Rocky.

Rocky smells something. It is good. Very Good. Rocky follows the smell. It comes from a fat man. Rocky follows Fat Man. Fat Man enters a hole. Rocky barks and wags his tail. Good dog, Rocky is. Good dog.

Fat Man looks at Rocky. Good. Rocky wags his tail harder. Fat Man touches Rocky. Good. Rocky licks his hand. Good dog. Fat Man catches his collar and takes him to small men. Small Men look at Rocky. Rocky wags his tail. Smell is strong. Rocky barks. Small Men rub Rocky's head. Good. They give him bread. Good. Very Good. Rocky eats. Rocky is happy. Small Men tie Rocky to a rope and tie him to a pipe. Bad. Rocky barks. Small Men leave. Rocky barks. Rocky is tired. Rocky sleeps.

Rocky wakes. Rocky sees a big man walking to the hole. Bad smell. Bad. Rocky barks. Rocky pulls at his chain. Rocky pulls. Pulls. Big Man is followed by two Tall Men. Big Man and Tall Men walk to hole. Bad. Rocky barks.

Big Man sees Rocky. Big Man comes to Rocky. Bad. Rocky puts his tail between his legs. Big Man takes Rod and hits Rocky. Rocky is hurt. It pains. Rocky barks harder. Big Man hits. Pain. Pain. Rocky is in more Pain. Rocky pulls at rope hard. Hard. Rocky escapes. Rocky leaps at Big Man. Rocky bites Big Man's nose. Yes. Big Man is bad. Rocky bites and bites. Tall Man takes thick rod from his pocket. Points it at Rocky.

Rocky is very hurt. Rocky barks. Rocky loses his strength. Rocky barks and barks. Rocky is in pain. Rocky barks. Fat Man comes. Rocky barks. Fat Man runs inside. Rocky lies down. Rocky is in pain. Rocky cannot see anything. Rocky barks. Rocky sees Brown Men coming. Rocky barks. Rocky is in pain. Pain.

Rocky dies.

Hair-rape.

He tightly twisted the long cloth around my neck. I couldn't breath. He took a shining blade in his hand, raised  it up with malice, and asked,

"Sir, unglakku short-a venuma, medium-a venuma?"

The reason I go to 'hair-styling salons' is my little ray of hope that the dudes there would understand a bit of English, and/or get atleast a vague idea of what I want my hair to be like; I do not have the same hair-texture as that of general South Indians. The above tamil quote just shattered my little ray of hope. I used my cracked, rusty Tamil and somehow got the guy to know that I wanted a 'change of style', or rather, 'change of shtyle'.

"Oh wokay sir. You want spikes aah?"

"No, I want it to be short in the front, long in the back....."(I doubt if he understood what I said)

" Sir It won't look nice on you."

Oh okay, so now I've to take advice from a Tamil macha whose idea of good hair-styling is 'funky-aah spikes'.

"Sir you know Simbu?"

Is that some sorta lion? Did he mean Simba? I hope he didn't want my hair to be a mane.

"Sir Simbu...you know, tamil movie hero?"

I silently prayed to god that he wouldn't style my hair like some random 30 year old tamil hero. No, I said.

"I will put spikes like that sir. It will be funky."

James Brown's "Papa's Got a New Bag" suddenly played in my head. I pictured myself in tight pants and an Afro.

"No! No funky hair. Put normal hair." I said, exasperated and scared.

He began. Removed my spectacles nonetheless. It was better that I couldn't see what he was about to do to my hair.

At the end of the 'procedure', I ended up looking like a Beetle with upright antennae on my head.

"Sir super-a irukudu sir!"

I was petrified. I wasn't able to say something comprehensible for a while. Regaining my composure, I tried some damage control. I asked the 'stylist' to trim my ridiculously upright fringe. He did so and I go his oh-so-intelligent comment yet again.

"Sir you are looking Japanese."

Apparently I suddenly had slating eyes and wore a kimono. Trying my best not to throw the comb lying on his head, I went to the billing area, where I received numorous goggles, nonetheless.

To think I paid a hundred bucks for this.