhile, she was shouting obscenities the entire time: “Get that motherfucker! He has my baby!! Help!!!”
Fortunately, though, there was no attempt made to heed her complaints. The streets and storefronts were crowded, yet not a single individual came to rescue the baby. In my younger days, when I was quite the amateur anthropologist, I came to learn that securing help in a crowded environment is virtually impossible. Various theories have been postulated as to why this social phenomenon exists across all cultures, but only one catches my fancy. It is based on the notion that humans are entirely selfish creatures, and much of their motivation results from social status. In a large crowd, there is a greater degree of anonymity; nobody knows who you are, nor do they particularly care. Because of this, an attitude of apathy becomes pervasive. In sum, there becomes a societal fear that positive actions won’t be rewarded and negative actions won’t be punished, since individual identity is virtually nonexistent anyway. This is the anthropological explanation as to why cities are often such cold and hostile environments when compared to their rural and suburban counterparts.
But back to the matter at hand. Since she was in an automobile, I realized that my best bet would be to take pedestrian routes: back roads, small alley ways, unpaved territory.
Accordingly, I quickly veered into the residential territory that was located just a stone’s throw away from the bustling main streets. I was deftly maneuvering through the neighborhood, desperately trying to escape the wrath of this evil woman in a car – who was getting closer with each passing second -- when I saw what I thought would be my ticket to freedom.
A fence.
There is a second fact regarding myself that most individuals I encounter, or even come to know very well, never get a chance to realize: I can jump. Oh yes, I most certainly have what could aptly be categorized as, “high hops.”
The scenario, to the best of my memory, was as follows: I was running, high on adrenaline, with a baby in my arms. Behind me, now driving on grass, was a maniacal woman in a car. She was inching closer to me, and my intuition told me she would have no moral qualms in driving me over.
In front of me was a fence. It stood approximately four and three-fourths feet high. I didn’t have much time to properly analyze the physics of the entire situation, but I decided to follow my instincts and do the unthinkable: jump the fence.
Unsurprisingly, I cleared the fence with ease. Move over Carl Lewis, for I am the supreme triathlete.
Meanwhile, the malevolent woman in the car continued driving. She crashed into the fence, thus rendering quite a bit of damage to her precious car.
Bear in mind that the fence rested on private property. Shortly after she crashed her car into some innocent individual’s fence surrounding his home, a bald, slightly obese Caucasian man emerged. He began yelling profanities at this vile woman for recklessly driving on his property. She ignored him, and proceeded to hop the fence to continue chasing me.
By now I had gained a sizable distance from her, but was losing stamina. I had run quite a distance in the course of this chase, and was encumbered by a baby the entire time. My strategy would have to change. I needed to find a destination.
I continued intentionally looking for the most difficult path, hoping to lose my insanity-ridden stalker. This strategy also boasted the additional perk of further injuring the baby, rendering it near dead. I thought of intentionally killing the child, but feared that my stalker may indeed catch up to me, and I could thus serve a considerable amount of time suffering in incarceration. While I wanted to kill the baby, the long-term value of such an action seemed highly questionable.
The entire time I was thinking of where I could go: was there a haven in sight? A refuge for me to hide from this satanic woman?
And then, all of a sudden, it hit me: I was in Shree’s neighborhood. I could run to his home.
And that is exactly what I proceeded to do. I ran furiously to his home, carefully picking the shortest route. Along the way I passed a tree with the words “Shree loves Kelly” carved on it. Strange, I had never heard of a girl name Kelly, and found the idea of Shree carving these words into a tree to be the source of much amusement. I simply couldn’t imagine him doing something like that. The tree would surely be fodder for future conversations, I thought.
Finally, I arrived at the door of his apartment complex. I started buzzing relentlessly, but there was no answer. Finally, overcome by frustration, I tried to break the door open. Much to my surprise, the door was never locked. It was not a paradise that Shree and Raina were living in. No it was not.
I quickly ascended the stairs – there was no elevator – and reached Shree’s apartment. I was out of breath, and was panicking. I began to wonder exactly what I was thinking by snatching the baby. This was a first for me, as reflection is not an activity I frequently engage in.
Much to my good fortune, the door to Shree’s apartment was unlocked. But the matter was not entirely convenient, for my evil nemesis was still not too far away: I could hear her footsteps climbing the stairs. Furthermore, the lock to Shree’s door was broken – thus ensuring this witchy woman easy access to my good Indian friend’s humble abode. Salvation rested in the possibility that she did not know which apartment I entered.
So I walked into Shree’s apartment to find him sleeping on the floor. Naked. But that was the least of my concerns; my top priority was to find a place to hide the baby. I feared the insane woman would enter soon enough, and I wanted the evil baby’s presence to be a mystery.
Shree had no furniture; his apartment was entirely bare. Except for one thing.
A microwave.
So I took what I believe to be the most appropriate course of action: I inserted the baby, which was already struggling to hold onto its life, into Shree’s microwave.
Shree wakes up just as I’m putting the baby in the microwave. He’s still quite groggy, much to my good fortune. Explaining this entire scenario to a man of such conventionality would not be convenient.
He rubs his eyes as he addresses me: “Why the fuck,” he asks groggily, “are you putting a fucking baby in the microwave.”
The current dilemma is as follows: should I turn the microwave on? Should I roast this baby? Should I bombard this product of evil and selfishness with billions of electrons? I’m having difficulty making the decision, in light of the consequences I may face. So I turn to Shree to respond to his question. “No time to explain, my good Indian friend. Although I suggest you dress yourself, for an unfriendly visitor may invade your home at any given moment.”
He chooses not to heed my advice, opting to eye me with resentment instead. No matter, though; if he chooses to walk around naked in his own home, brandishing his unfit specimen, I suppose that is his prerogative.
I need to organize my priorities, I think to myself. Regain composure. Develop a strategy.
The door should be barricaded. But alas, there is nothing to barricade the door with; the entire apartment, which is disturbingly small to begin with, contains little more than a microwave and some cigarette butts in an ashtray. There’s a napkin on top of the microwave which appears to have some kind of a lame poem written on it. But that is all there is; there is no furniture, for Shree lives in a bizarre condition where he sleeps on the ground naked.
I am pacing the room now, frustrated beyond belief. Shree, beginning coming to his senses, looks at me: “Dude. What the fuck man.” It appears that has a vague understanding of what is happening, although his grogginess is still impeding him from making much of an interrogation. Much to my disappointment, he continues asking his questions in a boring and declarative tone. “Why are you here. And why is there a baby in my microwave.”
“It’s a long story, my good Indian friend, I’ll explain it all later, but right now I just need you to –“
Fuck.
I look in front of me, and there she is. Her. Her entire hideous, baby-loving self. It makes me sick. She’s giving me quite the hostile eye, so I pull out my knife. Apparently she’s in the mood to play rough. Fine, I say, let’s play. Ladies and gentlemen, it’s show time.
Linear Mode
