Mere Anarchy Read Free Page B

psychotic intensity of Eduardo Ciannelli in
Gunga Din
. Brandishing a scimitar, he had apparently gone ballistic over some shoddy abduction work by his trio of simpering myrmidons.
    “Worms, vermin, beetles! I send you out to snatch a cinema luminary, and this is what you bring me?” the hash-high CEO ranted, nostrils flaring like sails that had caught the wind.
    “Master, I beg you,” groveled the Dalit hailed as Abu.
    “A stand-in, a supernumerary not even—a lighting double,” the
grand fromage
bellowed.
    “But you will agree there’s a resemblance, master?” squeaked one trembling plaintiff.
    “Crab! Lizard! You’re telling me this midden of offal could be mistaken for Harvey Afflatus? It’s like comparing gold and mud.”
    “But exalted one, they hired him exactly because—”
    “Silence, or I’ll cut your tongue out. I’m looking here to score for maybe fifty or a hundred large, and you deliver up this zero-talent potzer whom I guarantee, or my name’s not Veerappan, will not fetch a lead rupee.”
    So this was he, the legendary brigand I had read about. A master at cruelty perhaps, and quick to slaughter, but clearly a philistine when it came to evaluating talent.
    “I’m sure, sire, we can get
something
for him. The production won’t just walk if we threaten to dismember one of their own. True, we’ve all heard tales of the major studios not returning phone calls, but if we send back an organ at a time—”
    “Enough, you slimy jellyfish,” the evil dacoit leader hissed. “Afflatus is currently running very hot. He’s coming off two features that did solid business even in the smaller markets. For the rodent we’ve got stashed we’d be lucky to make back our chickpea nut.”
    “I’m sorry, magnificent one,” wept Veerappan’s errant minion. “It’s just that when the light hits him a certain way, his face exhibits the basic contours of said movie idol.”
    “Can’t you see he lacks all charisma? There’s a reason that Afflatus sets marks in places like Boise and Yuma. It’s called star stature. This trombenik is the type that drives a cab or works at an answering service waiting for that one big break that never comes.”
    “Now, just a minute,” I yelled, despite eight inches of black masking tape across my mouth, but before I could really warm to my theme I received a wallop in the sconce with a
huqqa
. I held my tongue as Veerappan segued into his peroration. All the crass bunglers were to be decapitated, he decreed benevolently. As for me, the group treasurer suggested they lower the ransom demand, give it a few days, and see if the production ponied up. If not, their plan was to purée me. Knowing what I did of Hal Roachpaste, I had complete confidence that the company had already contacted the U.S. embassy and would of course accede to the bandit’s most extravagant demands rather than see a colleague mistreated in any way. After five days of no response, however, in which Veerappan’s spies told him the writer had reworked the script and the film had pulled up stakes and relocated in Auckland, I began to feel uneasy. Word was that Roachpaste had not wanted to bother the Indian government with a complaint but had vowed as he blew town to do all in his power to free me short of paying a cent in ransom, which he felt could set an awkward precedent. When news of my plight appeared as a filler in the rear pages of
Backstage
, a group of politically active extras deemed it an outrage and swore to hold a midnight vigil but could not jimmy loose sufficient capital to purchase the required candles.
    So, how is it that I’m here to tell the story given Veerappan’s deadline and lust for my carcass? Because with three hours left to go and a roomful of frenzied fanatics honing their krises and diagramming my body on a chart, I was suddenly awakened in my ropes by a pair of swarthy eyes peering out from between a turban and a burnoose.
    “Quick, kid, don’t scream,” the