The Dreaming Tree

Don't you hate it when people say "don't you hate it?' and you actually don't hate it?

No I haven't been learning Italian and yes those are the only 3 words I know. 2 if you discount Italiano.

Being a Punjabi is always satisfying. That's because even if you believe in celibacy, you always have the food, to err.. please. And when I say that last night's dinner was in Little Italy, I hope readers don't relate the foreign fixture to the equivalence explained above.

After pulling down a place called MyLungi (or as the fancy folk call it, Melange), the Mumbai chain, Little Italy, opened up here. And all that Garfield really made me want lasagna.

Initial impressions were sadly not so great. The place still looks a lot like Melange, although to be fair, I don't think a total makeover should've been on their list anyway. The decor was confused. It was not exactly Italian, and it certainly did not make me feel Italian. I must admit the Gujju birthday bash on the table next to us did not help.

My least favourite part comes now though. An employee came over, poured us water and lit a candle on the table, with a sadak-chap plastic lighter. The one that poor autowallas use. The cutlery was classy and everything on the table looked rich. And then the plastic lighter. These guys really know how to ruin stuff. The ambience was decent and quite likeable. And then I heard Bryan Adams. Italian retaurant, Italian food, difficult to comprehend menu and really nice Ohm speakers. Everything was right. Then they play Alanis Morisette. Then Celine Dion.
AAARGHH!!! Someone tell them all these are mainstream Canadian artists. That means they're from Canada. Which is about 67million handspans from Italy. Some Italiano music would really add to the ambience. I'm not talking Opera and Pavarotti, but atleast some O sole mio.

The staff was well dressed, not Milan Fashionweek stuff, but good enough. The funny part was the when I asked a bloke what he'd recommend, the answers were B.13 and C.29. Quite convenient, would rather have them do their homework and learn names along with the numbers. And show people that you know names.

The food was brilliant. I absolutely loved it. And although all the pizzas being ordered tempted us, we stuck to pasta, lasagna and some farmer bread thing. Considering the prices I'd want everything to be perfect, no slip-ups. Not the case evidently. But the food was great, and the cooks deserve a pat on their backs.

I could feel its chamber burn my skin through the denim. That .357 is a real devil. Turned 3 zombies into ketchup. The undead sure got the un shot off by the magnum. I'd love to call it my babe, but its too darn powerful. And all that chrome. Its a man, a full grown evil flesh gnawing man. People say they hate because its too slow. But thats a truckload of bullshit. It would be faster if you could recover from the recoil, its like hitting a wall at mach 5.

Two more of those blood sucking leeches, I let the Beretta take them. After all, this one is the pet, the most docile, most likeable gun. It wouldn't hurt a fly, unless you shot at it of course. I know the boss is coming, I can smell it. Plus the AI is growing tired of getting its scary creatures gunned down like kids in an American school. This wont do, the machine has an ego as big as its code. Couple of more jumps and I'm in full view of a bunch of apartment windows.

Full view.

It hits me like missile from Moscow. Snipers. Bloody snipers.

My legs freeze and I can't move a muscle. The first muffled gunshot rings through the walls and ricochets of a dumpster. I lob a bunch frags and scram. Just one hit through the arm, the good one though. I hunt for a health pack and for all you know the AI might've just planted this one under my foot.

Fool! Of course they did!

I rise to see the boss on me, a Benelli levelled at me. 12 gauge. I'd survive it if I were a blue whale. The air would kill me most probably though. But fact remains I'm no blue whale and thats still a 12 gauge. Dodge just one shot, just one, I keep telling myself, by the time the shotgun's back you'll have the magnum bury a bullet in his crotch.

And then I see something else. It's not a his. Its a her. And she's smiling. Says I've done well. Stupid bot, smiling at me, 2 million lines of code and this is what they come up with. I could think of better female bosses hanging by my thumbs. But I've gotta give it to her, she's got me cornered. Quick draw it is, my end or hers.

In a split second the gun is out of my pocket and ready to roar. She laughs, loudly. Dares me to shoot, she dint need to. Half the barrel is empty and she's still standing there, can't believe it, not in a million years. She throws me her shotgun, this time I make full use, finishing all the shells with secondary fire. And everything went through her. Every single piece of lead hits the wall behind. This time she snarls and screams, "I'm the AI stupid! And you're in my world!". Then comes the pounce, coup de grace.

Epilogue 1: This piece, however fictional it may seem, is a true real life dream. Not nightmare of course, because I had saved the game just before the sniper trap.

Epilogue 2: I really need to cut down on the gaming.

You know what better than mindless first-person-shooter gore?
Mindless first-person-shooter gore with Thrash Metal in the background.
Welcome to the world of Machinehead+Quake. A world of double bass pounding rockets with plasma gun riffs.

A world I effing live in.

P.S: Shhhh! Don't tell anyone, I'm supposed to be writing CAT tests on the comp.

You may find this hard to believe, but I actually like Vista.
lightning
And the new Windows Media Player!
God kills a kitten

In flight Bhel puri.
Himesh Reshammiya ringtones.
Reliance phones.
A Ba on my side.
More reliance phones.
Business talk.
Pilot bashing.
Tea enquiries.
More Himesh Reshammiya ringtones.
One million Bhai/Ben per second.
More Tea enquiries.
70 year-old men in flaming red shirts.
70 year old women in shorts.
Still more Himesh Reshammiya.
Bharuch Peanuts.
Wannabe vegetarians.
Alcoholic fantasies.
Lots more Himesh Reshammiya.
Reliance petrol.
Reliance cornershops.
Reliance contraceptives.
Reliance lingerie.
Fat people.
Very fat people.
Fat people walking to the park.
Rich fat people driving to Talwalkars.
Parrots.
Torrents.
My window.
My bathroom.
My friggin TV.
Guess who's home, baby. Guess who's home.