Book Review: I Am Not 24

Description: I’m not 24.. is the story of Saumya, Malappa & Shubhro which should have been a love triangle but wasn’t. The three of them , coming from different worlds, are thrown into a fourth world called Karnataka. But it is not virgin beaches or exotic dancers that await them. They are to be welcomed by blood, riots, violet bosses and cut limbs. Will Saumya survive her job in the middle of nowhere? Will Malappa’s superiority help him survive or become the cause of his downfall? Will Shubhro prove that a heart of gold can survive through Marijuana smoke and Beer rich blood?

I think it prudent to mention beforehand that this review may seem like a biased opinion by someone who has an inherent dislike for the slew of romantic books by Indian authors written in a Chetan Bhagatesque style (he was better in retrospect). I almost didn’t read it beyond the first 5 pages where I, being presumed as the average non-assuming retarded reader, am explained that the narration will be by a girl and not the author. Not to mention the never ending grammatical mistakes, which I did ignore while reading it reminding myself about this commitment to Blogadda and will now while writing the review.

I am not 24 captures an IIM grad student’s journey into the professional world where due to a confusion (Saumya can be a boy as well) she gets assigned to a godforsaken village named Toranagallu in Karnataka. She meets workers, lechers, corpulent and envious bosses, establishes a rapport with the unlikeliest of people and falls in love with a Bong hippie (the only character I liked in the entire novel).

What strikes me particularly jarring in the entire novel is Saumya’s obsession with female underwear, cosmetics, shoes, and other apparel. The author clearly doesn’t know how a woman thinks like. I cannot myself claim to know that either, but the book presents an image which teenagers in a boys hostel make of a new girl in the college when they first see her. And it is surprising because Saumya is an IIM grad, and I would certainly expect them to have a plethora of other issues on their mind rather than what lingerie is up on the Debenhams’s window.

The book became a little easier to read after she started working in the company, as the story progressed towards the entrance of Malappa in the novel. He is shown to be quite a hunk, though his cheek eventually lands him in the soup, or the blast furnace as was the case here. The first real bit of corporeality in the character of Saumya becomes significant here, though I think it could have been more lucidly detailed.

The bong hippie Shubhro’s character has been well etched out, perhaps because his part in the book was ephemeral yet significant. Although the last part with all the blog posts justifying his existence killed all the mystery, some amount of which should have been maintained. Or maybe it’s just me. And Saumya describes Shubhro as her boyfriend in the beginning of the novel, which is a little strange when you think of it, as Shubhro had whisked off to Andaman and Nicobar not particularly throwing the love jargon around.

Do I think that this book will reach a wide audience? Certainly, with a price tag of 100 bucks available in a Wheeler depot of the railway station it is a catch for the quintessential Indian reader who wants a light read for the journey so that they could disembark on the other end and recommend the book to other people as an illustration of their extensive erudition.

Do I recommend it? No. I think you can add another hundred bucks and buy something else.

Oh, and I forgot to mention spoiler alert above. Apologies.

The Rapunzel of Qvendolia

“Once upon a time, in the far away land of Qvendolia…”

“Come on gimme a break! I ain’t three years old anymore.” said I, exasperated.

“Will you at least hear me out first?”

“OK…ok… go ahead.”

“Once upon a time, in the far away land of Qvendolia, there lived a King, as prosperous as any other in his time, bold and courageous and just. As was a Queen, as is oft the case, and the pallor of her cheek had been much described by lyrical bards to be akin to the primroses that bloomed on the upper reaches of Mount Blavska. For many years they ruled and were adored by each of their subjects. However, the Queen hadn’t yet begotten a child to the King, and this remained a matter of grim concern for the Kingdom and grief to both of them.

Besides the Palace stood an orchard and garden of heavenly beauty, owned by a witch named Kariova. The mere sight of her cackling while weaving her way through the woods and the vineyards, as the farmers returning from fields or the sentry during twilight would sometimes catch, was enough to send shivers snaking down their spine. Even though luscious apples blossomed up on the boughs, and the perfume of hibiscus filtered in the houses nearby unadultered, nobody considered himself or herself blighted enough to venture within the perimeters of her abode. As for the King, he really didn’t care. Live and Let Live And Drink Mead While You Are At It, such was his Motto.

The Queen, however, once did chance to see the most succulent rampions in the garden, and she bade the King to get it for her, who is turn bade the soldiers, who simpered and defecated in their armoured pants at the mere prospect. The King, oblivious and unheeding of the portents, scaled the wall, yanked some off the root, and brought it to the much content Queen, all the while smirking at his knights. The Queen was so overcome by the taste of those wonderfully delicious rampions that she bade him to do her bidding a second time.

And so the King went again, and yelped in alarm at the hideous face that now leered at him. She could give Medusa a run for her money, thought the King to himself.

‘Scum of the earth! You dare steal the fruits of this garden fit for the Gods?’

‘Well, technically, my kingdom, my earth, if you get the drift…’

‘Silent you spluttering son of a snail! I give not the Slaigh Des Phaag to who you are! I shall toast you with the glance of my evil eye!’ And even as she said so, her forehead started to contort, an eyelid gradually materialising.

The King stood transfixed, horror struck, but then raised a hand as if to reason.

‘Wait O you Seer of the foulest ghouls, O you grotesque excuse for a woman! I shall pay you richly provided you let me go!’

Kariova weighed this. ‘I have no interest in those huge gold ingots that you possess. I merely wish to cradle a child within my bosom…’

‘Aah, is that so? Well I can’t say that you really enchant me, you Warthog Dressed in Human Skin, but should you amble by the tavern I have heard stories of drunk revellers mistaking livestock for their wives, if you know what I mean..’

‘Silence Imbecile! I shall allow you to take away the rampions on the condition that you deliver to me the first child that is born to you.’

‘Hah! I am impot..ahem ahem…alright, it shall be done.’

Now it so transpired that the rampions possessed some magical qualities, and therefore when the Queen brimming with joy puked royal vomit with her attendees gushing nearby, the King recoiled in horror, recalling the vow the wily witch had made him take. Imagine the Queen’s sorrow a few months later when Kariova came along, while the entire kingdom wept, to claim the beautiful baby girl, and as she exited with the baby in her arms the Queen collapsed on her throne.

Kariova travelled with the girl to the outskirts of the city, to the forest surrounding Mount Blavska, known as Merinske. It was here in this fearful forest that it was rumoured that she had a plot of land which she had purchased during the real estate boom a few years ago, and in that land she had a stone tower, made many years ago by none other than the Horrible Hag Helga. She had, for some strange reason, built the staircase outside the tower, which culminated in an open window.

It was in this tower that Kariova raised the little girl, whom she named Rapunzel. When Rapunzel was big enough to eat, walk and sleep without shouting ‘Momma!’ everytime lightning struck the weathercock of the tower, Kariova stopped staying there and went back to her home to care for her vegetables. However, she would visit Rapunzel every day, bringing with her rations and wine. One fine day, the staircase, out of sheer age, crumbled and broke down…”

“And then she said Rapunzel Rapunzel let down your hair and Rapunzel let down her hair and she climbed up and fed her and then some prince came along attracted by her song and one day the witch discovered this and sent some blasted creature who he killed and then strangled the witch blah blah blah…I know this already!” said I, drowsy from the drone that had been issuing nonstop from this old gent for the past few minutes. “Can we skip to the end and get to the point, please?”

“Aahha! Patience is of the essence my boy, it surely is!” said he, looking down at me with his thoughtful eyes. “Alright, for you I shall cut this story short, a pity, but nevertheless, let us come to the part where the witch discovers the Prince, Igor being his name, canoodling Rapunzel. Kariova, seething with rage rushed to smite Igor, who rappelled down the tower, shouting ‘I shall come back for you Rapunzel!’ before making contact with the ground. Kariova muttered a few spells which conjured up a terrible creature, with a bat’s wings, an aardvark’s body and a human arse for a mouth, which Kariova called Badass.”

“Hahahahaha!”

“Can you not interrupt me again?”

“Sorry.” Said I, looking at him attentively.

“No sooner had the Prince ridden a few yards into the forest when this creature was upon him, flinging him away from his stead atop the palomino. The Prince stood up and faced this loathsome creature, for he was brave, and unsheathing his sword, advanced. When he was just a hand away, the mouth of the creature unfastened and Igor was drowned in the most putrid gale he had ever come across, and such was its power that he found himself being dragged and his clothes being blown away. When the mouth finally closed, the Prince was left wearing only his bare essentials.

Not the one to give up easily, he advanced again, swinging his sword like a man possessed when Badass stood on its hind legs, and started to tweak two spots on its chest. Unbelievably enough, Igor found himself staring with incredulity at two eyes, and as soon as he had done this he felt a molten hot sensation searing his insides. He keeled over, the last remnants of his breath being drawn in a struggle, and then lay still, unmistakeably dead. Kariova then cut off Rapunzel’s hair, leapt off and survived with a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder, and never returned. Rapunzel ultimately starved to death.”

“Whoa…whoa…this is not what I heard. Are you sure about this?”

“Positive. However, all this is about to change. By the way, I trust you haven’t got a clue how Prince Igor used to appear like.”

“’Course not.”

“Have a look.” He said holding out what looked like a portrait.

I took one glance at it and grew pale. My hands trembled, I had to drop the portrait on the floor. I looked up at the old man, who claimed to be my Mentor, and yet would not give his name. He surveyed me with a feeling of sadness and understanding.

“Yes, it is indeed you. You were killed most mercilessly, and now is your time to avenge your murdered love.”

“But how shall I get past this evil beast, when in the past I have failed to do so?”

“Fret not dear Prince, for I have a solution. You shall have to procure and wear a Valentino White and Rose shirt, an Armani Dark Denim Jeans, Dolce Gabbana  Black Belt, a Tommy Hilfiger Sack Coat, and a Hamlet Vintage Grey Derby Shoe, for these are the toughest attires known in the world and would enable you to travel the cold dark forest of Merinske snugly before you reach the tower.”

“But how in the name of God will I protect myself from the gust of stench with which Badass incapacitates its opponents?”

“For that you shall have to purchase an Armani Jeans Windbreaker. Nothing will get past this devil of a cloth.”

“And what about its fatal gaze? Surely that is something which cannot be overcome?”

“Its eyes give off light of a certain wavelength that can cause instant death in a human. However, Hugo Boss Black/Brown Shades blocks these wavelengths and facilitates clear vision. You won’t have a thing to fear.”

“But these are too many! I don’t have the slightest idea how to get all of these at once!”

“Don’t worry, here is a list of what to do and what to obtain.” He handed over a chit. I saw a link, and went through the items again, among which a LIV Jeans Dress Multicolour and a Hugo Boss White Strap Sandal also featured. No doubt, to present to Rapunzel once I reached there. I folded it and kept it in my pocket.

“This happened quite a while ago I suppose?”

“Yes, nearly 2000 years ago. You, O brave Prince, shall reach there by a time machine, which you will find besides your pillow when you wake up in the morning. Extend the crown outwards and rotate it anticlockwise around five and a quarter times to transport yourself back in time. But you should refrain from using it until you have all that you need for this quest.”

“Excellent! All I lack now is a sword.”

“Why do you need a sword? Just kick its groin.”

“Aah, yes, of course.”

“Farewell Prince! May God be with you!”

I woke up, ensconced within my bed sheets, my heart thudding vigorously. I saw a gift wrapped package besides my pillow. The sunlight streamed in through the window to reveal a Tommy Hilfiger watch. Although my parents later insisted it was a birthday present, I knew better.

So here is my unbelievably sad, albeit true story. Somewhere my beloved Rapunzel mourns my absence, while being tormented by starvation. Every minute to her is a like an epoch, every tread by an animal on the forest floor a false alarm of my coming.

My sweet, poor Rapunzel.

Therefore I urge you to support me, dear readers, by clicking on this link, and making one of your own inventory lists to blog about it, so that I know I haven’t missed anything important I may require. I will need all the help you folks can give. Got a Princess to rescue, you see.

Evolution Chuck Testa Meme

I know I am a decade late, but here it is. A tribute to this great man just had to be given.

In response to this video.

The Legend of a Lunatic~Part 2

I swivelled. It was Jane. She looked quite flustered, which somehow belied the aura of suavity exhibited by the crisp business suit she was clad in.

“Yes, of course.”

Eddie helped Roobie in hauling the chest; they hadn’t allowed me to procure help for that either. The applause hit us with the force of a brick. And we weren’t even near the stage. The numbers had to be phenomenal today.

If the pandemonium wasn’t strident enough, it rose to a cacophonic uproar as the Lysergic Lunatics trotted onto the stage with the dry ice machine pumping in a generous amount and the eruptions going off in the freezing indigo air. From my position beside the stage, I could just make out the tiniest hints of a face bawling as if there was no tomorrow, lost in that din  emanating from  that vast deluge of limbs and bodies. The atmosphere held the semblance of charged ions cackling with bristling energy. Bernie had taken his place behind the drums, Eddie was tapping on the bass, Roobie and Matt slung their respective guitars around their shoulders while Pete took centre stage. The fly cam captured Pete’s heavily bloodshot eyes, splattering the image all over the huge projection screen in the distance.

“Mad crowd, this.” spoke a female through the earphones.

Pete’s prologue faded into nothingness as Jane materialised beside me. Her lips were held slightly crooked in amusement and to some extent, relief. This was the culmination of a very hectic ordeal for her. I looked at her strong cheeks, now giving off a lilac glow as lights went on. She looked stunning.

“Yeah.” said I, looking once more into the distance.

The raucous cheer of the crowd seemed to usher on the first riffs from the bass guitar as Eddie cavorted around the stage with his instrument. The soft, three-beat rhythm segregating the first strum of the delayed A minor lulled the audience into a soporific state of consciousness. Roobie struggled to keep his head afloat, his nimble fingers the only evidence that he was alive.

“The ones up in the front appear like they are rocking in a cradle.” I said.

“The ones in the front section look quite…I dunno…”

“Stoned?”

She nodded with an accompanying flash of a cherubic smile, though something told me that she wouldn’t be surprised if I told her that the entire stadium probably was. Her eyelids drooped slowly in a languid manner, head tipping lightly from side to side as the song progressed.

“…behold through phoenix eyes, the flame of resurrection…”

Lights and lasers cut through the heavy smoke that cocooned the band members, lost now in the torrent of the surreal melody that poured forth from the speakers. Only music remained as the mode of conveyance between them now. Numerous cellphones with the backlight switched on and an equal number of lighters made way to the surface, resembling millions of fireflies swarming over the sea of heads, which by some miraculous fluke of nature, comprehended the music and danced along.

“…swirling the vapours recede, one loaf of bread and mead…”

“How many times have you listened to this one?”

“Lost count.” I said. “It still holds a goose bump potential.”

“God.” She shuddered. “I don’t think I could have taken that. I would expect the first few times to be pleasant enough, but for 6 years in a row…” she raised her eyebrows and brought them down again as my gaze pierced her.

“I expect you like some other genre more?”

“Yeah, country blues, folk, stuff like that, while peacefully sprawled out on a recliner. Though I hardly get to listen much, there has been a boom in the number of local bands trying to ape what your band attempts. Insane number of gigs happening all over the country. My company now makes three times more than what it used to a year a-”

“…lynching and stabbing the maiden of dusk…”

“Hold on, this is where it gets really trippy. Watch out for the trance beats.” I said, focusing my unadulterated attention now towards Pete.

Eddie began, the notes pulsating in and out, like a cardiac patient’s heard beat careening out of control. The rest followed suit, creating an eerie, omnipresent sound, one that never felt to take my breath away. Jane seemed to be taken aback, as if pleasantly surprised by the abrupt change that was wrought in the ambiance. Exchanging a secretive smile, she went back to looking at the crowd, presumably at a heavily bearded bloke in the nearest row raising his arms heavenwards, his eyes closed, and gaping mouth open. Looking back, I saw Roobie appearing quite animated, pulling his guitar off and ambling towards the chest. Finally.

He bent down to open it, and through the smoke and dazzling demonstration of lights, for a moment, all I could make out was his ass with a plumage of feathers. He straightened, and he carried something of which I really wasn’t sure he possibly could.

He came with it close to the brink of the stage. He pointed it at the bearded man, eyes still closed, arms open wide in a prophetic gesture of benevolence.

The next moment I saw his eye cave in, liquid erupt, and a slight grimace contort his face before he went down.

I stood rooted to my spot as each decibel shattering bullet went on a murdering spree, camouflaged under the music and those brilliant lights. I failed to make out Roobie’s face. A heart-rending shriek pierced my ear through the headphones, but my mind was in such a tizzy that I couldn’t even muster the will to find her face and share the panic. People kept piling up, none of their faces evident, none of the last gasps of existence being brutally snatched away discernible. I saw Pete bent over the chest now, emerging with several objects which he now lobbed into the crowd. A deafening explosion, one which was perceptible over everything, rocked the concert, and people and burnt flesh and broken bones lay everywhere. A second explosion hurled people into the air, and a putrid stench of singed flesh entered my nostrils. I keeled over as my stomach roiled, the diaphragm begging to spasm and make me retch, the fear-stricken, taut muscles, however, refusing to abide. There was a third boom, and a flash of black hurried past me.

“Jane! No! Wait!”

She ran wildly towards Matt, who saw her approaching with a very astonished look on his face.  I saw him gesture towards Pete, who was about to lob a fourth. Roobie gestured everyone to huddle together.

“Nooooo!”

Pete removed the nail let it drop.

An aggravating whirr ringing in the ears. Desolation. And excruciating pain. I could feel the air rushing by. Lights floated around in a flurry. A sudden thud. Then hideous, long, unbearable silence. Everything was pitch black. I allowed my breath to even out.

*                                                          *                                                                              *

“Enough already Sanchez! You want to go home a dead man?”

“Come on, man. One more. On the rocks. Absolutely the last.”

“I will be damned if it isn’t.”

The bartender stomping off was Roy’s cue. “So, now you are clear?”

“Hell, yeah. Pretty broke though, the lawyers humped me dry right after they brought me out of the ICU. But they did get me out of that fix. I could be serving life without committing any transgression.”

“And what of the other mystery?”

“What of it?”

“The police said they could only ever find four of the band members. In bits. But they did find ‘em.”

“Yeah and him possessing supernatural powers and shit. I heard that.”

“Do you think he is still out somewhere?” I could make out his voice going edgy.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he is holed up somewhere, trying to give a discourse on his screwed up philosophy to those who don’t give a fuck about it.”

“Ok that’s it Sanchez, nothing of what you asked remained, other gents took a special liking to it. Kindly fuck off now.” The bartender had returned.

I stared deep into my empty glass. I suddenly felt a bitter aftertaste at the back of my throat.

“Aaah, Ruben, you motherfucking bastard…”

The Legend of a Lunatic~Part 1

“This world of the erstwhile primates, of bountiful foliage, of hatred, greed, pain, envy and love, now belongs only to the guns.” He said. “How does a mere mortal survive this tribulation, eh, Mr. Sanchez?”

I looked up, because he did sound a little more than weird that day. The Mr. Sanchez routine had started a week before. He probably thought it added gravity to his pronouncements. The upshot of being a manager was to digest filth with grace.

“I don’t know Roobie.” I said, “How?”

“Aaah, the answer neither you know nor me…otherwise hadn’t we been seated on nimbus number nine in the sky, sipping mojitos, rapping on the Pearly Gates for a much deserved Nirvana? No, Mr. Sanchez…we mere mortals are condemned to just glaze the awareness of such cognition even if it existed, and then babble about it in pseudo-intellectual braggadocios with plain stupid mortals. Now let me just think for a bit.”

The huge mirror reflected towards me the image of the rest of the band looking at their lead guitarist with grave concern as he screwed his eyes up in concentration, his face framed within a huge war-bonnet he had procured for this concert. The attires never did perturb me. They made good music, sold millions of their records, and took their marijuana in moderation particularly for a band that claimed psychedelic rock as its bastion. So what when Pete donned a Viking warlord look crooning the ever soft ‘Tread upon the sea’ number and the crowd went berserk with mirth? Or the time when only the drums obscured the vision of Bernie’s uncouth little wiener from the ravaging sights of a thousand bimbos? He had taken me by surprise, Bernie had. And so had the rest of them thereafter; garish props and people being procured seconds before the gig smuggled under my very nose, though even I thought the woman with hundred pound breasts belly dancing to the tunes of ‘God loves his sheep, Baa Baa!’ to be worth a hoot.

I looked at the chest on which Roobie was seated right now. Warily. Every testy ejaculation of mine had fallen on deaf, dormant ears. They just would not tell me. A part of me didn’t want to know even, priming itself in heightened anticipation of the finale. The nagging curiosity always kept biting me round the clock.

“Unfruitful knowledge is being bestowed by the heap upon the younger generation, dear sirs. During the course of my humble Eton education I have always been made privy to the notion that psychedelia inducing drugs wreck havoc with one’s mind. Yet eight years later, I find this very absurd. “

“As you will, Roobie. I have no opinion in this matter. I would simply hate to lose control of my mi-”

“Oh no no  Mr. Sanchez!” he appeared horrified, “My apologies! Never was this statement meant to be derisive! I am merely pointing out the fact that such knowledge, being imparted to the general populace, has made them all harbingers of clinical beliefs. It is this that I find very appalling. You follow me, yes?”

“I do not.” Eddie had pulled off his head sets and was visibly amused at the sight of Roobie straining the already frazzled mind of the manager with his pot-induced rant.

“Aah, no worries. See, you do have the basic definition of a zombie in mind yes? You look at it as it comes towards a hapless victim and devours blood, never a care, a thought, an expression in its face.  I look at all these people now. People writing on public forums pledging us declarations of undying adulation all the year around. People with fertile imagination, yet not the temerity to make it useful. People with perfect ability to converse as one would expect from the species that rules this world, yet they choose slangs and abbreviations. Now, do not think of me as an elitist, please, I am not that cruel. Yet, there is this hopeless feeling of nausea that besieges me when I think of all these people inhabiting the earth, walking upon its bosom like the aforementioned zombies, never ceasing to think just, oh god, just think!” He finished saying this with a theatrical flourish of his limbs. Exasperation was rife in the dressing room. I decided to throw tact or indifference aside. There was still time.

“All true, Roobie, all true, but what can you do about it? All is well as long as the machinery functions, as long as the majority are happy-“

“Are they? Or is this happiness only an illusion, a mere mirage behind which a decrepit gloom haunts, a gloom comprising failure or ignorance? Or perhaps this is only a charade that society has introduced and wishes us to participate in?”

“No happiness should be real then, according to you. How then would you expect them to pursue something which is unreal?”

“Most of it, yes. Most of the time, yes. There are very fleeting moments in our lives when we do feel happiness in its pristine form. For every individual out there it is different, coming from the adrenaline rush of a heady coke snort or a bike cruising at a breakneck speed…Lord knows where from. And music, yes, that is where we have capitalised, you and me, Mr. Sanchez. We sell happiness bound in paper and plastic. “ He chuckled.  “This endeavour to achieve…happiness…is something that we most want and at the same time deny ourselves the most. By ourselves I mean we as a species in general. Aaah, fuckers, I can never even envisage how could such an asinine philistine’s logic could even make its way to a human mind? ‘Pleasure is in pain’, ‘Perpetual happiness leads to destruction’ baah! Faggots! Though…though…the idea of them thinking up of such legislations, ethical codes rather, isn’t that much awful as the fact that even hundreds of years later, we still stick to them. This barbaric prohibition on drugs by the government…so what if a junkie wants to get wasted as long as he derives pleasure out of it? They themselves derive it out of power, as strong a drug as any! The sheer hypocrisy of it all! Sodding bastards!”

Damn, justification of drugs, there we go again. I wondered whether the chest beneath him was full of mescaline at the moment.

“Come on now, you do not seriously think the ideal way to die is suffocating to death in your own pile of vomit and shit? That is just, well, sickening!”

“Sickening for me, for you, indeed. You screw your eyes shut in disgust, wishing the mental picture just perceived to go away, and leave you well and fine as before. Can I ask you now to put yourself in that particular junkie’s head in his final moments? There? Good. He died at the pinnacle of contentment, one which you, Mr. Sanchez, achieve while listening to Crazy Diamond. “ A smile flitted across his face.

That I couldn’t deny. Pink Floyd did have that effect on me. As on the rest of the potheads here. I asked him to go on.

“The entire life passes by, yet in their last moments people tend to replay images of their entire life, in not necessarily a chronological order. There is fumbling, a mishmash of the joyous with the dismal sights. Something which you just want to avoid, if a fitting end is to be achieved. I, Mr. Sanchez, think that a man, though he may not admit to himself, has this enduring…until, of course, his demise…desire, to die a happy and fulfilling death. Accidents are the worst, you are caught at a time you are quite vulnerable. The only way you can assure yourself of a blissful enough death is to be its master. Dominate your own death, and die happily!”

“Or let other noble jerks do the job for you.” Matt made his presence know from behind the closet door. He had been rummaging there for quite some time now, God knows what for.

The collective screeching of a thousand throats startled us with its abruptness and then plummeted. Someone had entered the room.

“The crowd is ready for you sir.”