Exile called to say he was in Pune yesterday, negotiating a deal with a 24-year old iPod-toting Spiderman (in the sense of multiple arms, not in the sense of multimillion dollar movies). Spiderman was a little too cool, and Exile’s plan was to either:
- Teach Spiderman a thing or two, by donating two strands of gray hair.
- Throw Spiderman out of the window (later modified to tearing him apart limb from limb), and go back and explain to boss why things did not work out.
I dunno which course of action Exile finally took, but the newspaper did not have the mangled remains of Spiderman on any page this morning (unless you count the arachnid I squashed with it in my living room).
If things did work out after all, I am the happiest person, because Exile will bring me books on his next visit. (And now that it is here in writing, I can confront him if he forgets.)
If things did not work out, Exile must be making an explanation to his boss this very minute, while a business idea brews in my head.
Who wants to gang up and manufacture “Fic-Knics”? That’s short for fictitious knickers, or false stories cooked up to cover your ass.
If you’re interested, we already have a client. Shakti Kapoor.