Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Cocktail - The real story Part 1

Cocktail is the undercover sequel to the undercover flop, Agent Winnowed. W is recalled after his last assignment, a colossal failure where he failed to recover his single-billed-hero career. He enters the Big Office, and M, the elder Mangeshkar didi, is ready to sing to him: “Ai-gent Vinod yeh sunlo, zaraa g***d mein bharlo daali”, at which a portrait of Chacha N is shown weeping in the background. In short, she gives him the shaft.
W begs for another chance and by begging I mean he begs. He tears his shirt, and vocal cords, smears his face with paint, dons a Viking helmet, rolls his eyes and sings “Chheechha leather” on local-trains where M, now disguised as a big O, finally impressed by his penitence, slips in a CD in the elastic of his panty as she brushes past him, deboarding the last local-train. W takes the CD to his laptop and it reveals a hologram where M, now disguised as an SS officer, Satish Shah in uniform, reveals the next assignment. 

-          Welcome, Agent W. Stop shaking your lap, I cannot concentrate when my breasts jiggle. Listen carefully now. Apparently, when the earth was still young, and Hangal only in his middle-age, a giant meteorite fell from space
-          Why space? - W asks.
-          So where would you rather it came from? A latrine? (Continues) Fell from space and landed in a spot.  (Silence.)
-          What spot? - W dared after some time.
-          Well, a rather tricky spot.
-          Trick is my second hyphenated middle name.
-          What’s the first?
-          One.
-          Well, as I said, it’s a rather tricky place. Rather tickly, if you have the fingers for it. Ticky, if you don’t particularly care for hygiene. And of course tinkly, sometimes a dozen times a day, especially on cold rainy days like this.
-          Is it safe?
-          I see your skills remain undiminished. The spot is indeed a safe. A safe in Barclays, London. The collapse of the bank has revealed to us at last its location. We want you to go and retrieve the meteorite.
-          What’s in the meteorite?
-          A tail.
-          Tell it to me.
-          A tail, not a tale. Millions of years ago, we were all reptiles, lizards. (Looks at W) Some of us still even look like them. A few years ago, in a top-secret NASHA operation we captured a hundred intoxicated Neanderthal men captured loitering around Delhi pubs, manning police stations and crying themselves hoarse at Anna’s rallies. You see these men are the proto-men, their brains never evolved beyond that of the reptile. We befuddled their brains with coke -
-          Brown sugar?
-          No, just Coke. Diet Coke. Of course, we put the Mentos in their mouths first. We brainwashed these men that there was this lizard which was the biggest lay and wore real-lly short minis, and let their SUVs loose at the spot we believe lay the fossilized remain of our first reptilian ancestor. The men dug it out in minutes and threw it at the side of the road after raping it for a few days. We had RFID-tagged their SUVs of course, and found the battered remains of our ancestor… but we never found its tail.
-          You think they took it away?
-          No, we believe that the tail was embalmed thousands of years ago and sent in space where it crystallized inside this meteorite. You see this was no ordinary tail. Over successive evolutions, it gradually moved from the posterior to the anterior portion of the body, and became what we now refer to as the most sinful portion of our constitution.
-          King Mojo?
-          Uh-no. The tongue.
-          Oh. Okay, so it became a tongue. What of it? Tomorrow, my nipple might evolve and become a hand…
-          Why a hand?
-           That’s just an example…
-          But why would you want hands there?
-          Well, forget that…
-          Of course, I will! It’s a preposterous idea!
-          No, it isn’t!
-          It is! Tell me one good use of hands on nipples!
-          Well, I believe, they can be put to many uses! When you wake up to the milkman in the morning, you can hold a pan, and still yawn… you can scratch yourself in the nads, and still go balldancing in a tuxedo… while love-making, you can grab at the titties and the bums at one go…
-          Okay, okay! I got it.
-          So the point is, why do we need the first nipple that became the hand?
-          We don’t. We need the first tail that became the tongue.
-          Okay, why do you need that tongue? Besides being curious about it.
-          I am never curious, W. (SS looks as coldly to W as Shah can manage)I know everything.
-          Then why do we need the tail?
-          Because it contains, at its tip, the beginning.
-          And what was there in the beginning?
-          God’s own name.
-          I knew you would get my Muslimness in this!
-          In the beginning, as John Abraham keeps telling us, was the word and that word was lost in the many evil intents we have given to this noble appendage since. The word was God. And God as we know is that single perfect equation that would explain everything.
-          Everything?
-          Everything.
-          Even Shahid Kapoor?
-          I wouldn’t stretch my expectations that far.
-           What’s in it for me then?
-          Well, I would say a rather generous chance to you to prove your mettle again, to stand on your own bloody feet without my paying through the nose for a crowd-puller Khan.
-          I don’t know, I am starting to enjoy these lace panties. How come you never thought of giving me the cover of a transvestite hooker?
-          Because then it wouldn't be a cover, just you. What do you want then, Agent W?
-          Something more.
-          Okay, with the discovery of the lost word, you will have Knowledge.
-          And why would I desire that?
-          ‘Coz knowledge is power.
-          Big deal! My mother owns the censor board. Remember Hum Tum? I already have all the power I need.
-          Faith then.
-          Impossible. I have been in this industry too long now.
-          Okay, okay, I’ll throw in your favourite agent again…
-          Pussy galore!
-          Ay’, lor’. In fact, I'll give you two for the price of half!
-          Gee, I  don’t know. I’m getting typecast with the yuppie stud surrounded by girls. Don’t you have a role more suited for my age?
-          We do actually. Boman’s. Just your age.
-          All right, all right. I’ll do it. What are we going to call this operation then?
-          Well, it all started with some coke (Satish Shah pronounces it as cock, and Saif embarrassedly corrects him) and it would end in our getting the tail. So I was think of calling it, (camera zooms on SS’s pudgy face as he raises a little finger to the side of his mouth) Operation Cocktail.
-          Okay, okay. what happens next?
-          As usual, your next pitstop would be at Q, of course, who would tell you the rest. You will find him at his usual hole.
-          You mean hall.
-          No hole. We had to surrender much of it to the new Metro line and there is only a hole now.
-          I will see him then.
-          Good. This CD would self-destruct itself now.

     Unfortunately, instead of the CD, the laptop, an Intel Atom netbook overheated with this protracted conversation, bursts into flames, badly burning W’s lap.

1 comment:

Nothing Spectacular said...

very nice :-) quite funny!