The PuppetMaster by Andrew L. MacNair Page A

to extensive research—his own--it was a proven fact that long, firm bananas were the fruit of choice of local brides after only six months of marriage. He gave me a lurid description of their use and in short time we discovered that we shared a passion for Frisbee.
    Mej stood on the far side of the gate grinning at me like a winning jockey. Two new discs, a blue one on his left index finger, and a green one on his right, spun in smooth silence. With a soft flick he sent them aloft where they crossed and resettled on opposite fingers. “Crickey, now that was foocking good one, eh Bheemster.”
    I grinned. The trick was better than average. I pushed a mug of steaming coffee through the bars. “Yep, you’re the well oiled machine, Mej.”
    I set my mug on the bricks and stepped to Lalji’s hammock—the snoring hadn’t changed since the previous the night. I tugged on the key and as I unfastened it from his waist, my vigilant watchman rolled over with a girlish giggle and resettled into the folds of his cocoon.
    “’Appy you got me message. Been a shame to waste this part o’ the day.”
    With mugs of coffee we strolled down Ramnagar Road towards the pontoon bridge that spanned the river. The water was wide and sluggish there as it exited the bosomy curve in the north. A kilometer away, on the opposite bank, the dilapidated fort of the Raja rose in the shimmering light of the new day.
    Mej launched into his first joke. “So, Pope John Paul and ‘enry Kissinger walk into a barber shop.”
    I groaned, “Jesus, Mej.”
    “Nah, e’s in the next one. He didn’t want the ‘aircut.”
    I shook my head in disbelief. “What do you do? Save these just for me?”
    “Nah, store up ‘em up for the birdies. Good sense of ‘umor will snook ya more quim than your mug or talking up the size of your knob. I should know, mate. Me face doesn’t get me pussy, jokes do. So, whot do a tornado in Texas, a flood in Mississippi, and a divorce in Utah, ‘ave in common.”
    Before I could even picture the first of these oddities, he laughed in a Cockney-Loosiana drawl, “Some poor arsehole’s gonna lose a double-wide.”
    I groaned. “Gimmee a disc.” He spun it at eye level just within reach. I snatched it, and in a single motion spun like a ballerina and sent it rocketing ninety feet up where it leveled like a gyroscope, drifted languidly and then angled straight back down. He leapt, caught it behind his back, and flipped it into the breeze again before his feet touched the earth.
    It had begun.
    The art of the dance, that’s what we called it. Salsa, Rumba, and ballet with two vinyl discs, and once it started, we didn’t stop until an hour had passed. We jumped, caught, flipped, and launched ourselves like acrobats. There was a competitive element that seeped in naturally, a machismo desire to outdo each other. The discs flew. We dashed, leapt, and snatched them between our legs, heads, or backs. Mej perfected the toe- kick; I mastered the index flip. We knew every trick, every move, and by the end of sixty minutes we had pushed ourselves to a very sweaty fatigue.
    And always it passed without question or chatter.
    An hour later we stood drenched, watching boats poling against the current. The sun had risen above the far bank. I took a pull from the Nalgene and offered it to him. He gulped down half the bottle and slapped my back. “Sweet session, Mate. Ya made me sweat like a Shivdas whore. Sorry I’ve got to flake out on ya so quick, but I’m on the eight fifteen to Delhi. ” He spun the green disc in front of me, and I tapped it back to him. We started jogging back towards my house, and he grinned and asked, “So, whot’s the difference ‘tween a moose and a Maine ‘ousewife?”
    I knew this one from somewhere in the past, and before he could beat me to it, I blurted out, “Bout twenty pounds and a red flannel shirt, I reckon.” I’d answered in a respectable New England accent, which got him laughing.
    “Well