Switcheroo

Five fingers per hand, ten in total. That’s ten fingernails too many, when someone is intent on pulling them out.

It’s nasty business, getting your fingernails torn out with a plier. I thought I knew pain, until that gorilla went to work on the first nail.

Two idiots in suit had stopped me on my way to the Bombay airport. They grilled me about Indo-Russian joint defence project, some Brahmos missile. They wanted to know the results of a test that happened few days ago. When I told them I had no idea what they were talking about, they handed me over to this gorilla.

The gorilla seemed to be an expert in these matters. He strapped me to a chair, naked; under a burning yellow light in an icy chamber.

He paced the torture perfectly. He started with blows, and then proceeded to insert pins under my nails, and finally this. I was certain he would fry my balls next. Or shock my nipples. I was bound, but not gagged. I could scream my head off. I think he got off on it.

I howled when he yanked out my nail. Incredible amount of pain shot through my finger, travelling all the way up to my brain, setting it on fire. The room swam before my eyes, and I puked. Then I passed out.

When I came to, my head was lolling on my chest. My body was aching, and my hand throbbed, blood dripped from my much-abused finger. The gorilla saw me stir, and he picked up his tools. He clutched another of my nail with the pliers. My skin crawled.

They paid you; Mikhail, and they want you to keep your end of the bargain, he said. I would have loved to.  

Only I wasn’t Mikhail.

The confusion was understandable. Mikhail and I had the same build, face-cut, blue eyes, blond hair, and we were both Russian. In Goa, we had joked about being long-lost brothers. Over drinks, Mikhail told me how he intended to leave all his troubles behind and travel to Switzerland soon. He didn’t share what his troubles were, so I didn’t mention my recent run-in with the Russian drug-lords in Goa.

I followed Mikhail to his room, overpowered him, made him withdraw all his money, and then killed him, making sure that the Russians would find ‘my corpse’.

Had I told all this to the gorilla yet? The constant pain had made me delirious, I wasn’t sure. Was I was blabbering all this out loud? Did he believe me?

The motherfucker wrenched out another nail. Oh, the agony!

No one really believes that life is stranger than fiction.

I noticed a silver lining to this dark cloud. I had inadvertently foiled an espionage plot against my adopted country. Having lived a loser’s life, I would die a hero. The thought made me chuckle. The gorilla stared.

Not all heroes wear capes. Some happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.