Looking Ahead

Watching Tarantino's latest offering, which the director had said was going to be his last venture, he lapped up more cans of beer than he had ever thought he could in one go. Looking down from the window of his top-floor flat, the tiny people below, and their mundane lives, seemed like one endless game of chess, something that he had risen above long time back. Life had been good, despite what his friends had predicted. In fact, none of his friends could have been happier than him at that moment. He switched off the screen of his wall-height TV and changed the audio to the one song he hadn't got tired listening to since it was recommended to him by a friend 12 years back. The British band-members had parted ways by now and the lead singer had become a faded copy of his earlier self once his actress wife had died after winning a couple of more Oscars. He picked up another beer. Slid off the pane. This was perfect. Exactly what he had foreseen, and written on his now-widely-read blog, almost a decade back. By the time he hit the ground he had been already dead, for several seconds, of ruptured organs. The blunt force on hitting the ground would have ensured a faster death. Either of the options, though, would have been excruciatingly painful, if he had not been numbed to painlessness by the alcohol.