He laid the gun on the table, pulled a chair and placed his buttock on its cushion. He leaned back and let out a sigh, that was hardly discernible for those surrounding him, for they were in a crisis that that had no hopes. A bed, an old man with a stubble run amock clinging onto his face lying on it, a sense of impending doom not only gorging his mind but also tinting others with its visage. They looked down upon him and upon their minds, images were caste, images of events that had ushered this man unto their lives. Rape, murder, theft. They had all found haven in his soothing embrace when the vice- elements afore-mentioned had harassed them. Now they were back, pursuing their wake, only one man could save them and that man’s demise certificate would soon be held out. Gangs, wars and enmity go hand-in-hand. They have an intimacy akin to flame and steel. Once bonded, never redeemable. All the people present in the room had somehow fallen into this void and they had become so entangled in the perils beneath that they thought it prudent to work with the barbs. The room reeked of death, the strong stench of cigarette permeated it. The man seated was the holder of the source of the smells, death and otherwise. The gun was a subtle prelude to what was to come if the dealing went wrong. The people standing and the man on his bed of roses ganged on the god’s gang and the man seated was on the human’s gang. The leader of the former, the man on the bed , and the latter was donned by the man seated. Now, a gang meeting needs no preamble, ashes dusted into their trays, wines drank judiciously as to not fog the minds, lots of guns. But this meeting for some reason defied all the protocols , and it infiltrated to the hearts. Today, hearts would be spoken out, words would be spewed viciously cause this was the last straw, and if broken, hell would have to cower. The man made the first move and the chess game started.
“ Banking prepositions is not the way we like to operate, head-to-head, do you agree or not, yes or no”,
A pawn had been moved.
“No”, the answer emanated from the wizened man’s throat and eyebrows were raised.
The man in the seat picked the gun in the table and shot one person.
After the disgruntled scream of the man on whom the bullet had been dispatched died, the man asked again.
“Don’t kid”, the old man’s contours remained impassive, and they suggested that he had seen worse. The openings had ended, and the most important phrase was triggered . The man picked up the gun and shot another man, and the drill that ensued had an ominous quality to them.
Talk, kill, talk, kill, talk.
The questions raised by the common man with high IQ’s as to why the nurses didn’t rush to the aid is still in the court of mysteries. As the pile of silenced men grew, the lips of the wizened old men twitched up a little, which in the playground of subtleties and solemnities played for a smile. Galled by the old man’s monsterity and frustrated by his own misted mind, the man picked the gun that made no sound and put a bullet through his own head.
Only the old man knew that the dying other man had killed the devils that had frilled events and had propelled them to complexity and they were the only reason seated man cared to live, the dealing and the pertaining events were a culmination of the men's foolish doings and their death marked the angels rebirth and the gods would soon reign- in the whip. Thus the gang meeting of the heavens ended.
The seated man- A morbid promtheus whose yearning for human reign is un-quenchable, frustrated he kills the humans and dies.
The old man- Zeus, a god whose suspicions pinioned to the thought processes that his creations were bad.
The people in the room- Humans siding against promtheus, not having brain enough to know that he was vouching for them.