Buddhi Free
Enlightenment under the Buddhi Free
Anne Fasting
Categories: Writings

It’s a story I’m writing. Called Anne Fasting. Not yet complete. Read it and tell me what you think about it.

Anne Fasting

Sitting there, he felt a lot like Jon Arbuckle. Was it his child-like voice? Or his excellent (according to him) sense of humor? Another date had excused herself to go to the loo, and one hour hence, hadn’t reappeared. He knew he was no Adonis, but he was no pig either.
Just as his solitary figure was delving deeper into desolance, his very foundations were shaken. He looked up and saw an orange-haired punk.
“Oi, Mister, your phone’s drowning out the music,” the man shouted.
It was then that Ted became conscious of two things at once-one that his butt was vibrating it’s butt off and producing a feeble sound that faintly resembled his ringtone; and two, just how LOUD the music was.
He picked up his jacket and made a hasty getaway from the recket hall. Loosening his bow-tie, he mumbled into the phone,
“Hello, Ted Toraquay here.”
Even before he had finished speaking, a flurry of words bombarded him. By the time he could come to grips with the pace, he had already missed half a dozen syllables.
“…come to the office, RIGHT AWAY!!” was all that he caught.
He looked around and when he saw just the red carpet of the passageway, he let loose a chain of abuses. Heck, having to work on off days was bad, but having to work on depressing off days was worse. He long jumped the 50 metres to the exit and a couple of seconds later, even the red carpet bore no sign of his immaculately polished leather shoes.
He hailed a cab and was gone. But, somebody was watching. A pair of eyes had seen his tuxedo clad figure come rushing out of the disco and into a cab. And then, they were gone too.
* * *
The 35-minute drive had taken longer than usual. It was as if the cabbie had taken it upon himself to not go faster than a tortoise. Not even the empty night streets could coax him into going beyond 10.
So, it was at 12:50 a.m. that Ted found himself outside the glass building of Clive & Llyod National Bank. On his way in, he paused before one of the glass panels and fixed his bow tie.
A solitary guard sat in a corner, lost to the world of dreams. Not too deep, for a pat on the cheek was enough to bring him back to our world. His questioning gaze bore into Ted.
“Ah…oh yah. The tap’s gone dry.”
The guard handed him a key.
“The pumping station must have stopped production.”
Ted puffed his cheeks and puckered his lips.
“Tough luck.”
The guard nodded and then nodded off back to sleep.
Moments and a trapdoor later, Ted was standing in the nerve centre of the most secret secret ploice ever- the Royal Secret Service.
He was greeted by torrents of laughter as he entered the director’s office.
“You went to the disco wearing THAT??”
Or, was it his dress sense?
“Yes, Sam. What’s so funny about it?”
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