The Big Long Sleep Goodbye

      The day I became acquainted with the homicidal paperboy began like any other. Low in the east, the sun cast the horizon in orange, silhouetting both the form of my master as his rotund body performed complex kata,and the three pink, papier-mache water buffalo who surrounded him. Each morning he performed his exercises there, his strokes lightning quick, as he maneuvered his three-hundred-pound form through a series of jabs and kicks which would certainly be sufficient to kill any mortal man.
      Sleep had betrayed me like a wandering lover the night before, leaving me to pace back and forth in my quarters. I had finally sat myself down in the pre-dawn hours and set quill to parchment in pursuit of my lifelong project. When I ran out of ink, the inside of the bottle coated only with a drying mush, I moved to my window so that I might watch my master. Born of Sino-Lithuanian descent, he was legally named Burly Chiang Ling Wu-Stein. He asked his friends to call him Burlington.
      I, Maharat Singh, am greatly indebted to this man, who saved my life in the North Indian village of Chalo Hato when I was only eighteen.
      When my master came in from his morning exercises, I went to him eagerly with the latest pages of my project. I valued no one's opinion more and hoped it would take his mind off the troublesome serial murders that had crippled our town of Billy's Outhouse. I knew how these matters had nearly pushed him to B.O.'s police department so that he might offer his services as both a concerned citizen and a trained killer monk. So I knelt by his side at the dining table as he drank his tea and held up my pages in offering.
      "Get up, Ma," the bass of his voice rumbled. "You know I hate it when you do that."
      "I do it out of respect. Master, would you look at my life's work and give me your sage advice?"
      He took the sheaf of curling parchment from my hands. "Well, first of all Ma, you can't write a screenplay by hand. And you shouldn't be putting it on this paper when you know it will begin to crumble in a matter of weeks. Why don't you just use my computer?"
      "Bah," I spat, for though I loved my master and knew him to be wise, I had a loathing for technology from which no one would ever dissuade me. After all, it was a machine gun that had nearly taken my life back in Chalo Hato. "Though I love you Master and know you are wise, I have a loathing for technology from which no one will ever dissuade me," I told him.
      So he read those pages without further comment for he accepts me for what I am. An old fashioned house-servant, writing a huge Hollywood screenplay which will star Mel Gibson and a hot leading lady.
      When he was finished, he sighed, and I knew it needed work. "What sort of story is this?" he asked.
      "It is a techno-thriller--"
      That was when the shrieks issued from outside. One moment my master sat beside me, one tree-trunk leg crossed over his knee, and the next he was gone, his sudden absence pulling the pages of my screenplay into a swirl. There is no man faster on this earth than my master.
      I made my way towards the open front door, noting as I went that my master had put his teacup in the sink somewhere between leaving the table and moving outside.
      The sky was a great deal brighter than when my master was performing his kata, but the singing of the morning birds was absent. A scent hung in the chilly air that I recognized as the salty smell of blood. I also tasted it in my mouth, but I had not bitten my tongue. It was my old friend, clairegustation. That machine gun, which had hurt me so in Chalo Hato, had changed my perceptions slightly, giving me the ability to taste through the tongues of others. My heart filled with fear, for I knew what I tasted was the blood in my master's mouth.
      Another scream pierced the air. It came from next door, number 15 Mimosa Street. Without concern for my own safety, I ran through its open entryway. The front door was agape, so I went in.
      Inside the living room hung a red mist and I sighed with relief, for this was why my master tasted blood. It hung in the air everywhere! "Master?" I called.
      Out of the shadows came a figure, nearly as short as my self and far skinnier. It came into the light funneling in through the door. Though I had been frightened for my master before, I was suddenly terrified for myself. There was a way about his person, it actually slunk out of the dark. When I could finally see it, I realized it was merely a boy and relaxed. "Hello," I said, and inquired, "Have you seen my master?"
      This "child", who could be no older than thirteen years, said the foulest things to me, not to mention that his pronouncements were anatomically impossible. I had become angry when I realized whom he was, for a large, white sack with bright, orange trim hung from a strap about his shoulder. "Why, you're our paperboy, aren't you? Why have we not received our Outhouse Examiner in over a week? And what are you doing here? What--?" I was so filled with questions suddenly, but the meanness on the boy's face broke into my thoughts.
      "I'm not the paperboy anymore," the child said. "I'm Boy Paper! And what I'm doing here is killing. Kill-kill- killing!" Then the little wretch charged at me. I felt surges of electricity burn my nerve endings. Then harlot sleep returned to me.

      It was my master's arm upon which I found my head cradled when I awoke. I felt stiff and my body ached in a thousand places. The world was blotted out by my master's humongous face, creased in concern.
      How many months had I endured this powerful sleep, I wondered. Had his heart become heavy as I lay in my coma? Had he gone and found another servant?
      I asked him. "Have all the pages of my project crumbled? And the house, who has clipped the hedges and touched up the skins of the water buffalo? How long have you sat by my side, my master?"
      And did I see my master's features crunch with emotion? A sense of loss?
      "You've been out for about thirty seconds. Stand up." I felt myself hauled to my feet by one of his mighty hands.
      I thought about the stench of blood then, as it assaulted me again. "Oh lord, what has become of our neighbors?" I attempted to move towards the back rooms, but again, my master's hand stayed me. "You do not want to see."
      "Then tell me, master, what foolishness has this boy perpetrated?"
      Now I saw real pain in his eyes. "He removed the blood from one's body and boiled it. The other walked in, apparently before the boy had finished. She is now one with the toaster oven."
      I moved, instead, to the phone, and lifted it from its cradle. Even as I put it to my ear, my master said, "Don't bother." Indeed, there was no dial tone...no sound at all.
      "The police can do nothing to stop this one," he sighed. "I must find him myself. Ma, go back to the house and phone the police, they can clean up here...the number is 9-1-1."
      I began to repeat it to myself mentally. 9-1-1. 9-1-1. 9-1-1. My people are possessed of great memory. 9-1-1. 9-1- 1. 9-
      "Then get the car ready. I must find this boy before he kills again."
      "Yes, my master," I answered, and then continued my memory mantra. 1-1-9. 1-1-9. 1-1-9.
      I ran across the lawn and up onto our porch, making sure that no detail would be left out. 1-9-1. 1-9-1. 1-9-1. My master was now relying on me in a matter of life-and-death. I could not fail him.
      My breath was coming in gasps when I reached the phone, for I was not an athletic man, but I lifted the phone and dialed on. There could not be a moment's hesitation. What was that number?
      "9-1-1," my master called from somewhere else in the house and I dialed. I told the dispatcher only that there had been a great commotion next door. When she pressed for details, I lapsed into the language of my homeland and hung up. It is quite gratifying that people of the law in America can overlook a great many trespasses when they are committed by a person who cannot speak English...or Spanish.
      Then I went to the garage and hit the automatic door opener, a device which my master had assured me long ago required nothing more complicated than the pressure of my fingers. There awaited a vehicle befitting a master, a work of German engineering destined to serve a man of the greatest stature. I prepped it as I had been instructed many times, being sure to place all my master's weapons beneath his seat, every one a tool of personal destruction, and not a single one requiring moving parts.
      In moments, my master was belted in and moving. The Volkswagen Beetle shot smoothly from the garage and turned swiftly from the driveway. My chest felt heavy with pride, for my master had modified the already fine vehicle into a state of perfection. Indeed, the front seats that had come with it were now in the parlor, reupholstered personally by my master. The President of Ilam once offered $30,000 for these chairs, but my master knew their value to me. I love to sit in them during my long fasts and read Raymond Chandler. Our lives, my master and I, are much like those of hard-fried detectives. An adventure punctuating the distance between our birth and the big, long sleep goodbye.
      I expected my master to return any hour now with the head of that imperious boy firmly attached to a plaque. Imagine my surprise when the boy stepped, quiet as a Madagascar cockroach, through the open garage door.
      I was utterly certain that I had not applied the pressure of my fingers to the automatic garage door opener when it started to close behind him.

      "Narly," the boy intoned as he played with my master's weapons. I gritted my teeth to prevent myself letting loose a litany of curses. Not that this...this runt could have understood a word of Hindi, but I feared he might get the gist.
      "What do you want, little boy?" I asked, instead.
      "A really cool house with windows for walls and lots of microwave rib sandwiches and ice cream in the fridge." Boy Paper flicked open a butterfly knife...backwards. The bounce of the blade left a wicked gash across the back of his hand.
      I, Maharat Singh, did not dare close my eyes or look away as, before my very keenest of eyes, the wound closed up.
      "Oh," the boy added, "and I want to rule the world."
      "Hare Khrishna," I whispered.
      "Oh, shut up," said Boy Paper, making me gasp, for he said it in perfectly accented Hindi.
      Then I sensed the motion of salvation. Boy Paper sensed it, too, for he brought up a rolled Outhouse Examiner from nowhere, allowing its coiled pages and runny ink to catch a flying dart inches from his neck. Knowing my master's wisdom, I was certain the dart contained a potent herbal extract that would push itself through the needle on impact and paralyze the twit. So it bothered me a great deal when Boy Paper pulled the dart from the rolled up newspaper and stuck it in his mouth, loudly sucking the liquid from it. He smacked his lips and let out a rapturous "Ahh".
      Another dart flew from nowhere. Boy Paper caught it deftly and stuck it in me.
      My master would be very displeased at this development, wherever he was. I, myself, was quite unhappy with it....

      I awoke to a viscous slapping across my cheeks.
      A horrendously cute face looked down on me, smiling innocently.
      "Oh, it's you," I said to Boy Paper.
      My vision, then slightly blurry, cleared enough for me to see the immense figure seated behind him, bound to one of his chairs by thick, vinyl straps.
      "Hello, my master," I intoned.
      "Hello, Ma. Are you all right?"
      "Possibly. I don't like this boy, particularly."
      My master said nothing more and in his silence, Boy Paper released me. He went to play with a large sculpture of Danus Dei, the Patron Saint of Asian Immigrants, which my master had constructed in the corner. Then, distantly, I heard the ring of sirens.
      Boy Paper paused, turned his nose ceiling-ward, and sniffed.
      "It is the police," my master informed him. "Ma phoned them and they will want to speak with him."
      "I will kill the police."
      "But then," my master warned, "you risk hordes of others coming after you. How much lightning can you spare?"
      Was it doubt I saw in the boy's eyes? How could it be, with the powers he had displayed thus far? It gave me hope, and this hope expanded as the doorbell rang.
      "Fine," said Boy Paper, making blue arcs of electricity dance between his upturned palms, "you will answer the door, Doody-head. If you say the wrong thing, I'll barbecue your friend." He grinned at me, looking less like a boy. Then, grasping the chair-back, he pulled my master, and the chair he was tied to, out of the living room as if they weighed nothing.
      I opened the door.
      "Detective Gail Larson," the redhead at my door introduced herself. "You phoned in a call about twenty minutes ago? Sorry we took so long." She looked thoroughly disheveled, any professional demeanor she might have had was long gone.
      "Have you seen my neighbors?"
      She had. Her skin was bleached and her eyes steadily growing more bloodshot. If it hadn't been for Boy Paper, I would have invited her in for some green tea. "How, exactly, did you come to be next door, Mr..."
      "Singh. Maharat Singh," I said slowly. Then I reconstructed the truth to exempt my master. "I heard a scream. When I arrived next door, the house was open. I went in and the air was rich with blood. I went no farther. I returned here to call you."
      "So you saw nothing or no one strange?"
      "You mean other than the blood mist?"
      She was quiet, taking down notes in a notebook she'd pulled from her pocket. I noted, briefly, because my eyes just happened upon them, the fullness of her breasts.
      She looked up, catching me in mid-stare. A hint of a smile came to her lips. Oh lord, if it weren't for that twit, Boy Paper.
      "Okay, I've got a lot to deal with next door there, so here's my card. If you can, uh, remember anything else, give me a call."
      I smiled at her stupidly as she walked away, tucking her card in my pocket. She was almost as beautiful as my master's girlfriend, the horror actress Debbie Rider. I was not so old that I could not show her a thing or--
      But I had forgotten my master, my poor master, so I hurriedly closed the door and yelled out, "They're gone!"
      No one responded.
      "Oh, you dreadful boy, the police are gone!"
      Nothing.
      I cautiously made my way toward the kitchen, into which Boy Paper had disappeared with my master. "Oh you little twit, the police are gone...to kill your mommy and daddy, and skin your grandpa and grandma!"
      Nothing.
      Hope and dread fought a savage battle in me. Could he be gone? Could he have fallen and broken his neck? Perhaps the fridge had fallen on him, trapping him underneath. But why was not my master answering?
      Then I tasted chocolate, intermingled with the residue of copper. Chocolate-Chunk Mocha to be exact. The twit was eating my ice cream!
      I rushed into the kitchen, grabbing a chair on the way. My master sat bound and gagged beside the Cuisinart. Boy Paper gobbled from my Ben & Jerry's container as if a rabid dog from a pot of raw meat.
      I felt my face turn hot with rage. He had killed my neighbors, played with my master's weapons, stuck me with a dart, bound my master, and cost me several hours pleasure with a beautiful redheaded policewoman (oh, and she had handcuffs). I had excused all of this, because after all, he was just a child. But my ice cream! My Chocolate-Chunk Mocha! I heaved the chair into the air and bashed it over his skull with all my might. He stumbled sideways and tripped over his own feet. As he went down, he slammed his head into the newspaper-recycling bin.
      He did not rise again.
      Too late. My Chocolate-Chunk Mocha was gone. I grieved.
      After I'd untied my master, he asked me to fetch his books. He meant, of course, his Kabbalah and various other tomes of magic. "This is a case of demonic interference," he announced. My master always has the answers.

      As my master performed the exorcism in the basement, I went outside to speak to Gail Larson. She would be returning home after overseeing the cleanup of the exsanguinated man and his wife. I would call her tomorrow, on her day off, with the other phone number she had given me.
      Presently, I galloped downstairs to tell my master of my good fortune.
      "Ma, no!" he screamed as I threw open the door. He stood there, a wine bottle in one hand and a cork in the other. A blast of cold wind, colder than the winters in the Himalayas, hit me, seemed to part around me, and rushed through the open front door.
      Boy Paper, looking much more like a child, was coming awake on the stainless steel table. He blinked his eyes, yawned, and looked first at my master, then at me. " Wu-stein residence, right? You owe me five bucks."
      My master rushed up the stairs, pushing me out of his way, and pursued the specter out onto our front lawn. I followed. Behind me, Boy Paper, once again the paperboy, chased us, yelling. "You ain't gettin another Examiner 'til I get that five bucks!"
      Outside in the sunlight, my master perched on the front stoop, mouth agape in wonder. On the street, several police men stood in shooter's stances, their guns drawn on one of my master's finest creations. One pink, papier-mache water buffalo raged, rearing up at the police on its hind legs. Lightning burst from its anterior trunk-legs, searing several officers. At the edge of the lawn, Gail Larson looked back at me, her tired eyes pleading.
      I looked at my master.
      "I knew it would be fully functional," he whispered in wonderment, as his papier-mache creation turned and raced off down the block. "It has moving parts, you know."
      Police jumped in their cars and gave pursuit. Gail shuffled up the lawn, put her arms around me and collapsed.
      "Ma," my master intoned, sounding determined, "put your girlfriend in the extra bedroom and fetch my car from around the corner. Get it ready. We have work to do."
      We, I thought.
      My master gave me a wink and disappeared inside the house.
      Gail stirred in my arms, her intoxicating smell coming into my nose. I could taste her lipstick. Life was good, I decided, and took her inside.