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The Prime Minister (standard:other, 4717 words)
Author: Rattan MannAdded: Apr 14 2005Views/Reads: 2381/1531Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A novel about a madman whom the children call 'the prime minister' for fun

The Prime Minister 

A novel 

Part 1 - Newton's third law: the action 

Rattan Mann 

Chapter 1 

Dedication:	To Rashmi who is still too young to understand fully how her
uncle can love her more than Maria.  And to Maria who did not live long 
enough to see how her dad's works have finally started to tumble out of 
his closet. 

" Where would you like to be shot?" they asked him. 

" Anywhere except in the heart." the nut replied. 

So they shot him in the heart. 

" Till the last day of his life this idiot could not call a spade a
spade, and a club a club.  Everything was a heart to him.  No wonder he 
lost the game.  If he had given a more sensible answer he might have 
lived a little longer.  Who knows the president might even have 
pardoned him." said the little hero, the leader of the mock firing 
squad, amazed that already at this young age, he could accomplish so 
much with so little - kill two birds with one stone, enjoy a game and 
kill a man by merely twirling his fingers into the shape of a mock but 
smoking gun. 

But it was no game for the idiot.  It was all very real to him. He
really fell into the gutter. 

Thick bubbles of dark mud, mixed with human and animal excrement, began
to rise from the bottom of the sewage and cover him from head to toe 
like an army of black cockroaches on a food-gathering expedition.  An 
intolerable mixture of stench and stink rose in equally thick but 
invisible bubbles in the otherwise fragrant evening air. 

" He is drinking urine!" A shocked murmur ran in the crowd. 

" No!  Not at all!  He is eating shit!" An equally shocked protest

" It is actually cow-dung that is in his mouth!" suggested still others
who were not yet shocked enough to think rationally and observe keenly. 

" Horse-dung, I say!  Who dare challenge me?" flared up Tutu, a very
dangerous muscle-man, equally feared by those living high up in the 
sky-scrapers, as well as those living down below in the jhuggis in the 
backyards of the sky-scrapers. To some he was terror-incarnate.  No 
doubt, without provocation or warning, he reached for his pocket. 

The next moment, knives were flying out of dozens of pockets. Daggers
flashed in the fading twilight.  Blows were exchanged. Cries of anger 
and pain, and screams of frightened women were heard.  Without rhyme or 
reason, suddenly everybody was at everybody else's throat. 

Urine and shit, cow-dung and horse-dung became instant slogans,
battle-cries, and rallying-points of the unruly mob which loved nothing 
more than lawlessness.  People went wild with fury, and were willing to 
kill or die, make their or someone else's wives widows and children 
orphans to prove their allegiance to shit or urine, cow-dung or 

"Lovers of Mankind!  Guardians of civilization!" suddenly a voice of
reason arose above the mad battle-cries, and a man moved quickly 
towards the center-stage to grab attention of the crowd.  He was Pupu, 
another feared-by-all-hit-man in the payrolls of the sky-scrapers.  As 
soon as he reached the center-stage he raised his arm like a great 
dictator and an immediate silence fell over the crowd of urchins from 
the sky-scrapers as they waited for their leader to speak. 

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