“Well, well, let’s see who have we here? Naughty, naughty boys come for a little butt spanking, hmmm?”
In front of them stood a muscular moustachioed hunk of a man, naked but for a leather trestle. The speakers were blaring Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I will survive’. A spinning mirror ball was casting dancing specks of light over three more men who were languidly posing on assorted cushions or moving to the music in a camp sort of way. One of them wearing an American Indian outfit, the other dressed as a builder and the third as a New York policeman.
The guy dressed in the scant leather outfit crossed over to Babu, stroking his thigh in a very suggestive manner, gradually bringing his hand to the front fingering something long and hard... “Wow, bad boy! You’ packing or you just happy to see me?”
“Packing” Babu answered, pulled his gun from his pocket hit the guy in the face with it as hard as he could and proceeded towards the next door. “Oldest line in the book!” he grumbled disdainfully entering the next room. The penultimate room. “Hey”, Shaki wondered next to Babu, “where has your pal gone all of a sudden?” Babu twirled around. Willie had disappeared! “Confound it, that soddin’ queer!”
Just then a noisy vent started to spring into action blowing a cold draft through the room. Two small hatches opened and out came—bills of money! Countless twenty Rupee notes were whirling through the room blowing everywhere like leaves in an autumn wind. Shaki let go of his killer instincts and was hopping around the room like a small child, catching notes and pocketing them smiling blissfully.
Money: The ultimate erotic kick for the sensual numb. Of course Báaba had thought of that as well.
Eventually only professional hit man Babu, driven by almost inhuman willpower, reached the room just before Báaba’s audience room. He pushed against the last door. But the door remained shut.
Bear could see Babu on the big monitor as he unsuccessfully tried to get into the room.
“If he gets through we’re done for, you know that, don’t you?” he said without taking his eyes away from the screen.
The rest of them were busy fighting amongst each other. Gerd, having decided to keep the valuable marihuana as severance payment was shouting at Sherie all the while pulling at the strap of her shoulder bag. Arthur who was taking Sherie’s side in this, thus making Gerd even more furious,—also showed a keen interest in the grass, was pulling at the other side, whereas Sherie was keeping a firm grip on the handle, was cussing at both of them.
“Hey” Bear was interrupting their squabbles, “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. The guy is about to get inside any second now, shit!”
“Relax” Gerd replied without letting go of the bag, “he’ll never figure out the trick with the door. Also, I used the bolt. He’ll never get...”
The door flew off its hinges with a loud bang. Babu had not bothered with the details of the construction and simply had kicked it in. He took a big step over the debris, raised his gun and cocked it. “That’s it,” he said the tone of his voice revealing the really bad mood he was in, “let’s finish this bullshit. I will kill all of you now, once and for all and then I’ll go home!”
Frightened out of their wits all four crouched into the last corner of the room.
“Respect!” Arthur tried to enamour himself, “nothing can stop you, what?”
“How about a little whisky? Clears the throat, before you’re going to kill us!” Sherie suggested.
Gerd looked at her with sudden appreciation. “Smart move!”
Babu kept moving towards the four as if on remote. “I don’t drink while I’m working!”
“Very good! Drinking is very unhealthy!” Gerd kept on brown nosing undeterred.
“Shut your face...” Gerd mumbled.
Sherie pulled out her special whisky flask. “Come on, just a tiny little sip!” she mooed seductively, “Can’t hurt, can it?”
Arthur looked at the advancing killer with mounting panic. “You must be totally nuts, why don’t we just ask him out for dinner?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Gerd and Sherie barked at him.
A shot was fired. Everybody jumped, but nobody had got hit. Just Sherie was left with the remaining neck of her shot off whisky bottle in her hand.
“I have told you already, I don’t drink!” Babu snarled reloaded, taking one more step towards them.
“Isn’t there anything we can offer you,” Bear tried for the last time, “nothing, that could change your mind? How about money, we pay you double of what you’re getting!”
Babu stopped and with an expansive gesture took aim. “Keep your money, every job will be executed to the very end and there is nothing that can be done about it!”
In expectance of the deadly shot all four closed their eyes. But no bang tore through the tense silence. Only s quiet rasping sound was to be heard. Carefully opening their eyes again, they saw Babu who had discovered the suitcase. With an enchanted look he was caressing it’s surface.
“Patent leather...!” he eroticised, also having lost his wits to lust.
Hours later, deep into the night, four considerably exhausted figures were hovering around a campfire outside the city boundaries of Bombay.
After having shouldered her bag containing the valuable content Sherie had led them out of the beer bar through a small back entrance. Together they returned to the motorbikes still lying beneath the shattered remnants of the canopy covered by a thick layer of coloured spices. They had left the city the fastest way possible, not before stopping at a motorcycle workshop to exchange the Yamaha for two Enfield Bullets. The owner of the workshop had been happy, so was Bear; the others could not care less. Now they had three bikes. Sherie drove pillion with Bear since he was the most experienced, Arthur almost ran into a ditch because he got confused by the juxtaposition of brake and gear box, which did not bother Gerd never having been on a bike before, he had trouble just staying on.
When finally all of them sat around the campfire, Bear and Arthur revealed their plan how they wanted to find the Golden Biker and their intention to get rich selling the grass. Sherie after having been sacked from Báaba’s place had no place to go decided to stay on, although Gerd, who in the absence of any other plan had also decided to join, put forth a motion of distrust against Sherie since in his opinion “she could not be trusted one bit”. The motion was denied three to one.
“You better think about who is sending two hit men after you and why...!” Bear said throwing another log into the fire. “I really could not think of anybody...” Gerd sighed.
“Who would profit from you being dead?” Arthur insisted, “Think hard!”
“Are you married?” Sherie asked.
Gerd nodded in silence.
“It’s your wife then. Believe you me, I know about these things!”
“But why should Renate... holy shit!” Gerd slapped his forehead, “By God, you’re right!”
“Of course I’m right, when it comes to screwing with men, I am an expert!”
Sherie answered. “I’ll go crash. Sleep well and happy dreams about your devoted loving wife.”
“You can sleep next to me, if you want!” Arthur said, “if it gets cold, its better to…well, together we... I’m just saying...”
Sherie furled her brow. “First one to touch me looses his hand, is that clear?”
Gerd grinned maliciously. “Sure, because you will nick it!”
“Come on now,” Bear said calmingly, “everybody stop fighting already, let’s all have a good night’s sleep and tomorrow we’re all the best of friends looking for the Golden Biker, how about it?”
Moaning and wheezing, they tucked into their jackets curling into the sand and closed their eyes.
“Good night, skag!” Gerd whispered at Sherie.
“Sleep well, wanker!” she hissed back.
>
... And soon enough the only sound that could be heard was the even breathing of four exhausted human bodies in deep slumber.
It was that night that Gerd for the first time again in a long while dreamt about the fulfilment of his secret wish. He saw himself gliding on ice skates over a colour lit icy surface listening to pompous dramatic music and to the cheers of the audience. Suddenly shadowy figures appeared armed with shotguns and pistols. With a feather light pirouette Gerd attempted to hide before them but to no avail, they grabbed him and took him away.
Drenched in sweat he awoke. Only a dream. Shame... Thank God, only a dream like always...
When Báaba opened his eyes first thing he noticed was his vandalised audience room in its midst stood a spaced out man dressed in a black suit wearing sun glasses with a blissful smile on his face. He was pressing the wide-open empty briefcase against his body gently caressing it. His first clear thought however concerned Sherie, the slut who had poisoned him and then had absconded—with his grass and his photos!
He shook his head to rid himself of the last traces of drowsiness. What the hell was going on?
Who were all the people he could make out on the screens taking advantage of his emergency plans? And who was this fellow in the black suit getting it on with his briefcase?
Báaba was not the type of person who would linger about befuddled mourning a loss. He would find Sherie, and she would have to pay bitterly for this treachery.
Having formulated this thought, he immediately felt better.
At the same time a black and yellow tuc-tuc stopped next to a smashed spice stall whose owner had just started to tidy up when the Goan taxi driver Sunil addressed him.
“Arre! What happened here?”
The shop owner continuing with his chores answered: “This foreigner smashed into my stall with his motorbike, everything is damaged! I am ruined! He simply took off!”
“With a motorcycle? A foreigner? With brown long hair?”
“You are exactly right. How did you know?”
“I know him, you know, I owe him some money!”
Immediately a smile illuminated the face of the shop owner. “Oh really? That’s very interesting...”
PART II
-Rajasthan-
To those who smoke the holy Ganja at the break of dawn, the...(illegible)... day will be your friend.
(From: The teachings of the Golden Biker)
1. Taj Mahal / Agra
Surrounded by darkness, the full moon shone down on the most famous tomb in the world, illuminating it like a freshly washed communion dress. The Taj Mahal, India’s most renowned symbol, the epitome of a fairy tale promise of enchantment lay there forlornly. The drone of a distant airplane could be heard high up in the sky. But in the black of the night, no one could have made out the tiny dot, which separated itself from the aircraft and hurtled towards the ground. The muffled ‘flop!’ of the opening parachute remained unheard as well.
Touching down, the figure of a man dressed completely in black performed a practised side roll and, with an almost dance-like movement, jumped to his feet. The moonlight reflected on a slim Beretta Cougar simultaneously drawn. The man looked around with the self-assured instincts of a predator, as if picking up scents from the darkness. Then, with cat-like silence, he hid the parachute beneath a shrub and headed for cover.
“Hello beehive,” he hissed into the small radio embedded in the collar of his overall. “Cow is in the pen. Repeat: Cow is in the pen.”
“Roger, Cow. Proceed as planned”, a voice answered from the tiny receiver in his ear.
The situation was this:
The “Terrorist Federation of Vegetarian Fanatics” (TFVF) had entrenched itself in the Taj Mahal. They had kidnapped the daughter of a sausage manufacturer and threatened to tie her to a likewise-kidnapped assault-rocket equipped with a mini-nuclear warhead. Both were to be fired at Calcutta if their demand—the abolishment of all meat dishes in Indian restaurants—was not agreed to completely. The Indian government response to being so blackmailed was to quite like the idea of ridding itself of Calcutta in this way, and after discovering that the sausage magnate was reasonably happy to dispense with his daughter, what with him having another four and not knowing how to come up with the dowries, it was decided not to enter into any negotiations.
Upon which the TVFV declared that they would aim their nuclear rocket at Delhi, pretty much where most of the members of parliament had their weekend apartments. This caused a storm of protest within the government and it was decided seemingly to agree to the demands, although in reality to send in the top secret agent the state had in their service: Bindi. Apu Bindi. A man hard as Indian steel, more dangerous than the Bengal tiger, faster than an Ayurvedic enema—and to womenfolk as irresistible as sweetened snow from the peaks of the Himalayas.
This was a job to Apu’s liking—one man pitted against a whole army. His task: to liberate the daughter and to take out the terrorists (dead or alive, but preferably dead), the deactivation and seizure of the nuclear rocket, and the removal of explosive charges attached to the four exterior minarets by the criminals. And could he kindly be done with this before eight o’clock when the area opened its doors to tourists?
There he sat, top agent Bindi, his supple body sheathed in a well-tailored black overall made from Chinese silk (a bespoke creation for him by Versace, who at a fitting had unfortunately caught sight of his face—a mistake that had cost the designer’s life. The cold-blooded murder was later successfully pinned on someone innocent). With a touch of patriotism, Bindi shot a quick glance at the mysterious, illuminated tomb. Then in a succession of duck, roll and crouching movements he silently approached the first of the terrorist sentries, always taking advantage of the cover the shadows were offering.
One arrow shot through a blowpipe and the guard fell to the ground unconscious. Bindi continued to creep around the tomb towards the side facing the river. The huge shadow cast by the dome of the Taj in the moonlight swallowed him up, making him almost invisible. He pulled out a special gun, loaded it with a piton and shot. With a metallic ‘clack!’ the piton dug into the wall. ‘Oops!’ Bindi thought to himself. ‘Should have fastened the rope to the piton beforehand.’
He fired another piton, this time connected to a rope. To climb it like an arrow proved no big deal for his well-trained body.
He was at the top of the Taj now, the night wind blowing warm in his face. The view was breath taking. Looming in the distance the illuminated Red Fort of Agra, the waters of the Yamuna reflecting the glittering lights from the city and a clear star-studded sky majestically spanning it all. Again, deep inside, Apu felt pride in his country, the country he had taken a solemn pledge to defend. He tore himself away from the view. From high up he could see through the small windows in the temple walls, right inside the Taj. What he saw deeply injured his patriotic feelings: Unshaven, unwashed terrorists in heavy combat boots were soiling the halcyon site. Near the entrance, close to the sarcophagi of both the building’s constructor and the lady the mausoleum had been dedicated to, the criminals had erected the rocket, the bottom half still inside the building, the top part jutting out through the archway into the night sky. To Bindi this was sacrilege. What kind of demented brain could have devised such a diabolical thing? A mounting suspicion arose inside of him, a suspicion that made his blood freeze. Yet somehow he controlled his emotions. He was enough the professional to realise that what he needed now was a clear head. His features, under normal circumstances both clean-cut and suave, set into a mask of decisiveness.
Without a sound he swung himself into the dome. Suspended 30 feet above the ground he could make out the coarse conversation of the terrorists feasting on small servings of crudités.
Bindi froze. One man had stood up and was moving towards the sausage-industrialist’s daughter who was already strapped to
the rocket. Bindi knew this man. He knew him only too well. It was none other then his archenemy Ibn-A’Diq, a villain who, during other adventures, he had tossed into ravines, boiled in lava, pushed out of airplanes or simply blown to smithereens. But the fiend was like evil personified—he was indestructible. Bindi’s premonition at the top of the Taj had been proven right...
Sneering maliciously Ibn-A’Diq proffered a pomegranate to the attractive industrialist’s daughter who was dressed in nothing but a flimsy nightgown.
“Eat!” he ordered with a smarmy grin. “Pomegranates contain lots of vitamins. Good for long life...”
The beautiful industrialist’s daughter squirmed in her shackles. “You dirty pig, my father will rescue me!
With a flourish Ibn-A’Diq pulled out a knife and cut into the fruit. “Pomegranates...” he murmured absentmindedly as he gazed at the blood-red juice running down his fingers. “We don’t want to get stains on your nighty, do we?”
Docrooling with lust, the villain extended his juice-stained hand intending to tear away the gossamer fabric of the nightgown, when a mocking laugh from inside the dome froze him, mid motion.
“Figures you have to tie up any woman before she agrees to be touched by you!”
“Apu Bindi!” hissed the fiendish villain whirling around.
Bindi smiled down at the beautiful industrialist’s daughter. “And you must be the young lady that’s been pinched by Ibn-A’Diq here!”
“My name is Haid-M’Diq,” shouted the villain, “not Ibn-A’Diq!” But Bindi wasn’t paying any attention to him.
“Of course, of course. Haid-M’Diq!” He turned back to the girl. “I expect you’ve noticed by now that he certainly lives up to his name?”
Despite her unfortunate circumstances the industrialist’s daughter could not suppress a giggle.
In rage Haid-M’Diq drew a gun and fired upwards. But Apu Bindi, having anticipated the shot, leaped from a small alcove onto the towering rocket several feet below.
Golden Biker Page 14
