RISK FACTOR: Creed
The One-Day Diary of a Sleepyhead
All Rights Reserved
Have I ever kept a secret? That’s a fair question. Life is but a playground of secrets to me. As
months pass, leaves wither, the day grows longer, I fight an endless battle against time, to
rescue and preserve what may actually be termed as “secrets.” It is just a word, but what lies
within the word is as hollow and as dark, as a cave with a million dead corpses. Keeping
“secrets” is not an option for me. It is a priority. If you were a spy, and you lived in the year
2172, you would feel the same way.
My instructions from my supervisor when I joined the agency were:
“Steal data, use extreme caution, shoot first and ask questions later, make sure you’re not
followed and never reveal anything. Don’t trust anybody and never seem too obvious. Live first
and save later. Never get carried away by your emotions, draw a sharp line between life and
death, and never ever think you’ve won, until you’ve seen your opponent fall.”
I’ve abided by these rules for the past nine years. Life for me is just a clock ticking away,
reducing my strengths and exposing my weaknesses. In a business of tough competitors, one
must endure to push himself towards the limits, and sometimes…beyond it.
I work for the Secret Service. The pay is lousy and the missions are obtuse, but I still do what I
do. Why? Many people in my position would be reluctant to answer that question. What would
you do if told you, that, that information is classified? You’d probably hate me and extinguish
your relationship with me. But I won’t do that, because, after losing nine years of my life, I
realize the anguish of losing loved ones. “Secrets” have always been the prime reason for
which I have lost my friends…
It started in sixth grade, when Justin Clausen insisted that I reveal whatever Jason Downing
had told me the day before. I had promised Jason that his “secret” was safe with me and that
no one in the whole wide world would know about it. I promised that the information would
never escape me, even if someone stuck a loaded revolver in my belly. I didn’t reveal a word,
and I lost Justin Clausen’s friendship in the process.
If the good and the bad of my job are measured, I’m pretty sure the losses would weigh out the
gains by a great measure. I’ve had to kill countless, blackmail numerous, and injure
hundreds. I’ve had to fight for a cause which has no real appeal to me. Terrorism is a word. It’s
just a nine syllable word, which is common in the briefing room at ISA Headquarters. It is
common for me to chase vigilantes and extremists. It is everyday business for me to get shot at
by people whom I have nothing against. It is terrible. But it’s my job.
I’m 29, single and working for The International Security Agency. My parents were killed by
a gang of activists about ten years ago. I’ve been burning with revenge ever since, until, last
year when I found the gang, in the city which was once known as Las Vegas. I followed their
activities for five months before finally making my move. I killed them. I killed them all. No
one stopped me. No one opposed me. I’m an ISA agent. The Law is in my hands, and Justice is,
what I say it is. I have the power, and the responsibility. But I don’t want it. Not anymore.
It was about three months ago that I was called upon by “The Lord,” the ruler of our great
nation, and an active figure in World events. Most people worshipped him as a god and
followed every syllable he spoke, as if it were the words of the Koran or the Bible. I respected
him for his great leadership capabilities and his courage. He was one, and he could not be
opposed. Not even a shadow could speak against him without getting shot. He was a tyrant, and
I only respected him, or pretended to, to stay alive.
He made me kill my best friend to prove my loyalty towards him. I hate him. Alex was my best
friend, and my partner in the ISA. He was a brilliant officer, a loving husband, and an
excellent father. With his wife, Linda and his six year old daughter Cynthia, he was probably
the happiest man on the planet. They’re family was perfect in every way. That was three
months ago.
Today, Linda is a 31 year old widow, and Cynthia is a child without a father. All because of
me! I deserve to die, but if I’m going down, I’m taking the man who made me do it, with me. If
I’m going to hell, I’m certainly making sure that he follows the same route. I wish; may Satan
himself carve his sinful designs on the tyrant’s bare chest and incinerate his heart with the
blazing fires of hell.
In a city ruled by fear, it would be a mammoth task to even get close to the man, but I’m a
secret agent and nothing is impossible for me. I’m up for the challenge.
“The Lord” has made the city his, and has carved out a set of rules which every citizen has to
abide by. “The Lord’s Commandments”, as he terms them, is a set of the most meaningless
and most cruel array of injustices anyone has ever heard of. It annihilates emotions,
extinguishes equity, and encourages oppression. In his view: Anyone who is “Colored” cannot
use any sort of public transport. “Colored” people cannot work in offices owned by ashen
people. They are not allowed to eat or drink anything made or produced by the ashen. Colored
vigilantes should be shot on site and their corpses should be burnt right there, whatever be
their crime. Anyone who opposes the ‘Lord’ should be annihilated from the face of the Earth.
No one is allowed to follow any sort of religion except for the one specified by the “Lord”
himself. Books, movies, documents, architecture, memorials, whatever is even remotely close
to being associated with religion should be destroyed. An obedient Nation is a happy Nation.
His Nation is God’s Nation. – That’s what the “Lord” said, in his most recent speech, at the
Glass House.
In a world where even Macbeth, the father of all tyrants, fell to the valiant sword, hope still
lives, of the tyrant falling, to the courage and virtue, of a pure soul.
The rebellion has already started. Religious men from all over the country have arrived to rid
our great nation of the tyrant. Battles have been fought. Children have been orphaned.
Morality has been abolished. Innocents have given their lives, sacrificed their loved ones; for
what, you might ask. The answer is quite simple: For Humanity, For Sanity, For Freedom, and
For Justice. I stand by those who have the willingness to fight for our rights, who will sacrifice
themselves for the good of the nation and who will charge ahead to unmask the evil dictator
and overthrow him.
I’m “the eye-in-the-sky” for this operation. No one knows my involvement. Secrecy is a must,
concerning this matter. Secrecy is what keeps me alive in the vicious reality that surrounds
me. To the ISA, I am as ill-informed about the rebellion as any other in the facility. To “The
Lord”, I’m as innocent as a priest. To the rebels, I’m nothing less than a glimmer of hope.
It’s time I left, for the rebels are impatient. I’ve kept them waiting long enough to attend to
your needs. The information I provided you with is as deadly as a rattlesnake and should be
handled with great care, for my life depends on it. If tomorrow is to come, today has to be won.
So keep my secret and pray to the Lord – the real Lord… the One, the Only True God – who is
everywhere and yet nowhere. May God bless you all and may He let me see, the tyrant fall…
Mehzeb Rahman Chowdhury
Student of Grade XI
Scholastica
Dhaka
All rights to this short story belong to Mehzeb Rahaman Chowdhury
The One-Day Diary of a Sleepyhead
All Rights Reserved
Have I ever kept a secret? That’s a fair question. Life is but a playground of secrets to me. As
months pass, leaves wither, the day grows longer, I fight an endless battle against time, to
rescue and preserve what may actually be termed as “secrets.” It is just a word, but what lies
within the word is as hollow and as dark, as a cave with a million dead corpses. Keeping
“secrets” is not an option for me. It is a priority. If you were a spy, and you lived in the year
2172, you would feel the same way.
My instructions from my supervisor when I joined the agency were:
“Steal data, use extreme caution, shoot first and ask questions later, make sure you’re not
followed and never reveal anything. Don’t trust anybody and never seem too obvious. Live first
and save later. Never get carried away by your emotions, draw a sharp line between life and
death, and never ever think you’ve won, until you’ve seen your opponent fall.”
I’ve abided by these rules for the past nine years. Life for me is just a clock ticking away,
reducing my strengths and exposing my weaknesses. In a business of tough competitors, one
must endure to push himself towards the limits, and sometimes…beyond it.
I work for the Secret Service. The pay is lousy and the missions are obtuse, but I still do what I
do. Why? Many people in my position would be reluctant to answer that question. What would
you do if told you, that, that information is classified? You’d probably hate me and extinguish
your relationship with me. But I won’t do that, because, after losing nine years of my life, I
realize the anguish of losing loved ones. “Secrets” have always been the prime reason for
which I have lost my friends…
It started in sixth grade, when Justin Clausen insisted that I reveal whatever Jason Downing
had told me the day before. I had promised Jason that his “secret” was safe with me and that
no one in the whole wide world would know about it. I promised that the information would
never escape me, even if someone stuck a loaded revolver in my belly. I didn’t reveal a word,
and I lost Justin Clausen’s friendship in the process.
If the good and the bad of my job are measured, I’m pretty sure the losses would weigh out the
gains by a great measure. I’ve had to kill countless, blackmail numerous, and injure
hundreds. I’ve had to fight for a cause which has no real appeal to me. Terrorism is a word. It’s
just a nine syllable word, which is common in the briefing room at ISA Headquarters. It is
common for me to chase vigilantes and extremists. It is everyday business for me to get shot at
by people whom I have nothing against. It is terrible. But it’s my job.
I’m 29, single and working for The International Security Agency. My parents were killed by
a gang of activists about ten years ago. I’ve been burning with revenge ever since, until, last
year when I found the gang, in the city which was once known as Las Vegas. I followed their
activities for five months before finally making my move. I killed them. I killed them all. No
one stopped me. No one opposed me. I’m an ISA agent. The Law is in my hands, and Justice is,
what I say it is. I have the power, and the responsibility. But I don’t want it. Not anymore.
It was about three months ago that I was called upon by “The Lord,” the ruler of our great
nation, and an active figure in World events. Most people worshipped him as a god and
followed every syllable he spoke, as if it were the words of the Koran or the Bible. I respected
him for his great leadership capabilities and his courage. He was one, and he could not be
opposed. Not even a shadow could speak against him without getting shot. He was a tyrant, and
I only respected him, or pretended to, to stay alive.
He made me kill my best friend to prove my loyalty towards him. I hate him. Alex was my best
friend, and my partner in the ISA. He was a brilliant officer, a loving husband, and an
excellent father. With his wife, Linda and his six year old daughter Cynthia, he was probably
the happiest man on the planet. They’re family was perfect in every way. That was three
months ago.
Today, Linda is a 31 year old widow, and Cynthia is a child without a father. All because of
me! I deserve to die, but if I’m going down, I’m taking the man who made me do it, with me. If
I’m going to hell, I’m certainly making sure that he follows the same route. I wish; may Satan
himself carve his sinful designs on the tyrant’s bare chest and incinerate his heart with the
blazing fires of hell.
In a city ruled by fear, it would be a mammoth task to even get close to the man, but I’m a
secret agent and nothing is impossible for me. I’m up for the challenge.
“The Lord” has made the city his, and has carved out a set of rules which every citizen has to
abide by. “The Lord’s Commandments”, as he terms them, is a set of the most meaningless
and most cruel array of injustices anyone has ever heard of. It annihilates emotions,
extinguishes equity, and encourages oppression. In his view: Anyone who is “Colored” cannot
use any sort of public transport. “Colored” people cannot work in offices owned by ashen
people. They are not allowed to eat or drink anything made or produced by the ashen. Colored
vigilantes should be shot on site and their corpses should be burnt right there, whatever be
their crime. Anyone who opposes the ‘Lord’ should be annihilated from the face of the Earth.
No one is allowed to follow any sort of religion except for the one specified by the “Lord”
himself. Books, movies, documents, architecture, memorials, whatever is even remotely close
to being associated with religion should be destroyed. An obedient Nation is a happy Nation.
His Nation is God’s Nation. – That’s what the “Lord” said, in his most recent speech, at the
Glass House.
In a world where even Macbeth, the father of all tyrants, fell to the valiant sword, hope still
lives, of the tyrant falling, to the courage and virtue, of a pure soul.
The rebellion has already started. Religious men from all over the country have arrived to rid
our great nation of the tyrant. Battles have been fought. Children have been orphaned.
Morality has been abolished. Innocents have given their lives, sacrificed their loved ones; for
what, you might ask. The answer is quite simple: For Humanity, For Sanity, For Freedom, and
For Justice. I stand by those who have the willingness to fight for our rights, who will sacrifice
themselves for the good of the nation and who will charge ahead to unmask the evil dictator
and overthrow him.
I’m “the eye-in-the-sky” for this operation. No one knows my involvement. Secrecy is a must,
concerning this matter. Secrecy is what keeps me alive in the vicious reality that surrounds
me. To the ISA, I am as ill-informed about the rebellion as any other in the facility. To “The
Lord”, I’m as innocent as a priest. To the rebels, I’m nothing less than a glimmer of hope.
It’s time I left, for the rebels are impatient. I’ve kept them waiting long enough to attend to
your needs. The information I provided you with is as deadly as a rattlesnake and should be
handled with great care, for my life depends on it. If tomorrow is to come, today has to be won.
So keep my secret and pray to the Lord – the real Lord… the One, the Only True God – who is
everywhere and yet nowhere. May God bless you all and may He let me see, the tyrant fall…
Mehzeb Rahman Chowdhury
Student of Grade XI
Scholastica
Dhaka
All rights to this short story belong to Mehzeb Rahaman Chowdhury
Aspiring Writers Magazine
The Day the President Lost His Balls
By: Mehzeb Rahman Chowdhury
As he entered the President’s office at three in the morning, after having been urgently
contacted by the chief of staff an hour earlier, our hero, Meqlin Chowdhury could not, help
but wonder what the matter could be, in respect to which he had been summoned at such an
unusual hour. Inside the rather large, well-decorated office, sat the Army, Navy, and Airforce
chiefs, who seemed to be in great distress. The president along with his aides walked in, a
second or two later. There was an overall stillness on the faces of those present, which further
added to the suspenseful silence. Three or four desk clerks rushed in with some important
looking documents and placed them on the desk in front of the President. Nobody even looked
at our hero, who was by now wondering what the matter actually was.
“E-excuse me Sir,” he said, rather bashfully. The Chief of Staff looked up at him gravely.
“What is going on?”
There was frightening silence in the room. Each individual looked at the other with shocked
expressions, which did not by far strengthen Meqlin’s already shaky nerves.
“We have some terrible news. It has come to our attention that the two most important objects
of the president’s life have been stolen,” the Chief of Staff said.
“Yes, sir…?” Meqlin muttered.
“It’s his balls. The president has misplaced his balls.”
At that, Meqlin could not help but shrug.
“His balls sir?” he asked, looking at the corner of the ceiling.
“Yes. We believe that it was stolen from the Airport golf course, yesterday afternoon. We need
you to locate the balls and bring them into safe custody.”
Meqlin nodded, and left the presidents office with a lot on his mind. He drove off to the golf
course in his brand-new silver Mercedes convertible, listening to Lionel Ritchie prate along
about love and life, and whatever the country singer could think of. He parked the vehicle in a
dark corner and walked over to the maintenance office, which was about a hundred meters
from the edge of the playing area. An old, rather pensive looking man, in his mid-sixties,
walked out of the building with a black stiff-looking cane, and said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m from the President’s Office. Where you here yesterday afternoon?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Do you know what happened to the president’s special multi-colored balls?”
“I’m sorry. Who falls?!” the old man said, leaning forward.
“No, no. The president’s balls,” Meqlin repeated louder.
The old man smiled, and patted his tummy joyfully, “The president calls?”
Finding no other way, Meqlin bent down and picked up a golf ball from the ground, and
showed it to the elderly gentleman, who then seemed to understand what our hero had been
trying to convey.
“You want to know what the girl did with the colored balls?” the old man said through his
teeth.
“Girl? What girl?”
“She lifted two of the balls from the president’s bag,” he answered, “She came with him. So I
figured, she was just playing a trick on him or something.”
“Can you describe this girl?” Meqlin yelped.
“Girl? Yeah. She wasn’t any older than 25, had dark brown hair, very pretty face, and wore a
black skirt, and a white top. She had diamond shaped earrings, and a rather strange looking
necklace hung around her neck.”
Meqlin was a little surprised, “You remember all this?”
The man shrugged rather uncomfortably, and almost fished around for words, until producing
a cellophane projection of a photograph, “I took a picture of her,” he said rather red-faced.
Meqlin looked over the catch, and handing it back rushed to his car.
“Thank you for your cooperation Sir,” he said to the man, and drove off.
He rushed through the gates of the President House, and went straight into Zarah Ryan’s
office. He found the lady sitting at her desk, holding a phone to her ear, saying stuff like,
“Yes. No. Why not? Really! Wow! Okay.”
“Hey!” he said.
Zarah put the phone down, and looked at him. There was a funny expression on her face, when
she asked him what the matter was, and whether the balls had been located.
“Let’s not talk about that now, Meqlin said, sitting on a chair opposite to hers. You know I love
it when you wear black skirts with white tops. I like your diamond shaped earrings, and that
Egyptian amulet your father gave you. Mostly I adore those lovely little hands which swiped
the President’s balls from the golf course yesterday.”
“What? Have you lost your mind Meqlin?” she yelped, gesturing wildly with hands.
“I’ve got a witness that will testify to that,” he said coolly.
At that the beautiful young secretary, opened a desk drawer and produced the balls she had
been accused of stealing. She placed them gently on the desk in front of her, swallowed hard,
then gently asked, “Does the president know?”
“No,” Meqlin murmured, “Why his balls?”
“Hakan dumped me yesterday because I couldn’t make it to our date. Can’t say I didn’t
deserve it. I stood him up on five previous dates. Work. It’s always work. If it was official work,
I wouldn’t have minded. I missed my date yesterday because the President had to play golf and
I had to accompany him. I have a life you know!”
A tear ran down her left eye. Meqlin handed her a tissue from a pack that was lying on the
table. She wiped the edges of her eyes, trying not to cry out loud.
“I was so mad,” she sobbed, “Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day, and I don’t have a date!”
Meqlin felt a hypothetical needle entering his heart through its most vulnerable spot. He
couldn’t help but feel sorry for Zarah. She was beautiful, smart, and funny. So why wasn’t she
with anyone? Why wasn’t he with her? This was something Meqlin had never thought about
before. He thought for a second, looking at her, not as a colleague but as someone he could
actually fall for. He made up his mind instantly.
“You know, the President doesn’t have to know about this. I’m sure I can come up with a
plausible explanation for the disappearing balls; and all will be happy,” he told her.
She looked at him rather strangely, as if in momentary disbelief, “Why? Why would you do
that?”
He hesitated, but at length said, “Because I’m about to ask you out.”
Zarah was taken aback, “What?” she muttered softly.
Meqlin got off his chair, and walked over to Zarah, who had by then got up as well, looked her
in the eyes, and said in a gentlemanly manner, “You were so happy with Hakan that I never
found the courage to make a move. Now that you’re not dating him anymore: Would you like
to go out for a drink with me sometime?”
“Sure,” she murmured, reciprocating his eye movements.
After having settled their date, Meqlin left Zarah’s office with the balls. Upon entering the
President’s office, he placed the golf balls in front of his employer and said, “Mr. President, I’
ve managed to recover your missing balls. I found them at the golf course.”
A smile instantly carved itself on the President’s face. He asked in rather relieved manner,
“Where?”
Meqlin thought for a second or two, and remembering how much the President enjoyed pizzas,
said, “In some old pizza boxes.”
The defence chiefs, the President, and all his aids shook hands with our hero, and
congratulated him on a ‘job well done.’
Meqlin left the President House that night with a smile on his face, and a date for the next
day. He turned around, upon reaching the gate, and said to himself, “So this is what it feels
like to be James Bond.” He was interrupted however by his ringing cell phone.
“Hello.”
It was the chief of staff: “Chowdhury! Listen up, we have a situation here. Get your butt down
here. The President can’t find his nine irons!”
Meqlin sighed, looking up to the heavens he smiled.
“Here we go again…”
By: Mehzeb Rahman Chowdhury
As he entered the President’s office at three in the morning, after having been urgently
contacted by the chief of staff an hour earlier, our hero, Meqlin Chowdhury could not, help
but wonder what the matter could be, in respect to which he had been summoned at such an
unusual hour. Inside the rather large, well-decorated office, sat the Army, Navy, and Airforce
chiefs, who seemed to be in great distress. The president along with his aides walked in, a
second or two later. There was an overall stillness on the faces of those present, which further
added to the suspenseful silence. Three or four desk clerks rushed in with some important
looking documents and placed them on the desk in front of the President. Nobody even looked
at our hero, who was by now wondering what the matter actually was.
“E-excuse me Sir,” he said, rather bashfully. The Chief of Staff looked up at him gravely.
“What is going on?”
There was frightening silence in the room. Each individual looked at the other with shocked
expressions, which did not by far strengthen Meqlin’s already shaky nerves.
“We have some terrible news. It has come to our attention that the two most important objects
of the president’s life have been stolen,” the Chief of Staff said.
“Yes, sir…?” Meqlin muttered.
“It’s his balls. The president has misplaced his balls.”
At that, Meqlin could not help but shrug.
“His balls sir?” he asked, looking at the corner of the ceiling.
“Yes. We believe that it was stolen from the Airport golf course, yesterday afternoon. We need
you to locate the balls and bring them into safe custody.”
Meqlin nodded, and left the presidents office with a lot on his mind. He drove off to the golf
course in his brand-new silver Mercedes convertible, listening to Lionel Ritchie prate along
about love and life, and whatever the country singer could think of. He parked the vehicle in a
dark corner and walked over to the maintenance office, which was about a hundred meters
from the edge of the playing area. An old, rather pensive looking man, in his mid-sixties,
walked out of the building with a black stiff-looking cane, and said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m from the President’s Office. Where you here yesterday afternoon?”
He nodded.
“Okay. Do you know what happened to the president’s special multi-colored balls?”
“I’m sorry. Who falls?!” the old man said, leaning forward.
“No, no. The president’s balls,” Meqlin repeated louder.
The old man smiled, and patted his tummy joyfully, “The president calls?”
Finding no other way, Meqlin bent down and picked up a golf ball from the ground, and
showed it to the elderly gentleman, who then seemed to understand what our hero had been
trying to convey.
“You want to know what the girl did with the colored balls?” the old man said through his
teeth.
“Girl? What girl?”
“She lifted two of the balls from the president’s bag,” he answered, “She came with him. So I
figured, she was just playing a trick on him or something.”
“Can you describe this girl?” Meqlin yelped.
“Girl? Yeah. She wasn’t any older than 25, had dark brown hair, very pretty face, and wore a
black skirt, and a white top. She had diamond shaped earrings, and a rather strange looking
necklace hung around her neck.”
Meqlin was a little surprised, “You remember all this?”
The man shrugged rather uncomfortably, and almost fished around for words, until producing
a cellophane projection of a photograph, “I took a picture of her,” he said rather red-faced.
Meqlin looked over the catch, and handing it back rushed to his car.
“Thank you for your cooperation Sir,” he said to the man, and drove off.
He rushed through the gates of the President House, and went straight into Zarah Ryan’s
office. He found the lady sitting at her desk, holding a phone to her ear, saying stuff like,
“Yes. No. Why not? Really! Wow! Okay.”
“Hey!” he said.
Zarah put the phone down, and looked at him. There was a funny expression on her face, when
she asked him what the matter was, and whether the balls had been located.
“Let’s not talk about that now, Meqlin said, sitting on a chair opposite to hers. You know I love
it when you wear black skirts with white tops. I like your diamond shaped earrings, and that
Egyptian amulet your father gave you. Mostly I adore those lovely little hands which swiped
the President’s balls from the golf course yesterday.”
“What? Have you lost your mind Meqlin?” she yelped, gesturing wildly with hands.
“I’ve got a witness that will testify to that,” he said coolly.
At that the beautiful young secretary, opened a desk drawer and produced the balls she had
been accused of stealing. She placed them gently on the desk in front of her, swallowed hard,
then gently asked, “Does the president know?”
“No,” Meqlin murmured, “Why his balls?”
“Hakan dumped me yesterday because I couldn’t make it to our date. Can’t say I didn’t
deserve it. I stood him up on five previous dates. Work. It’s always work. If it was official work,
I wouldn’t have minded. I missed my date yesterday because the President had to play golf and
I had to accompany him. I have a life you know!”
A tear ran down her left eye. Meqlin handed her a tissue from a pack that was lying on the
table. She wiped the edges of her eyes, trying not to cry out loud.
“I was so mad,” she sobbed, “Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day, and I don’t have a date!”
Meqlin felt a hypothetical needle entering his heart through its most vulnerable spot. He
couldn’t help but feel sorry for Zarah. She was beautiful, smart, and funny. So why wasn’t she
with anyone? Why wasn’t he with her? This was something Meqlin had never thought about
before. He thought for a second, looking at her, not as a colleague but as someone he could
actually fall for. He made up his mind instantly.
“You know, the President doesn’t have to know about this. I’m sure I can come up with a
plausible explanation for the disappearing balls; and all will be happy,” he told her.
She looked at him rather strangely, as if in momentary disbelief, “Why? Why would you do
that?”
He hesitated, but at length said, “Because I’m about to ask you out.”
Zarah was taken aback, “What?” she muttered softly.
Meqlin got off his chair, and walked over to Zarah, who had by then got up as well, looked her
in the eyes, and said in a gentlemanly manner, “You were so happy with Hakan that I never
found the courage to make a move. Now that you’re not dating him anymore: Would you like
to go out for a drink with me sometime?”
“Sure,” she murmured, reciprocating his eye movements.
After having settled their date, Meqlin left Zarah’s office with the balls. Upon entering the
President’s office, he placed the golf balls in front of his employer and said, “Mr. President, I’
ve managed to recover your missing balls. I found them at the golf course.”
A smile instantly carved itself on the President’s face. He asked in rather relieved manner,
“Where?”
Meqlin thought for a second or two, and remembering how much the President enjoyed pizzas,
said, “In some old pizza boxes.”
The defence chiefs, the President, and all his aids shook hands with our hero, and
congratulated him on a ‘job well done.’
Meqlin left the President House that night with a smile on his face, and a date for the next
day. He turned around, upon reaching the gate, and said to himself, “So this is what it feels
like to be James Bond.” He was interrupted however by his ringing cell phone.
“Hello.”
It was the chief of staff: “Chowdhury! Listen up, we have a situation here. Get your butt down
here. The President can’t find his nine irons!”
Meqlin sighed, looking up to the heavens he smiled.
“Here we go again…”
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