Angel Tears by ananya michaelides
Angel Tears
Ananya Michaelides
Copyright © Ananya Michaelides
ISBN #: 978-1-300-65319-6
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Angel Tears
By
Ananya Michaelides
Chapter 1
The Opening
'You don't have any idea what that is, do you?' Dog Hag asks.
I met Dog Hag at the annual 'Lara’s’ College Fest in the city. It was actually the funeral of the annual day, the last day of the fest. He was the MC for the evening. The dude was absolutely ridiculous. But when he waltzed around on that stage with the fat mike in his hand, his style of intonation and colloquial speech made the crowd rock back and forth on their plastic chairs, and the ones that couldn't get a spot for their bottoms, jumped like bunnies holding their stomachs, while Dog Hag made umpteen unteen unreserved impersonations of certain Bollywood male stars, about whom he made very right clear in the very beginning that he 'HATED'. Absolutely.
This was the same fellow who introduced me to ganja - the sweet whitener of conscience. Four months ago, half hour after I finished smoking my first joint of marijuana coaxed in a jumbo rizla, as I lay helplessly gaping at the water tank over my head on a starless night in the city, he asked me, 'How do you feel?' With a grave workout to my tongue I replied, 'I don't know.' To which he said picking up a bakery box from his bag, 'You are right in the zone, brother' and gave me a wholesome square of the freshest black forest cake. In that darkness with both of our mobiles switched off, it was only by the cherries in the lowest tier that enabled me to conclude that it was that black forest piece from that bakery, I always liked. This bakery added three cherries. Two in the bottommost tier. One on top. No other bakery would do that. This did. And I am having its tip of benevolence.
And, if you have not already wondered, what is with the name, 'Dog Hag' and "is it not Dog Tag?" I'll tell you. Dog Hag cannot flick 'T' with his tongue tip. So, Tom becomes Hom. Tin Tin becomes Hin Hin. Truck becomes ruck and so on. But at the same time he can carry off the poshness with a bottle of Merlot. You see? He is hammed under this tragic flatulence of mispronouncing, until any impression of drugs he is regularly subscribed to kicks into his system and makes him the Jeremiah of syllables.
When I first knew him he was only an MC. And just like that, post the past couple of months the floating dope plotter, is streaming waves across from his vinyl grinder making people surrender to the recurrences of his trance caliphate on two of the major dance floors, the city had to offer.
'Is it what I think it is?' My naive eyes speak as my eager tongue talks the walk of a vision that danced under my nose on the small wooden table.
'It very well is.' He radiates as his hand in display picks up a 2 ml bottle. 'Besides, it has to be this. Here. Look around.' Dog Hag's neck made a 180 degree axial show. It is true. It could be all that, and we could be anything under this roof tonight. It wouldn't be called a 'rave' otherwise. 'Be who you are' is the subliminal message felt, understood and transpired.
'My doll will hook you up with it. I got to take the console, brother. Alright?' Dog Hag checks his CD bag.
'Time to play your set?' I ask turning my child-like attention back to the small wooden table.
'You bet. Keep an eye on her, will you?' He asks.
'Sure.' I assure. But he was gone. He knew I'd take care of the babies. The 2ml triplet rascals.