Red bulb and mended hopes

"Daddy loves all his whores. Well he loves some more than others. But he still loves them all." - Jester of Sodomia

Return from office a few days back had a surprise in store for me, D was back. Even before we exchanged greetings, I popped the question "When are we going to the temple?"
"Do you really want to??"  he squirmed, recounting his last visit, that was forgettable at best and traumatic at worst.
Of course I do, it's almost 6 days since I have jerked off, and what better way to break the fast than to visit the temple. The temple was of course GB Road, our very own local redlight district, a place I was too gutless to venture alone. The fuck sessions there were always mechanical, but the girls were good looking and not few in number. And then, responsiveness carried a huge price tag. No hooker worth her salt would agree to come to your place for less than 6000 Rs. GB was dirt cheap in comparison, 250 Rs and you get to thrust for 5-10 minutes, eject your body fluids and get going. Could I live with a dejected face of hooker whose sombre eyes always seemed to ask "What's taking this long??" Hell yes!! But D, who had people banging his door and for some odd reason, had seen a goat in brothel's corridor, had renounced the temple altogether. Gutless renegade. After a good deal of pleading, we finally found a middle ground. He would spend the next day searching for the cheapest possible escort on the Internet, and if he couldn't find anything that fit our bill by that time, we would head for the plain old temple.

D killed the next day plodding the internet for cheap escorts, and filled my computer with adwares I still can't quite get rid off. But the gambit paid off. By the time I was back from office, he had zeroed in on two pimps, who were ready to cater to our needs for Rs 2000 a shot. Not too bad. I too called this pimp to get my queries (what kind of girls does he have, do they have any objection with any position, any chance to trim the price etcetra etcetra) answered. D made no bones of his dipleasure about my way of handling the pimp. He told me that my questions were too stupid to be discussed on phone, and my tone was unreasonably quarrelsome. Both his points, as I realized later were correct.

Finally, it was decided that we will go and see the hookers, D will fuck for sure and I will fuck if I liked the them (in my own words, whether or not both of us fucked was mutually exclusive). At 8 in the evening, when I got ready for the big night, and asked D if he knew the way to the pimp's place in Saket, he tells that we were going to the GB. What the fuck!!!, he couldn't seem to pin his mind on a single decision. Although this doused a better part of my enthusiasm, I kept a straight face. After all, any fuck is better than no fuck. I got rid of my debit card, stuffed 600 Rs (which would make me almost the richest client on GB) in my wallet and headed out for the GB. At this point it would be worthwhile to mention that D (who is the most sagacious person pimp handler I have ever seen), is a dumbfuck when it comes to distinguish between the perceptual and the literal. On way to the auto stand, when I asked him about his sudden change of mind, he said that my (mutually exclusive) remark indicated a half assed interest in pursuing the idea. My mind called him an asshole at the top of its voice and my words were only a bit kinder.

It took a bit of persuasion to put across the fact that I was not averse to go to Saket hookers. He asked me if I still wanted to go there. I nodded. But there was a major problem, we were collectively carrying 3650 Rs, not including the fare for the auto and the metro. I asked D if he carried any card, that we could use to get cash if required. He said he had. My tensions eased considerably and we embarked towards the new destination. Later I found that he was referring to 'Metro Card.' My mind was too confounded to react to such inaneness by now. It seemed that D will react to nothing less than absolutely literal. Meanwhile the pimp (honorable Mr Sanjay) had texted us his whereabouts. We were to deboard at Hauz Khas metro station and find a place called Katwaria Sarai, and Sanjay's errand boy was to meet us there.

The auto cost us another 30 Rs and we reached the meeting place at 9:45 PM with roughly 400 Rs shorter than the agreed amount. The tense 15 minutes that passed before Sanjay's minion arrived were spent assuaging each other. I had had a bad experience with a pimp once, and D was afraid that cops might raid the brothel the moment he disrobes (he carries a black cloud over his head wherever he goes). I used my loud mouth and half baked knowledge about immoral trafficking act to tell him that clients are never prosecuted as per law. He used his vast pimping experience to ease my doubts about being beaten and mugged by a pimp.

Finally the minion arrived. A kid barely out of his teens shook our hands and ordered us to follow him while keeping a good deal of distance. He was snaking through the crowded streets like a rat, but occasionally looking back to check whether we were still following. He led us to a two room ground floor apartment, quick to bolt the door from inside the moment we stepped in. Oh boy! It did bring up some memories. My first time at GB, had I and my friend being frisked and cheated by a pimp in a 6 ft * 4 ft kholi. In retrospect, it was mostly claustrophobia. This time the room was expansive enough to ward off the fear before it even sprang. The pimp Mr. Sanjay was a mild mannered, middle aged man, in a T-shirt and a payjama, sporting a pot that is characteristic to most of middle-aged indians. In the other room, the hookers were watching a hindi movie. He called both of them and displayed them like trophies. We were amazed. The hookers were actually good looking and wore a smile on their faces instead of the sorrowful expression I associated them with. There was a Punjabi housewife, long hair, olive complexion, sporting spectacles, polka tank top, and  a capri jean. The other was Sapna, a petite chinki, who seemed to have flown straight out of a porn movie. This one was short haired, wore a plaid mini skirt and knee long leather boots (thankfully without long heels).
Trophy display concluded. The hookers were sent back to their room. It was time for the deal. The pimp asked us to present 4000Rs that he had settled for. D, with his immensely innocent face and the pleading eyes (magnified by the huge glasses he wears) told the pimp that something urgent came up and we were short of 500 Rs. The pimp, either due to the D's guilelessness or his aversion to haggling settled for 3500.

Skip the next three paragraphs, if you don't want to be haunted by my dick for the rest of your life. You won't find some mystical sex position, everything described here is nothing you haven't read in any cheap sex story and it's just about as interesting as a fart in a commode. That said I still can't let it go for the sake of continuity
(and vanity). There might be dubious exaggerations, probably because the instances I am recounting get pleasanter every time the tape rolls back in my mind.

After a bit of dilly dallying, I was about to go for the Punjabi one (she seemed to have firmer and ampler breasts), when D interjected. He too wanted the same trophy, and since he was leading the expedition, I let him have his say. D left with the Punjabi chick to the other room, the connecting door between the two rooms was bolted from both sides. I and Sapna, were left behind in the other room. I asked Sapna if I could have some water. She pointed to a small refrigirator in the corner of the room. I picked out a bottle and was in the middle of the second gulp when a pair of hands grabbed my chest from behind and two soft lips kissed me on the back of my neck. Initiating sex can be awkward, luckily this was not one of those instances. I turned back, looked into her almond eyes and kissed her back on her succulent lips. Then my lips made way to her earlobes, and she let out a soft giggle. "It tickles", she said in a voice that was slightly hoarse due to her heavy heartbeat. I proceeded to kiss her neck, and she chuckled again. Might have been a genuine tickle, or an amusement at my inexperience, but it stimulated me all the same. Shortly I was kissing her frantically, all over her face and neck, and she was responding at the same pace. My hands (which had a mind of their own) lifted her mini-skirt were pressing her butt cheeks, my middle finger found her clit from behind and rubbed it, while she forced me towards the bed. My knees hinged on the edge of the bed and I fell back first on the bed. One of her arms wrapped around my neck and pulled my face closer to hers. Her other hand was squeezing the bulge in my pants. I pulled her shirt up, got rid off the black padded bra that she was wearing. Watching those lush breasts greet me redoubled the spit in my mouth. Not even my mouth could hold it wholly and a spit line drooled down my mouth. I rubbed the side of my mouth on her breast to get rid of it and went back to sucking.

Still lying on the bed, with her breast in my mouth, she asked me if she could switch the tubelight off. I hummed a nod and she complied, switched off a tubelight, but still kept a zero watt bulb on. Apparently, she didn't like to grope for body parts in dark. Kudos for practicality. When I got enough of her titts, I disrobed her from below. That is when surprise number one hit me. She was wet down below. Just to be sure, I inserted my middle finger in her puss, fully expecting to get slapped by her (that too has happened to me before). But no slap came. Infact she wriggled her ass about my finger to increase the insertion, raining wetty kisses and moans in same breath, telling me to get rid off the jean, which I immediately did. She tightened her grip around my dick and brought down her mouth towards it, gobbling it in one go (not that there was too much to gobble). This continued for a while. I told her to quit when I thought that I won't be able to hold on for another minute. She too understood my predicament and left my dick alone for a while, and got back to kisses, griniding her wet puss on my bare dick in this process. The clip that was holding her ponytail had slid way back, causing her hair to scatter on her face. The red light, the scattered hair and those almond eyes together made her look like the ghost from the movie Grudge. I started laughing. Inexplicably she too strarted laughing, without missing a beat in her grinding rhythm.

Finally she put a condom on my dick, and asked me to fuck her. There was no way I was going to dabble with missionary this time. If there was something about sex that I know for sure, it's that you can either fuck missionary or maintain an erection, but not both. It's messy and my gyrations are clumsy. So I have her do cowgirl on me, holding her waist to provide whatever little support she required in this movement. She found her rhythm eventually, and began to fucked fast to the point of exhaustion, that almost got me to the edge, but not quite there. As she lay her head on my chest, panting heavily, I quickly rolled her over, came on top and thrust for another 5 minutes to come. After a full one week I had come. I expected her to push me away, as hookers often do when what's desired is achieved, but she didn't. I thought that she didn't realize that I had come (what a shame). So trying my luck I continued to thrust, thinking about earning a second shot. She silently took my dick out, got rid of the old condom and  put a new one. Now that astounded me. Did she understand the proposition??? It was one shot, not multiple. Who was I to complain?? I fucked still remaining on top for as long as I could, then gestured her to come on top. A few more thrusts later, she tells me 'mera bhi paani nikal gaya (I have come too)!!!' Now she discarded my sloppy dick (as I was expecting her to do a bit earlier). Feeling sorry for me, she tried to jerk me off but unavailingly. I told her to quit, not wanting to make a mockery of myself after such a satisfying fuck. She obliged cheerfully. We got dressed up. Clothes covered most of the visible signs of what had transpired in the room, but not the smell of her cheap perfume reeking from me. I didn't mind. Cheap or classy, it was mesmerizing. She gave me a parting smooch, and unbolted the adjoining door in a swift movement. The show was over.

We meandered through the unfamiliar roads of Katwaria Sarai, getting lost twice before making it to the auto stand. D was unusually silent. Perhaps he was savouring the sweet taste of fuck, or wondering about some untried sex position. But that didn't stop me from shoving my experience down his throat. After the auto dropped us back to Hauz Khas, it was already 11:15 PM we had 80 Rs left between us, 70 with him and 10 with me. I had to grab a metro back to Gurgaon, and he had to rush to Noida (to his friends there who were planning to call a hooker to their place next day). The guard at metro station told D that he might still be able to make it there if he was lucky (which of course he had never been). While I swiped my metro card, and made my way to the platform. D tried his card, and found that his metro card was out of credit. And he had exhausted his mobile phone balance too, calling pimps and hookers whole day. If that was not enough, he couldn't even receive any calls, as he was on roaming.
My train had arrived. I took one look towards the platform, and another towards D, who was still trying the Metro card, hoping the balance to magically reappear. In a split second, a decision was made. I rushed towards the train, jumped through the door just a moment before it closed. As I searched for an empty seat, my mind was still trying to justify my selfishness, but after a perfunctory 'call me when you reach Noida' text, the feeling subsided. I made home by roughly midnight, without any cash in my wallet, but with a content mind.

Largo viva el slutdom!!!

Update (unrelated to story) : D somehow reached Noida by 1:30 in the night. There were several worry ridden calls from his friends waiting in Noida, who had tried to get his prepaid phone recharged and get in touch with him (he alleges that they got a wrong number recharged, but I suspect that he exhausted balance by talking to pimps enroute). His luck had deceived him again, and he had boarded wrong metro, but got an auto, and paid its expenses upon reaching his friend's place. It turned out that his screw that day was not very encouraging, and he went to screw Sapna next day.

Half mile high club

Although this is no movie. Take1 .

"Climb up asshole, do you want the wife and the kiddie to die?" the mogul shouts through the loudspeaker. His voice is as husky as it used to be on the sets of the movies he had directed. Eons ago. This is no movie.

"31 seconds left" mogul warned.

"This is it, you have bored me long enough." Mogul takes an aim and shoots, and we have a body falling 200 metres onto the helipad of the oil rig. Bloody and cracked. In five minutes it has covered the complete 'H.' Even for a fat fuck, this is a lot of blood. Wife is shouting. The kid is crying. That harpoon sticking out of the head is not a pretty sight. Certainly not if you are on the sea. They puke. From his crane cabin altar, the mogul pushes a button. The net hanging at the farthest end of the crane's arm drops. No trembling fish in this net. Just the plane old wife and kid. Now fish food.

Flash back three days. This mogul is retiring. In his long carrier, he has directed tonnes of movies. He practically shits money every morning. His favourite possession : Comet; a twin engine 2350 Horse power yacht, colossal  71m in length, 7 VIP rooms, custom designed for the mogul. On board; 7 men, the consistent crew of his movies, from producer down to the third assistant , with their respective wives and kids. All happy, all toasting. Enjoyed a couple of days with the a lot of booze and sunlight, fucked like rabbits. Drugged on the third day; the wives and the kids (let's call them useless baggage) find themselves in the fishnets, meticulously packed by the mogul, and hanging from seven different hooks on the crane, ready to be sacrificed. His former colleagues are incarcerated in 7 different rooms. From his altar 20 metres nearer to heaven, the mogul has the controls practically every single heartbeat of his prisoners. For him, it's just another day of vacation.

The ship is anchored to a deserted and probably a used up oil rig. Its platform is a huge square. Our villain, the mogul is throned in one corner of this square, safe behind the plexiglas of his cabin, on the corner opposite to this cabin, a lies a tower, the tallest one you will ever see. Let's call in goliath for the lack of imagination. It's base is large, 35ft*35ft, and it tapers to the point where it almost kisses the sky. It stands 809 m high. How the workers got it done, is anyone's guess. But considering its shoddy pinnacle, it seems that towards the end they were shit scared. This tower is pretty complex at the bottom, a mishmash of the metal, to support its own weight, but reduces to a 1ft*1ft square ladder towards the top. Each rung a foot apart.

The mogul releases a prisoner at a time, all the instructions are pasted in the prisoner's room, so he doesn't have to explain them again. The prisoner has to make it to the top of the mother of all ladders. Once he reaches there, he has to stand or squat on the end of the diving board  hooked just at the apex, no hand touching any part of the ladder. If he manages the feat, he gets to win the baggage and a shit load of money, basically all the wealth the mogul has raked in during his life. His prisoners have all the time to climb the ladder, as long as they don't glue their asses to a rung longer than ten seconds. After each quarter of the ladder is covered, they get to rest at the rung for 15 minutes. The prisoners get a canteen, that contains some food, a litre of water and some chalk powder for sweaty hands. Any rule broken, baggage goes down and the man gets harpooned, not in any specific order. The mogul expected this ordeal to amuse him for the entire day, but two hours have passed, and he is already short by 4 people. That fourth one was the fat fuck who died back in the beginning (remember anyone?)

The fifth one is our hero. Let's see if he can save the day and claim his queen.

Although this is no movie. Take 2.

He steps out of the cage, canteen attached to his shoulder and chalk to his waist. Talking to mogul out of it is futile, the first one tried that and died. The others learnt the lesson quickly and thoroughly. He is in no rush, the slower he does it, longer he gets to live. So he saunters towards the mother of all ladders. This one was a child beater, wife hater sociopath, who cared about his wife and kid, almost as much as the pope cared about the fashion police. But he did love himself, and will go to lengths to save his skin. He takes his first step on the rung. He lost one shoe to the last night's revelry, and the coolness of rungs had immediate physical effect on him, raising his hackles and shrinking his balls. He takes a deep breath, mentally counting to five , exhaled and counted to 4, taking a quick next step before the mogul could poke him with the wrong end of the harpoon.

This slow, deliberate pace helps him go beyond first hundred metres. The process is simple. He would look down, bring his left foot up (the one that still has the shoe on) to the next rung, match his right foot onto the same rung, bring his hand up to the next rung, match his hands. He can't count solely on his hands to support him if he fucks up a step, so this process stays as long as he can bear to look down. After hundred and fifty odd metres, a glance down is enough to unnerve him. The giant crane that holds the baggage seems like a Lego toy. The huge blot of blood that had covered the 'H' of the helipad and still expanding now looks no larger than a phlegm laced  spit-shot.

Even the people who boast that they are not afraid of heights, are afraid of heights. It's just that they haven't encountered anything high enough to unnerve them. The effects of height strike our hero in waves, causing no more than a bit of tremors in the legs initially. By 200 metres, our hero has found his threshold. Waves have now turned into tsunamis. His hands grip the bar so tightly that he can hear his blood pulsing in his palms. Each limb trembleas independently, creating an overall effect that threatens the sanity of the hero. His heart is beating really fast, soaking up the water in his body, his dry sponge of a tongue searching the roof of the mouth to see if any moisture is left.

Luckily, his legs rest have found the red rung, the one which indicates that he has just covered his first quarter, and can rest for 15 minutes. A rest at this point is welcome, but his shaky legs will not abide. Deep breaths are offering no help. He is so unsure of his legs that he embraces the stilts of the ladder as tightly as his hands permit, and sticks out his head between the steps like a prisoner too eager to be gullotined. His Adam's apple is pressing hard against the step, and this cough building up in his throat is taking his mind off the trembling legs. Consciously, hugging the ladder, he brings his leg up a rung, slithering around it, to hook his leg onto the lower rung, repeats it with the second leg. He can close his eyes now.

Although this is no movie. Take 2.

Three minutes after he has secured himself onto the ladder, he manages to open his eyes. He doesn't look down, just straignt ahead, afraid that his limbs will freeze up again. The vastness of the sea stretches miles into the horizon mocks him to come forward for an embrace. He has been pressing his neck too hard into the rung, so he eases up a bit. A roar from down below: 10 minutes left. This might be a good time to recollect all the lost wits. First the water, not in big gulps, but in small sips, just enough to wet his parched throat and get him going for the next couple. Then he rummages through his canteen, finds five tubes, each filled with an awful coloured paste that promised to fill his body with 900 calories. For our weight conscious hero, that's a lot of calories. Worrying about it is as useless as bathing before execution.
Despite the extreme plasticity of the paste, he tries to chew it and sips some water, until the tube is devoid of any remnants, throws it hard towards the horizon, and waits for the mogul to warn him about his time getting short. He is itching to get done with it.

With thirty second warning piercing loudly into his ears, he hoists himself up. Once you are up a certain distance, fear of height becomes constant, call it the law of marginal utility, a fall from 300m will batter your body in same way as a fall from 500m will. With this thought calming his mind, he looks straight up (looking down is a luxury he can no longer afford), feeling the rungs with his feet rather than looking for them. His ascent is quicker now, no longer dominated by the 9 second snail law as it was earlier. He is trying to cover as much ground as he can in this second wind. With the initial trepidation fading, this climb is fuelled by a single motivation, just to see how far up can he make it without dying. Although this is no movie, this is the perfect moment to play 'Set guitars to kill' in the background.

His next 300m came without any glitch. By this time, his forearms have pumped so much that he can actually see his veins throbbing under the skin. His left leg, the one that had to do most of the work because of the damned shoe, is screaming obscenities to its owner to slow down. But most of all, his palms are sweating so lavishly that even the coolness of the rungs do not seem to calm them. And the sweat he leaves behind is becomig a curse for his legs. He was convinced that twice his feet had almost slipped after propelling his body upwards. He had managed to avert those falls, but any more risks will be fatal.

When you push your body faster than your lungs, lactic acid floods your muscles.Normally when this happens, it is a sign to slow down and breathe; the oxygen will purge  this lactic acid and save your muscles. Happy ending for muscles. They might be even better off after this exertion. Bring into this picture, less than a drop of adrenaline, and your body turns into berserk mode. It's like running downhill, you have to will yourself to stop. This is when spasms occur. Our hero has been climbing like a machine since his second wind, his 5 second a rung rule down the drain. So when he slows down to rectify his sweaty situation, his calves stretch like they have never stretched in his life. Perfect recipe for a spasm. He impulsively assuages his left calf with his left hand; and realizes his sheer stupidity a moment later. None of his limbs is strong enough to handle his weight all alone.

Time to hook himself to the ladder for the second time. Same routine. Without looking towards his calf, he kneads it vigorously. The pain subsides for a second, but seems to lurk in shadows, poised to strike back when he takes his hand off the calf. If he stops, muscles in his calf begin to knot, this knot stretching his achilles' tendon and his hamstring. With his right hand he rummages for the water bottle. Then some chalk for the sweaty palms. Thank the mogul for his thoughtfulness. Thank him again for this ordeal. All the time he wonders if he is still eligible for the 15 minutes rest that he let forego on his last milestone. After ten seconds, he realizes he is. Thank the mogul for his generosity. Thank him again for this ordeal. Although this is no movie, this is would have been the perfect moment to play 'Act nice and Gentle.'

He eats two tubes of those shit coloured paste this time. His left hand still kneads the calf, but the vigor in this massage is long gone. The arm seems to yell on the leg for getting itself into the trouble. The limbs scream on him to stop this madness. He wants to yell on the mogul, but knows it will do nothing more than parch his throat further.
When the resting period expires, he hauls himself up laboriously. He has thrown his only shoe down, no more exertion for the ailing limb. This time he is climbing with a gait that his body can handle. He doesn't think any harpoon can reach this height without compromising the accuracy. But a shot in the head is much better than a shot in the butt. Atleast he will be dead before he hits the ground.

Wind has been playing tricks on the ladder since long, but it's only now that he's able to register them. Even on the most uneventful days, the wind at this height hovers around 40-50Km an hour. That's almost the speed with which you drive in the city. Despite an expansive base and tapered shape, the ladder sways like a bitch's ass. Each new step makes it more and more palpable. Although our hero has dimensional sense of a blind monkey, even he can bet his life that the ladder's sway had graduated to inches. Each time a gust of wind came, his heart seemed to sink to his stomach. Moving up is more of  mind game than physical effort.

This is no movie, but this scene could have won an oscar. An everyman, wind ruffling up his hair, his rolled up sleeves displaying viciously pumped up veins; his bare feet curving on rungs to better grip the ladder. This everyman takes on an adversity that he couldn't even have fathomed a day ago.

Although this is no movie. Take3.

The hero is closing the gap between himself and the top. This close to the top, he should be happy. Bur rather than elation, his mind haunts him about the new predicament. Standing (or more likely squatting) on the world's scariest diving board. Even more frightening was the fact that he still wasn't able to make out the shape of the board. Not being able to see it from the bottom was one thing. But being this close to the end and still not able to see it.
Then it hits him like a K.O. punch...whatever material mogul used for the board, it's transparent. If he hasn't pissed in his pants yet, it's not because he has a sound bladder control, it's just because the body can't afford to waste something it is already short of. Pushing a thought away is a phrase, he is not going to throw around in coming days (If he gets a chance to do so).
Although this is no movie, this would have been the best time to play 'Hope leaves' in the background.

At 730 metres, the hero takes his third hiatus. Same old routine. Except now he dares to steal a glance downwards. And chuckles. It was like looking through some powerful microscope. You can make out the shape, but you are still not sure what you are looking at. He shouts a loud 'fuck you' towards the mogul. Not that he can hear it. Fuck him twice if he can. The height and the mogul are not so scary now. As Holmes had said "Leave out the impossible and you get the truth, no matter how improbable." The truth is that only thing that scares him now is a fall from this height; which he has managed to avert this long.

Although this is no movie.......Final take.

The scene opens with the hero just a couple of metres from the top rung. The springboard has evolved into a shape, but that's that. Standing on it would be no different from standing on thin air. Just for a good measure, let's include a scene where the hero missteps, his whole weight resting on his two pathetic arms. No chance he can manage a pull up at this juncture. With desperate agility, he brings his left hand down one rung and with same grace he brings down the right hand too, managing to place his legs on a rung. A grunt might have escaped his throat, but the wind makes it impossible to be sure. Close call. He stands on the rung, unmindful of the 10 second warning. No harpoon shot, not even as a warning. Still that doesn't mean that none will come if he freezes up here. After all he hadn't come this up only to freeze an arm's length away from the top.

With the diving board filling his entire sight, he dashes towards the board with a vigour that defies a pulled up calf and several near death experiences. In a monent, he is standing on the top rung of the ladder, holding the stilts that have curved on to support the diving board. Now that he can make out its shape, this board, roughly 7 feet long and 3 feet wide reminds our hero of a casket. The one that would have fit him perfectly.

Onto the scarier end of this board, an envelope is nailed. He sits astride on this board, letting his accomplishment sink in. Right now, he is the happiest man alive. His ass seems to float in air. If he looks through the board for long, nausea seems to set in. To be on the top of the world and still not being able to look upon your subjects. What a tragedy. All that sense of urgency has dissipated. He takes his own sweet time to finish the remaining shit-tubes of food. Throws them down. Then the water. Throws the water bottle too. Only chalk is left, it was something he had not tasted since he was a kid; yet a taste he hadn't forgotten. He eats it too. Down goes the chalk bag. He hopes that some baby dolphin chokes on it. He can see miles and miles away from his vantage point, yet he can't see any island or ship blotting the ocean's surface. Just pure vastness.
He moves his ass a bit forward on the board, and with the legs still dangling astride, lays down on his back. His backbone makes a cracking sound in gratitude. The sun is nearer to the horizon than overhead, and it doesn't blind his eyes. The ground is far down below. The sky is much much farther; and our hero is suspended in limbo. From the ground; a horn blares, warning our hero that in another 10 seconds, the baggage will be dropped. Our hero closes his eyes. Feed them to sharks for all he cares. A plop strikes his ears a few seconds later. Baggage has been offloaded. At the height, our hero lies, sound takes two and a half seconds to reach. So the news has already staled before reaching him. The mogul must be infuriated. He warns about some impending shots, but our hero is sure  that no harppon can touch him at this height. He grins in his nap.
From the ground he hears a shot. A moment later the board is shaking. More shots and more shaking. He still doesn't care. But for some reason, his right leg itches, as if it is bitten by a hornet. Despite his mind's balking, he opens his eyes, sits up and take cognizance of the situation. The diving board, that used to be transparent was pockmarked by some bullets, that were stuck into the far end of the board. The thickness of the board prevented them to pierce through. Fucker was taking sniper shots at him, most of which were way off the mark. But one seemed to have scratched his right leg. A blood rivulet had made its way down his leg and droplets were falling down. The way he was sitting had exposed his legs to the mogul, sooner or later a bullet will hit his leg head on, and then he can forget about climbing down this ladder. He does what strikes him most logical, waves his hands wildly like a mad man, signalling to the mogul that he will move forward, if only the mogul stops shooting. Message received. He hears no more shots. Using his hands to grab the sides of the board, he drags his body forward, his dangling legs ready to compensate for any untoward motion. The trigger happy mogul fires another shot. The horn blares again, 'Hunker! you asshole' it blares. There goes his final advantage. He brings one leg up, and then the next,while still pinching the board tightly, Now that there is nothing to support him, the wind striking him from sides seems to have redoubled its effort to dislodge him. Still, he surges ahead, as he had since the begining. As he reaches to the end of the board, he waits for the wind to abate. When it does, he quickly snatches the nailed envelope, uses his mouth to tear out the envelope, his teeth grab the note inside, while he discards the envelope. A gust of wind strikes again. Instinctively his hand grabs the board again. The note is flapping against his face, slapping his forehead and chin. This time wind doesn't subside for full 10 minutes. His jaw, that still holds the letter, aches badly. So does his knees. At last the wind stops. With shaky hands, he grabs the letter, unfolds it.

If you are not dead yet, then you are not trying hard enough. Let me help.

Even as he is reading the last word, making out what it means, the diving board snaps. Our hero will never know it, but the board was not fixed to the ladder, but hinged to it. Some weird mechanism lets the mogul control it, just like he controls everything in this story.

Most of the people can't predict the time of their death. Atleast our hero was lucky in this respect. He had full eleven seconds to let the knowledge sink in. His life didn't flash before him. Nor did any cheesy moments and memories. There were no thoughts except one, "If only he held on to the board a little tighter." There was only one mystery for the mogul to anticipate now. Will the hero hit the ground or the water first. Much to his delight, the hero struck the edge of the rig head first. All the bones powdered by the impact. His body tumbled about his head and drops in the ocean. Like his extra baggage, more food for the fish to choke on.

In the sky, like a penis tumescing, the diving board is hinging back up....

Although this is no movie, it would have been a perfect moment to play 'Immortal' in the background