A Short Story By The Author

Gustav

He was vicious, impenitent and utterly fearless. Just like Taylor Swift’s album. Most of all he was a thief; a very habitual and insufferable thief. He stole everything he could, and what he couldn’t, he cursed. His name was Innocent.

One time he was heard rebuking a heavy granite-laced statue because it was impossible to steal and, therefore, a disgrace to humanity. “Go burn in hell, shitprick! Selfish fucker!” he spat. The habit stemmed right from childhood when, at the very tender age of one day, he stole his father’s name when he wasn’t looking. And that’s how he came to be called Gustav. Innocent Gustav.

Growing up, Gustav didn’t believe in getting things the right way. If it was bought for him, he took it back to the shop and stole it back. For his sixteenth birthday, his father bought him a car but Gustav wasn’t too happy about it and hated his father. What kind of human being did such a cruel thing to his son?

At night when everyone was asleep and the neighbourhood was conveniently serene, he snuck into the garage and stole the car. On his way out he remorselessly smashed the unknowing garage door and ran over a group of school going pieces of grass, killing them instantly.

Right now I am Taylor Swift. But when I grow up, I want to be sexy.

When he brought back the car eight hours later and thanked the father for letting him steal it safely, the father immediately revoked the name Innocent, told him he could keep Gustav, and sent him away to live with his grandparents.

The habit steadily grew into an addiction. When he wasn’t stealing, he was furtively staring at women, not because he found anything remotely fascinating about the female body, but because a very friendly and surprisingly understanding dictionary that he had stolen from his stash of presents on his eighteenth birthday had exhaustively explained to him that the act was in fact termed “stealing glances”. Stealing.

Now 26, he crippled the sight economy by stealing glances worth billions but so far, not even the Interpol had him on their radar. Fools. He smiled at the thought as he stole a sip of porridge from his mug and looked around the bar. Yes, it was odd for him to smile but he smiled anyway. After all, the name of the bar was on his side. Smiling Tampon, it was called.

As his gaze returned to his mug of porridge that, probably out of respect or fear hadn’t called the police yet, he saw her. Boobnikov. He hated the Russian bitch but really liked her name. He had no use for the name really so he let her keep it.

You thought I wouldn’t find you! No one could do what he did as skillfully as he did it until she came along. “How the hell did she do it?” he thought out loud as her darting eyes met his.

“Hi!” she smiled while walking towards his table. Did she freaking have to come with her girlfriend again? He hadn’t gathered, nay, stolen the nerve to tell her but he hated that every time he saw her, she was flanked by some girl whose name he didn’t care to know.

His memory drifted back to the day they met in that Vegas hotel, but only for a second. He didn’t want to remember. How could she?

“You bitch!” he shot. Her face did very little to hide her surprise.

“What! You didn’t tell me you had a baby!” What the fuck! Who was she talking to?

He continued unabated: “You’re good, I must give you that. How did you do it, hmm? New Russian technology?”

Boobnikov just kept on staring at him blankly while the friend yapped, seemingly talking to some bunch of girls: “I like the Tampon because it is red on the outside. You like it too?” If only he could steal a backhand slap and donate it to her face so she could shut up.

“Are you going to pretend you ain’t listening? You stole my heart, you bitch! I want it back!”

Boobnikov

She was sexy and loved the attention. In fact, if it wasn’t for the impracticality of living independently, she would have pursued a very lucrative career in the modeling industry. But she was only a boob.