I limped past a panting dog. It looked at me, shut it's mouth to gulp, and broke back into its doggy grin. I was tempted to kick it, but it would've torn me to shred given my disposal at the moment. Or it's mama would. It looked young. Why can't I have a mama bitch?

It was early afternoon. Fucking Hizra bitches sure took their time with me. They hit and insulted between mocks and insults, less than a percent of which I actually heard.

My ribs hurt with each step. Why did father ask me to come back by myself again? I was dizzy, even though they didn't hit me in the noggins. Figure they didn't want to kill me. My knees, though. Ouch.

The biggest boomer, though, was waiting for the end. I reached into the pocket of my shirt and pulled out the Five hundred taka Bilu had slipped into my pocket. To the Hizras and others surrounding us, it would look like a power move. Giving me back the ugly money. What poetic-fucking-justice.

To me, though...

Behind your garage, 8:00 pm tonight. Come alone.

Rushed pencil writing over Bangobandhu's face. Because pu better have some serious explanations.

Now, what do I do with the money?

Okay, that's not a real question. I smelled fried chicken. It came from a public bathroom stall turned restaurant. It was one of those shops that were barely four feet wide, but went almost fifty feet into the building. Almost like a cave.

The guy on the counter gave me a look as I went in. Can't blame him. I looked like a scarecrow on marijuana. My shirt was untucked and largely unbuttoned. The white tank top underneath tore down almost to the middle. I limped and lumbered monkey-ishly.

He continued to look at me like that, as I walked to a table and dropped myself on the steel chair. It groaned.

I looked at the menu.

Sixty for a piece of chicken.

Hundred and fifty for half a chicken.

Two hundred and fifty for a whole chicken.

It'd probably be wise if I left some money in my pocket, in case they trashed my bike too.

It'll probably be "wise".

"Two full chicken, please."

The guy on the counter stared at me for a few seconds. Then he asked, sheepishly, "You have the money?"

I pulled the five hundred taka note out of my pocket.

"It's dried chilly grilled chicken," The man said again, slowly grinning this time, "you can't handle two of those. Most people can't handle even half of one."

I waved my bills, "Just give me my damn orders."

And they did. The chicken was marvelous and exactly as promised. I ate a leg, and had to pack the rest for home. You should've seen the counter guy's face while he packed it. Perfectly slapable.

I took the chicken and headed right. I left my bike parked near the transformer, I think.

I struggled down the dusty street, past a couple of kids playing soccer with a plastic bottle and a beggar sitting in the Buddha pose, with a bowl near his feet.

"Pfft."

I looked lazily to the kids, trying to find out which one chuckled. They all looked too immersed into the game to notice.

Looking down, I found the beggar grinning at me.

Wow.

I'm getting laughed at by beggars. What a day.

Then I looked again.

Did he look familiar... ?

"Remember me, Sister fucker?" He grinned further.

The face fell in place as soon as I heard his voice.

It was Mr Don.

"You fucking betrayed me, you sewerage smelling cunt," He continued, smiling wider still, "now you got beat up again. Justice, bitch ass."

As immersive his fantasy world was, did I want to associate with him right now?

I began to walk away again.

"Hey!" He threw his begging bowl at me. It hit my thigh, on a sore spot and fell down to roll away with a clunk.

"The hell is your problem?" I whipped around, hurting myself more in the process than the begging bowl hurt me.

"You licking that Sardar bastard's fungus growing toes got me down to the fucking streets," The man snarled with his black beady teeth, "That's my problem!"

I thought about kicking him too. He probably didn't know I'm the "Sardar Bastard"'s son. It would've gone quite a different way if he did.

I looked at her, still irritated, but now pondering.

Really, how would it go?

I had an idea.

The best murder is the murder you didn't commit.

"That Sardar bastard is my father," I told him.

He looked at me with blurry bloodshot eyes for a few seconds. Then he spat on the ground, "That's what, eh? That's why you keep sucking up to that sucker. You're a fucking Father son duo."

He spat on the ground again, and wiped his nose with his hand, "All rich fucks ganging up on me."

"Hey man, I ain't getting much privileges either," I said as I sat beside him, "look at me."

He scooted away, blinking at me, and my torn shirt and battered form, "Your dad had that done to you?"

"Yeah," I sat the chicken down between us, Shamshir eyeing it the whole time.

I opened the package of the chicken, "I want him gone too."

He was staring at the chicken; my partially eaten one was on top. Maybe waiting for a go.

"Have it," I said. He tore into the chicken.

Tearing a good, juicy chunk of the breast, he said, "What's it to me? You're both the same."

"Unless you help me," I swirled a finger in front of his face. Isn't that how you hypnotize people? "I need a right hand man in this, it's... A two man job."

He eyed me up and down, suspicious.

"I need someone with some guts, you know," I shrugged, "Someone who hates my father and ain't afraid to take the step and take my father down."

"And what do I get out of the deal?"

"Your old area, your old gang—"

He stopped me, "Won't listen to me no more."

"Then what do you want?"

He shrugged, "You tell me."

Well, sir, in my expert opinion you want a parking meter up yours.

I looked up. No, not for a parking meter. For a solution.

"How about complete control over this here whorehouse?" I showed around.

He seemed to consider the implications.

"Full control? Like, I get to fuck whichever bitches I want, whenever I want, free of cost?" He asked.

"I don't know," I tilted my head, "it's your area. You choose."

He nodded, "Good, good. And none of my older charges stay, right?"

"Older charges?" I smiled.

"Some bitches me and my boys had fun with went to court against me," his face twisted to snark, "I want her and the charges gone."

"Oh, don't worry," I grinned as I stood up, "After we're done, you won't have to worry about any charges. Meet me the day after tomorrow, Lokonath Banyan tree, right around this time of the day."

"Right," he nodded, "Can you give me five hundred right now, too? I wanna fuck me some whore right now."

Oh.

Oops.

I looked behind my back, "I'll gauge you the day after tomorrow, then I'll give you your worth. But keep the chicken."

He looked at me with narrowed eyes as I walked away.

Lucky me, my bike was fine. I did walk in to see a pair of macaques sitting on it, chilling as monkeys do. A bunch of kids observed them from a feel-safe distance. The cold of Autumn hadn't settled down yet in these parts, and these kids were in cotton shorts, the clothings of summer. They didn't seem to mind the pinpricks of dust on bare skin. A murder of crows sat on a nearby electric wire, judging with avian interest.

When the macaques saw me coming, they flashed a snarl and walked away, taking their orbit of children along with them. At least they didn't poop. A kid, about eight or nine, took a last look at my marvelous bike and went away to join her friends.

I dusted the seat of my bike and mounted on it as I put the key to the slot and turned. The leather accepted me with a squeak, the engine purring slightly already. I kicked the bike upright and hit the gas.

Wheels rolled and dust flung up. The bike graced forward like a cat. 

I dodged and slipped past trucks, rickshaws, fruit vendors and motor vans. It took five or seven minutes for me to get past. One of the perks of having a bike is you can pull it up on the footpath when there's a traffic jam, with only limited scorn from the passerby. Try doing that with a car. My ribs hurt and I didn't trust myself to make quick turns.

Weather was crazy today. Barely a hundred meters from the town's threshold, temperature dropped by five degrees. A light mist blurred out the distant trees. As the honks and bonks of the town faded away, I realized that the sound of my motor was the only one except the ripple of the ripe rice paddy.

The pain all over my body numbed a little from the wind chill. My collars flapped, having come undone earlier. The light vibrations as the bike prowled through uneven road became muffled and hypnotic. The purr of my engine went up and down.

And then I realized it wasn't the only engine there. There was a black glassed microbus moving behind me, keeping a distance of a hundred meters or so.

I locked the suspension and let my bike shoot forward, despite my discomfort. In three seconds, the microbus sped up too.

I was being followed.