“It was you, wasn’t it?” Jai-I scolded.
I gave a guilty gulp.
“Shameless.”
“Ha ha. So you saw?”
He nodded his head. “Have you seen your own work?”
“Not all. I just got back from the future with a copy of the mayhem.” I handed an optical disc, puzzled by the use of ancient technology. “What do you think?”
“Your signature style is written all over it,” he half answered. Jai-I’s attention was paid towards some programming task, humped like a hunchback turtle over his workstation. With him zoned in, no other conversation was forthcoming.
I put on the CD. The cursor went over the .wmv and a double-clicking sound ensued.
The video quality was like a home camcorder recording, blur and grainy. And the hands shaky. Unprofessional. It started mid-section; either the earlier scenes were deleted or not recorded at all. Fucking pirated products. Screams; mad, naked bodies running amok. Wailing moans; the face of a man suddenly smashed on the lens, a gaping hole of mouth, bloodshot sclera.
It was pretty boring after a while, mental patients of an asylum torturing and tormenting themselves, tearing at skin and flesh, like ripping aluminium foil covering roast turkey, or the plastic wrap for microwaveable food.
Jai-I said, “You should have seen the owner, he was furious, condemning the asshole that turned Dionysus and Tartarus into a sanatorium.”
“I know; I was crawling the ceiling when they barged into the room, only to find her sucking fingers and biting nails. Transmigrated to a second childhood, fucking mind of a retard,” I laughed as images of the bitch in her pathetic state replayed.
“Outside, it was more or less the same,” I added, “more overgrown toddlers with fried brains. Haha.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the workings of my flatulence.”
“Yah, your fucking signature style.” Jai-I nonchalantly contributed, still programming, and glued onto the monitor in a praying mantis’ pose.