When the topmost button of my shirt went pop, I decided that the universe was being unkind to me.

See, when your shirt-button goes pop, it can mean quite a number of things. It could mean that you've gotten lucky and are about to get laid. It could also mean that you've gotten vastly less lucky and you're about to get a beating.

The universe had decided that I do not deserve getting lucky. I was about to get a reintroduction to pain.

I stumbled as the punk yanked harder to my collar, purpose: making me fall. I stumbled. For his feelings. How kind I am.

The one behind me kicked in the thigh. This time I stumbled for real, dropping to one knee on the dirty floor to keep balance. Someone slapped me under the right ear. The cramped warehouse swung around, the little light that's present blurring. Jokes on them. That side's already numb.

"Kuddus, what happened?" The speaker's sitting silhouette was retainable, but nothing else. Because in contrast to the dark grey concrete of the warehouse, there was a window behind, letting the streetlights shine in. Classic local smasher. Thinks backlight makes them look intimidating. A brown bottle cast golden shapes on the wooden table. A chair lay on it's side before it, opposite to him.

"Nothing happened, sir," said the large, bearded punk who had slapped me, "We are mad, sir."

"Why?"

"This bastard was flirting," he shook my collar again, "in our street. We are very angry, sir."

"Well, bokachoda, doesn't that count as something happening?"

Beards opened his mouth, and then closed them. His shoulders slumped in a motion that reminded me of a cow sitting down. He straightened his black tunic, looking down.

"All fuckheads! This is why pun's from other streets get to flirt with our girls. What's in your head? Bullshit? Still suckin' mommy's tits?" Along with the string of obscenities, the deep sweet sting of alcohol floated out of his mouth, "Sister-fuckin' good for nothin' lizard eggs!"

The punks just stood there with their heads hung low. Two in the back were whispering.

"Hey fucks!" He threw the bottle at the couple in the back. It slipped, tumbled, and smashed to pieces on the ground, ten feet from its destination, "shut up!"

They shut up.

The man turned towards me, and now that there were less ponies dancing in my vision, I could see some of his features.

He was cute. Like how a hamster is cute after you've overfed it, covered it with grease, and gouged out one of its eyeballs. Two oversized incisors protruded from his lips. His dark, sleek and oily hair was brushed so low, —possibly in an attempt to civility— it looked like a black helmet.

"Sit 'im."

The chair was stood up and I was pushed down on it. It was a hard and flat metal chair. Something in my pocket made it uneven.

Wait, did I just sit on my phone?

No, too soft. Must be my wallet. Plus, my phone's in my side pocket, not my hind one.

He faced me, "Where you from?"

I stared at him. Plus point for infuriating them.

He sighed. Punk to my right threw me a hand, right under the jaw. Something went crack.

"Baal! Did I tell you to punch!? The fuck you doin' by yourself? Did your balls grow brains or what?"

Right side punk shrunk down.

"Where you from?" He gave me his attention again.

"Minar Market," I tried to imitate a sleepy pigeon. Don't blink and talk in slow periodic bursts.

"Hah," the rest of his teeth flashed with his laugh. They were betel-worn, black little things, "Hahahaha! Just because you fuckers got visited by the PM, you think you're all the shit! You think all the women in the world are available to you!"

I said nothing.

"Well, let me tell you this, the girls here, yeah?" He stopped representing a hamster and started representing a pig, "they belong to me. I tell them what I want. I fuck them when I want. I am the Don here."

I couldn't help it this time. Giggle chocked up and slipped through my guards. I made a dying chicken sound.

The two beside me went very very still.

Don regarded me with narrow pig eyes. He licked his lips, "Tell me, kid, how old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"—Sir. You'll call me sir."

I said nothing.

"You're lovin' this, aren' you?"

At that I smiled, and realized half my face won't listen to me. So, I guess it looked like a smirk. Understand, though, I only had the intentions to make the best impressions.

"Well, then I'll make sure to properly show my love." He reached under the table and brought out an antique cutter.

Even with everything that's going on, my breath caught.

That was the thing about pain, you see. You can act all smug about it. You can convince yourself you don't feel it. And hey, it works. You can roll pretty nice as long as it's punches, kicks and bee-stings.

But when the blade comes out, dark and tiny and insanely sharp, you catch your breath. And you hold it, because it's gonna slither right out of your rib cage if you don't.

Mr don liked my reaction. He shifted the tiny thing from hand to hand, boasting it like a trophy. Tried to twirl it with the right and failed.

"Shirt," he ordered punk right.

And the rest of the shirt went pop as well. Someone pulled my hands back behind the chair and tied them. I couldn't resist.

He took the blade and touched it lightly, right in the middle of my sternum, like he's brushing with a feather.

Then it started burning.

I grit my teeth. A wet warmth trickled down from my inflamed chest to my abdomen. Something was stuck in my larynx that won't go down.

Don looked at me with a lustful shine in his eyes. He licked his lips and ordered, "Brin' the salt."

Holy shit.

Holy shit!

I paused and breathed in again, scampering to get the words out.

"Okay, Google!"

For a moment there's stunned silence. Then, like a chorus of crows, four voices start laughing.

"The fuck do you have a screw loose!?"

"He'd have to have a screw loose to mess with you, sir!" Chimed in one of the punks.

"All screws loose! All screws loose," the punk behind made a slogan.

And in their chorus, the crows didn't notice the slight vibration that came from my pocket, nor did they notice me very calmly saying, "Call father."

Fucking amateurs.

"Alright, jerkoffs, now brin' the salt!" Don yelled. Someone scurried away.

Then there was a distant bang, and the lights went out.

Someone noisily stubbed their toe on something and yelled, "Fuck!"

"Bastards... Kuddus, Call the electricity office. What's this shit?"

A phone lit up in the dark and illuminated Kuddus's wide scrunched face in pale white. He lifted it to his ear.

"Hello, electricity office? Yes, yes. I'm speaking from Shamshir Boss's house. The current went away. Can you give it back, pleeeaase?"

"Motherfucker!" Shamshir boss threw the antique cutter at Kuddus. The blunt edge bounced off his cheek.

"'Can you give it back, please?' Damn gay fucker, just ask what happen'!"

"Uh... Uh, yes, sir. Excuse me. What happened? Why is the current gone?"

Something was said in the phone. Kuddus pulled it away from his head, "They say the transformer in front of New Market blew up."

"Then ask them when they'll fix it!"

"Excuse me," Kuddus sang meekly into the phone, "when will you fix it?"

Someone said something on the phone.

"Tomorrow morning." Kuddus declared.

"Ah, fuck! HBO was showin' Titanic tonight!" Don Shamshir kicked the table, "Kashem, go and brin' a flashlight and a bag of salt."

Kashem nodded and ran.

"Thought you got saved, shonar chan pitoler ghughu?"

I shook my head.

"That's right. Very very smart boy," he sneered, "Would it have hurt to be this before you came to this street?"

On that I nodded.

"Heh. Fucking screw loo—"

A cry, and all hell broke loose.

Figures streamed in in the dark, hoisting sticks, blades and guns. They wore dark. They were dark, so immensely and thoroughly that the darkness of the night seemed to stitch itself to their figures. Moving fast and without wasting a breath, they lunged like preying cats.

Like all real fight, it was quick, messy, and a work of art. The rods went thwack. The blades went Shink. A few rounds fired too, flashes of yellow light in utterly dissonant darkness. My bindings fell loose behind me; cut. I hopped down, and keeping my head down, made my way away from the center, the killing bowl. There was a nice, strong looking, wooden table at the north corner. There was also nice, low, little me making my way there.

Then someone dropped on me.

I hurled forward, smashing my face into the floor, and without letting go of the momentum, rolled and came back on my feet.

"OOOOHHH!" Kuddus screamed behind me. Something heavy and metal slammed down where my head laid a breath ago with a ting.

I didn't turn. I knew he had a weapon. From the sound, I knew it was a blade. I didn't need to turn. I ran. He ran behind me, screaming incoherence.

I dodged people running about. He bulled past them. I ran serpentine, shifting left and right and left. He seemed to focus on the epicenter of my movement and rush towards it, swinging his Ramdaa. Some poor guy caught a swing in the shoulder for me. He fell with an Ack!

And then karma got me by the throat for running while staring behind me. I ran into someone.

We tumbled and rolled twice on the ground before coming to a halt, him under me, kuddus towering above us both with the Ramdaa swinging at us.

I lifted my right leg, drew in my knee, and shot my foot.

And grace to the merciful Lord, it hit. It hit right where I wanted it to.

Kuddus made a chocking sound and fell to one knee, holding his groin. The blade fell from his hand. It won't hold him for long, but long wasn't needed.

Grabbing for the blade before Kuddus's scrying hands could find it, I threw myself up, kneed him in the gut and slammed the blunt side of the daa his head. It made a sound like two wooden planks colliding and Kuddus fell silently to one side.

I looked back at my stumbling partner and saw him gone, already reentered the battlefield.

Our "Don"'s troops weren't few, but they were mostly piling around in drunken heaps. The few sober ones tried futilely at retaliation, but was immediately scattered and overpowered. They were quick enough to submit and surrender that we had no doubts about their loyalty to our local smasher; or lack thereof. One particularly enthusiastic defender had three holes in his chest. Plus, Kuddus lived. Kudos to me.

Once our boys were finished with the punks, they moved on to thrashing the place. Apparently, they had fourteen AK-22 in the warehouse, underground. Everything happened too fast to get them out.

I had indeed cracked the guerilla screen on my phone, though when I do not know. I was standing among the wreckage, picking pieces of it out when I heard my name being called, "Rashed."

I froze.

Hoo boy, here we go.

I turned towards where the shadows seemed to condense and lowered my head. A man stood there. A lean and tall man, with flecks of sharp silver in his storm-shadow beard and black eyes opened to the maddest parts of the abyss. He shared with me his light brown skin and almost non-existent eyebrows. My father's tongue never twisted a word.

"You were late," father said.

I didn't reply. I know better than to make excuses.

"Where is it?"

I held myself from grimacing, and took off my shirt. My wound had already closed, shallow as it was. It was a thin and dark crimson line on my skin.

Father narrowed his eyes and scrutinized it. Then he said, "that won't scar enough."

He turned to one of the phantoms flanking him, "Deepen it."

He—no, it was on me in less than a second, a hand around my neck and small, silver knife pressing to my chest. The knife pressed in and through skin and flesh, till it touched the bone of my sternum, taking the pain to levels unimaginable unless experienced first hand. It was madness, pure sensory madness that is wrong in every sense and every way.

The knife moved down, exposing my bone to the cold night air. Blood flowed in a thick dark trickle that wet my pants and soon started to pool under my feet. My breath burned my lungs like hellfire.

I kneeled and gasped. But I didn't cry. My nails dug into my palms but I didn't cry. You don't show that weakness to predators. The phantom coiled around me moved away.

"We... Deal..." I gasped out.

Father regarded me with a flat stare reserved for cockroaches and little children. Then he picked out his wallet and started counting notes.

".... Thirteen, fourteen," he finished and handed me the fourteen thousand taka notes. I took them gingerly, not letting them be scrunched. That'd defeat the purpose.

"Fix yourself by tomorrow. There's an occasion at Tuesday night."

I nodded.

"And of course," my father showed the ghost of a smile, "I love you."

And then turned about and walked away the man I am meant to kill.

(Ramdaa:

As you can see, it's a heavy set single edge blade. It's blunt edge is almost half an inch wide, so it can effectively be used as a bludgeoning weapon.

Bokachoda: Dumbfuck

Baal: Hair, but used in bengali slangs as Semen.)