The evening orange sun had long since surrendered to the bright white glow of the streetlights when Dan returned home from work. His arms were heavy with grocery packages, the thin plastic handles bit into his finger like ticks probing for blood. He kicked the door behind him with such a force that it announced that someone had entered the house, breathing out a sigh that carried both exhaustion and a strange satisfaction— today at least he had managed to bring something back for them to munch on for at least 2 days.
Gary's resounding voice came almost instantly from the living room. "Is that you lucky idiot, or Robin Hood has become a burglar and somehow got our shopping list."
Dan rolled his eyes. "If it's a burglar. He's considerate enough to bring dinner." He dumped the grocery bags into the counter, and the sound of the rustling bags and the clinking cans filled the silence of the tiny apartment with noise.
Gary emerged from behind the doorframe. Immediately he moved towards the groceries, after looking through the bags he raised his eyebrows in approval. "Impressive. You actually remembered to buy rice and beans this time."
Dan waved a dismissive hand, shying away from the sarcastic compliments. "Don't act like I always buy greasy food. From time to time I buy proper sources of nourishment. Go on supreme chef— it's your turn to feed the hungry dogs of the kingdom."
Gary grinned like a cheshire cat, and hauled the bags into the kitchen, already humming a sea shanty about New York Girls, as he began sorting the packaged products and sorting the veggies. Dan stretched his limbs, rotated his neck in a clockwise motion, rubbed his weary shoulders and collapsed onto the squeaking sofa with a weary groan.
The remote was within his reach, lying slightly on the edge of the coffee table. He didn't even think about his brain being adversely affected by the idiot box— he just picked up the plastic device, pointed it at the telly, and let it come alive to drag him into the amazing world of advertisements, low effort content and propaganda.
A burst of music, loud screams and colors flooded the room for a few brief seconds. On channel 4 a dance reality show was being telecasted. The camera swooped dramatically over a brightly lit stage where sexy women in glittering costumes spun, twirled, and struck daring poses that indirectly jumped over the parental guidance ratings without being directly provocative. The host was a handsome man with a perfect face that had definitely gone under a knife, and his grin was way too wide to be real, shouted enthusiastically into his microphone. "Wow that was an amazing performance, I can still feel the goosebumps, team starlight definitely amped up their dance routines, and now for the most anticipated performance of the evening."
The crowd roared with enthusiasm which was further enhanced by the fake cheer noises being played in the background.
Dan's gaze drifted towards the judges— a trio of self important celebrities who were too high to be coherent, sitting behind a desk adorned with neon lights. One of them sitting on the right was a salt and pepper haired man wearing an expensive jacket that lit up like a Christmas tree in the colors of red, white and green, he leaned forward with an obvious interest in her assets as she took the stage with her presence.
She was dressed in flowing white fabric further beautified by swirls of glittering crimson red beads. The bejeweled fabric shimmered with her every move, even the camerman focused on her neckline dropping the gaze of the viewer teasingly low to show a few short peeks of her cleavage but he had done it so artfully that it never looked vulgar so barely anyone noticed his wicked intentions as subconsciously everyone on the other side of the telly focused on her body more with renewed interest.
Her expression was serene, smooth as the mist, her movements were graceful and fluid like a gazelle prancing around the bountiful garden of Eden.
"Look at that control!" cried the second judge, an anorexic women with faint greenish gold glitter on her eyelids.
"Truly captivating, I can't move my eyes away from such perfection." murmured the salt-and-pepper haired man, his eyes lingering longer on the contours of her body than professional courtesy allowed.
The third judge, an over enthusiastic-choreographer jumped on the table, and slammed it with his cowboy boots to show his exaggerated appreciation for the performance. "This is art! A trinity of confidence, poise and presentation! She's not just dancing— she's commanding attention just like an immortal goddess."
Dan couldn't help but smirk after hearing such inflated praise. Everyone was now a marketer. Another contestant appeared— this one wore a purple princess gown, her dress tight and sleek, every spin revealing just enough skin to make the audience gasp. After the performance was over the host arrived on stage his robotic grin caused Dan to inwardly cringe.
"Rebecca knows exactly how to use her body language to spread sensuality in the air." The host commented slyly as the camera zoomed in. "A performance that says one thing with every step 'look at me' without uttering a word."
Dan shook his head in frustration, a clear disdain was visible on his face. "Beautiful, pristine, effortless, gorgeous and pretty," he muttered sarcastically. "That's all they ever say. They must think on the other side of the screen every one is dumb ."
The applause rose again, audience clapped for a while, followed by the judges' predictable scores, depressing cliche stories of poverty, copyrighted by the production houses for the sole purpose of making the masses feel sorry for the contestants, and overwrought emotional speeches of the judges pretending to be empathetic for the camera. After ten minutes of seeing the repetitive commentary, Dan felt drained— like an atom bomb of immense boredom had dropped on the mushy fields of his exhausted mind.
He turned the TV off, chucked the remote away to the other side of the sofa, spread his feet outwards, used the sofa as a bed, stared at the ceiling, completely lost in a daydream. The silence that followed was almost like a calm before the storm.
Dan woke up from his fantasies, sat still for a moment, stared at the black screen of the telly, shook his head, gave it the middle finger. Then he picked up his phone, a basic lite model that was way more cheap than a needy man's dignity. Except for a single app all the other applications in the smart brick were pre-installed. Dan plugged in his earphones, tapped on the audiobook app, turned his face away from the screen and waited for the initial logo sequence, and flashing adverts to be over. Heading to the recommended section he selected the first audiobook he could find and tapped on it.
A soft chime, followed by the intro of the application in a woman's voice, twenty seconds she took to utter the book's title, followed by the writer's name, and surprisingly she slowly read the long dedication that the writer wrote to honor his dead mother who passed away from pancreatic cancer. Then a man's pleasant voice— steady, calm and serious buzzed into his ears.
'When the howls of the demons echoed across the valley, Satoshi hid beneath the old well where water was as scarce as the desert. He could hear the scream above, villagers begging for mercy, some among them screaming at the demons to give them a quick death. A gigantic behemoth with a swipe of his fist smashed the roofs that fell like puny trees with rotten roots, it was quite ironic that the roofs collapsed on the contractor and his family who had been hired by the village chief just a month ago to renovate these roofs. The thunder werewolves sharpened their claws against the stone walls of the village— but he waited. He always waited for the storm to pass away.
The narration was immersive. Dan leaned back, letting the words spill into his ears, diving deep into the story. 'Satoshi emerged from the well the next day, demons had burned the entire village, fires had died out, but the remnant black smoke still flew into the horizon. The air was thick with a scent of gloom, smell of dread and immense regret. He scavenged for basic resources from what remained— coarse bread, a flask of boiled water, a bag full of copper coins, few silver pieces and two gold coins— after gazing one last time at the remains of the village he walked away. Always away. Always away from one doomed place to another.'
Dan frowned slightly, shaking his head in disbelief.
'In the next village, he found shelter again. The people sympathized with him when he told them about the demons' attack, but omitted certain parts of the story in such a cunning way that he came out as a kind, helpful, courageous and harmless man who could do no wrongs. But after a few months when the demons came to exterminate the residents of the village, Satoshi hid once more, the murky waters of the pond saved him from the gaze of the demons. The cruel beasts tore through homes, crushing doors, smashing through the windows, punching residents, crushing their bodies and chewing on their hearts like delectable treats. Satoshi clutched his knees in the dark, prayed to every god, goddess, and deities he knew to protect him from an untimely end.'
The narrator's tone was calm, almost sympathetic, pity found its rightful place in his voice. Yet every sentence stung Dan's nerve, something felt off— protagonist was a scaredy cat, his actions were more like the devil, he was almost inhumane, and that further pissed off Dan who was already in a bad mood.
'Some call it survival. Others' call it cowardice. But Satoshi was sure that it was wisdom. He lived. The brave died fighting a battle that they could never win. The foolish thought about finding peace in death. The wise hid in the mud to see the dawn of a new day.'
Dan's brows furrowed. He paused the audio, his reflection caught faintly in the darkened TV screen, he was looking at a dead man who's eyes had lost lustre. "Wisdom, huh?" he muttered. "You sound pround of your cowardice."
The next moment, he yanked out the earphones, and tossed the phone onto the sofa. It bounced once, did a cartwheel, found itself near the edge, and at once it fell face-side on the carpet, just inches away from the dull greenish-blue tiles.
He rubbed his forehead, irritation bubbling under his skin, headache on its way. He didn't even know why it annoyed so much—maybe because he saw himself in that pathetic character. Deep down he knew, just like the protagonist he too had always run away from his problems, and he wasn't sure if the fall of the civilization happened any time soon, would he have the courage to pick up a weapon.
Just like a cloudburst these negative thoughts flooded every corner of his mind.To distract himself, he picked up the book lying near the armrest. The Title glared up at him: The Art of Slapping and How to Achieve Perfection in 30 Days.
The absurdity of it brought the faintest smirk to his face. He opened it and read aloud: 'A perfect slap is not born of anger, rage plays a part but precision is most important. The slapper's palm must strike with the confidence of a knight's blade—firm, swift, unhesitating. A slap, when mastered is the sharpest attack on an enemy's mind—bringing about a bout of great frustration, spiking the anger levels to all time highs and severely affecting their mental states so they can't make a sound judgement
Dan flipped a few pages nonchalantly. Illustrations showed hand postures, swing angles, even diagrams of cheek impact zomes to hurt where it hurt the most. Someone had taken his hobby far too seriously—and he loved everything about it.
He was halfway through a section called 'The Philosophy of the Palm' when Gary emerged from the kitchen like a champion, wiping his hands on a small absorbent cloth. "Dinner's ready."
Dan said nothing, placing the book down carefully as if it were a sacred scripture. He rose, went to the kitchen, and began setting the dining table—an old crate covered by a red polka dots cloth, two plates, two mismatched blows, one slightly bigger than the other. He served the food methodically like a skilled butler, distrubing equal number of sandwiches, spooning rice and bland chilly curry in measured portions.
They ate in silence for several minutes, the only sounds being the clinking of spoons, the noise their teeth made and the lazy hum of the ceiling fan.
Finally after cracking his fingers to break the silence, Dan spoke. "You ever notice how everything's too generic these days? Everyone is following the same pattern to taste the bite of success."
Gary glanced up mid-bit. "Generic?"
"Yeah. The TV shows just copy each other's content, the movie people are too busy with creating a universe, even the audiobooks are all about promoting mind-wrecking, heart-rending, and nauseating content. They all follow the same tired formula. No originality. Nothing that hits anymore, everything has become too basic."
Gary shrugged. "Guess people stopped trying to be different. They don't want to take any risk no more. Counting easy cash is far too easier than leaving everything upto fate."
Dan chuckled bitterly. "Even that audiobook I was listening to—about some coward who hides every time demons show up. He just keeps running like a mouse way too afraid of a tomcat. Author was too busy trying to do things, elevating his protagonist in the eyes of the audience and sounding more philosophical to hide a plain fact that he wanted to take it easy."
Gary smiled faintly. "Sounds like you didn't enjoy it all. That's why you are complaining like an enraged keyboard warrior."
Dan leaned back. "It made me angry. All that hiding, all that pretending, putting survival on a pedestal, and introducing courage as a death flag almost ruined my appetite."
Gary followed his gaze and noticed the thick book near his chair. "And that led you to that? Violence isn't the answer young Shinobi."
Dan grinned. "I'm thinking of becoming a slap master. I'm gonna slap them all. I'm gonna hit them so hard that they'll always remember my face. It's my destiny to slap people that come to our great nation from all across the globe."
Gary froze mid-chew. "A what now?"
"I've heard a rumour from my colleagues." Dan said gesturing dramatically. "In the underground scence there's this shady warehouse where a few good deviants organize knockout slap tournaments. One-on-one, no gloves, hand-to-hand, open palms. First to fall loses their consciousness as well as their will to compete. Winner gets prize money. Anyone can earn a big paycheck. Finally I've found a legit way to rise from the ashes like a newborn phoenix."
Gary blinked slowly. "Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You're telling me you plan to voluntarily walk into a warehouse full of violent, gambling maniacs who slap each other for cash.. and you think you can win with your frail body? Are you out of your mind? Perhaps you really have gone crazy."
"Why not?" Dan said, straight-faced. "I've got fast reflexes, I'm faster than flash. And a mean swing that can knock the wind out of anyone that it hits."
Gary squinted. "Dan stop spitting nonsense, your arms are lanky, your shoulders have no muscles, and your cheeks are softer than a baby's butt. The second you walk in there with confidence, you are gonna have a target on your back, you might go in with cash but will limp out with bruised cheeks, bankruptcy, and a hefty medical bill."
Dan scowled. "That's not true. I'm as strong as a bull. And my cheeks are more tougher than steel."
"Stop tooting your own horn. I'm only stating the truth." Gary said flatly. "Last week you couldn't even handle a mosquito bite without whining for ten minutes. You'd die in the round one. Knockout in less than ten seconds."
Dan tried to argue, but the logic harder than any slap could, shattering his resolve in a jiffy like it was a twig. His shoulders slumped. "Alright, maybe you've got a point. Maybe I overestimated my physical strength. Damn another life event goes down in the drain. Oh I'm so bored nothing is fun anymore."
Gary sighed in relief. "Good. I guess your brian is still working. Because I'd rather you be bored than brain-dead."
They finished dinner in peace after that. The night settled quietly around them. The insects made their usual noise, a select few misquotes had snuck inside the room, but the mosquito repellent was doing its job. Dan stared at the slap manual again, its pure white pages fluttered under the fan's lazy breeze displaying engaging content in rapid succession.
He smirked faintly. Maybe tomorrow he'd go to that warehouse find something worth watching—or someone worth slapping if he decided to participate in the events. And with that wonderful thought, the evening feel into the night's embrace and everywhere there was darkness.