Golden Biker

by Alexander Von Eisenhart Rothe

  “It’s me—Wu!” Wu explained patiently.

  The general examined him suspiciously through squinted eyes. Suddenly his face brightened up with recognition. “Wu! Exactly! I knew!”

  “Of course! May I take a seat Comrade General?”

  “Please, sit down!” Li Xiao motioned towards a chair at the big table with a green felt cover.

  “We are expecting Jing Wong from the department for espionage to join us, he should be here any minute!”

  As if on cue there was a knock and a heavyset man with a brown briefcase opened the door.

  The general was taken aback. “This is an internal meeting. Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  With a sigh the fat man closed the door behind him. “It’s me Comrade General, Jing Wong!”

  Li Xiao looked at him sheepishly. “Of course, I was just checking...”

  They all sat down at the big table. Fat Jing Wong opened his briefcase and tossed a couple of photographs on the table. “These are pictures from our spy satellite ‘Hurray—46th National Congress’. Came in an hour ago!”

  Wu studied the pictures with interest. They showed a road with a military convoy. Above it hovered a helicopter. Even on this grainy photo it was obvious what kind of super cool flying machine this helicopter had to be.

  The general nodded. “This concurs with the testimonies from our agents in North India. Shortly before they were exposed, they were able to send a dispatch!”

  Jim Wong sighed. The undercover espionage operations were an on-going subject of concern.

  Most of them did not take very long, before the spy was exposed. A china man, in spite of a turban, being somehow conspicuous. It was a blessing therefore that there were plenty of more where those had come from…

  General Li Xiao got up and folded his arms behind his back. “What we have here is a sizeable military convoy on its way to the North which, of course, is our border to the South. For some reason Mossad is rather interested in this and we have intercepted a dispatch. They consider informing the Indian government!”

  Wu’s eyebrows shot up. “A military convoy is crossing North India and the Indian government has not yet been informed of this?”

  Jim Wong nodded. “We were wondering about that as well. So we asked ourselves, what if it were not an Indian convoy…which other government is sitting on Indian territory? Which ‘exile’—government?”

  “Wu audibly gasped for air. “You mean—the Tibetans?”

  The general nodded. “Exactly. We believe the Tibetan ‘exile’ government has ordered weaponry and soldiers through Mossad which are now on their way towards the border!” The general turned towards Jing Wong and looked at him sharply. “My dear Wu, what is it, in your opinion, that we should do now?”

  Jing Wong gave an embarrassed cough and furtively pointed at his neighbour. “Excuse me, Comrade General, but I am Jing Wong, this is Wu, over here!”

  The general spun around: Of course, now Wu, what shall we do?”

  Wu was concentrating. The Tibetans, of all people? And with their own army? That idea was completely preposterous. On the other hand he could hardly tell the general that he considered him to be latently paranoid.

  “Well, comrade” Wu said warily after a while “I think we should monitor the situation for now. Also, we could put the troops at the Southern border on high alert, as a safety measure!”

  “Hmmm... ” the general turned towards the big map of China, which almost covered the front wall of the room. He was deeply immersed in quiet thoughts. Finally, with an abrupt turn he again addressed the table. “I know what we are going to do! We’re going to have a manoeuvre! Right on the southern border. It worked with in Taiwan affair. It will carry some weight. I will attend to it myself!”

  Wu and Jing Wong shot worried glances at each other.

  “A manoeuvre?” Wu said at last, a bit sceptical, “That could cause quite a stir!”

  The general smiled at him. “My dear Jing Wong, you take care of your espionage and I’ll take care of politics.”

  Wu was going to say something but thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.

  9. Rajasthan / Jaipur

  The ‘Palace of the Winds’, the landmark of Jaipur is in reality nothing but a facade, a kind of serious attempt of a coulisse, behind whose alcoves and small windows once numerous harem women were allowed to watch the festive parades on the street in front of the palace—without being seen themselves. Looking like a piece of pink meringue pastry it still acts as the embodiment of the wealth and splendour or the lost kingdoms of the Maharajas.

  Gerd had parked his car (which in the strictest sense was still Shakìs) between a parked camel cart and a sleeping cow and after having crossed the street with its infernal traffic in one piece he was now running along Hawa Mahal Bazar in the direction of The Palace of the Winds. Already from far away he could spot the tourists who were climbing out of their air conditioned busses and, after they had gotten over the first shock of heat, were immediately surrounded by hordes of hawkers and beggars, sticking things like, postcards, plastic dolls, miniature instruments, batteries, live snakes or sometimes a crippled limb under their very noses. Gerd looked around. Where were the others? At this moment he heard a piercing whistle from somewhere up above. Gerd looked up. Bear was standing on the flat roof of one of the houses on the opposite side of the street, waving at him and signalling him to come up as well. Gerd entered the small shop at the ground level of the respective building and asked a skimpy man wearing a moustache, if he might get up on the roof. After the usual baksheesh had changed hands, he was led up the stairs to the roof.

  On the rooftop waited Bear, the Jain and Arthur who was taking pictures of the palace with a small camera. “You have a much better perspective from up here!” he shouted to Gerd instead of saying hello.

  Baer looked at him frowning “If it isn’t Mr Ice Capade director himself, arrived at last.

  Where have you been? Slipped on the ice perhaps?”

  Gerd ignored the cutting remark, went over to the balustrade and looked down at the mass of people, cows, camels and traffic. “I told you, that I had to make some phone calls! By the way, you won’t believe who I met!”

  He told them about the unexpected reunion with Sherie, that Shaki’s men had abducted her and of his consternation when Sherie, who apparently had been happy to see him again, had disappeared shortly after with Hermann, without having said a word.

  Arthur raised one eyebrow. “Hermann? What is he up to in these parts?”

  Gerd shrugged his shoulders. “I have no idea, but he was travelling with all his troupe!”

  “Maybe, he is also going to the big festival in Delhi,” Bear said, “it’s happening tomorrow.

  That’s where our friend here is going as well!” He moved his head slightly towards the naked Jain, who was sitting on the edge of the balustrade, apparently apathetic, dangling both his legs and his genitals.

  Arthur clapped his hands together in an enterprising fashion. “Great, then we go look for a hotel and tomorrow we’re off to Delhi!”

  “And what about Sherie?” Gerd wanted to know.

  “What about her?” Bear shrugged his shoulders casually, “If she prefers to tag along with that old Nazi nut job, that’s her business.”

  “You miserable old duffer, you disgusting shithead, you... you...”

  “Repulsive old fart?” Hermann suggested, grinning maliciously.

  Sherie spat in his face or rather tried to, because she did not reach far enough and her gob of spit sizzled into the campfire.

  Hermann and his men had set up camp for the night shortly behind Jaipur and had shackled Sherie to a pole. Where she, for the last fifteen minutes was flinging nothing but a barrage of swearwords at Hermann, who for his part was just listening with a frozen
smile.

  He squatted beside her. “Now you listen to me wery carefully. I only vant to get back vat’s mine. Just tell me ver your companions are and I vil set you free!”

  Sherie laughed scornfully. “This Gerd fellow, he has already saved me once. And if he finds me, you are going to be in such deep shit!”

  “I hef been thinking along similar lines, actually. I am going to keep you here until your friends will show up all by themselves. The autograph in exchange for you—a simple exchange!”

  “What kind of autograph are you blabbering on about?”

  Hermann jumped up. His face went red with anger. “Don’t take me for an idiot! I might as well put you a bit closer towards the fire, so your feet will get really hot. For the last time: Ver are your friends?”

  Sherie decided to shut up altogether and instead stared silently into the flames. Hermann took one of the plastic bags filled with Golden Biker. “This stuff, should be worth quite a lot,” he was saying almost to himself.

  “Get you gouty paws off it, that belongs to me!” Sherie shouted at him.

  “You know my dear, I hev always been of the opinion that drugs ought to be destroyed!”

  With a swift move he threw the bag into the flames. The sound of the sizzling flames was drowned by Sherie’s outcry. Stoically Hermann took the second bag and held it above the fire. “Well?” he said, this time louder, “Shall I continue with my ‘war-on-drugs’ or will you finally tell me, where your friends were planning to go?”

  Her eyes opened wide with horror as she watched the plastic melt in the ambers and the golden shimmering Marihuana caught fire. “So, vat vil it be?” Hermann hissed holding another bag between two fingers.

  “You... you are really sick!” Sherie snivelled.

  “Say no to drugs!” and with a cold smile, he dropped the bag.

  “NOOOOOO!!!” Sherie exclaimed, while Hermann, unfazed, took the last of the three bags.

  “Your last chance!” he declared cheerily.

  Sherie wrestled hard at her shackles and was breathing heavily.

  “They... they wanted to go north. To look for the Golden Biker. Bear knows where to find him.”

  “Aha, and ver is zat supposed to be?”

  “In a valley up north, near Manali. He showed it to me on a map!”

  “Interesting. And ver are zey now?”

  Sherie could not take her eyes away from the fire, where the remains of the second bag were about be engulfed by the flames. “They wanted to go to Delhi!” she answered dully.

  Hermann smiled with satisfaction. “Thank you very much!” He let go of the third bag. Sparks flew up into the air, flames were licking up—and the last supply of Golden Biker had irretrievably gone.

  “You dipshit!!!” Sherie shouted, mad with fury.

  Hermann gallantly tipped his peaked cap. “I think I shall forgo any further compliments for tonight. If you allow me, I shall take my leave! Sweet dreams.” He turned around and left Sherie tied to her pole. The flames were illuminating her stunned face.

  It is a well known fact, that no matter on which side of the campfire you are sitting, smoke will always get blown right into your face. Usually one gets up and changes position. Alas, Sherie could not move anywhere else as she was once again tied up.

  As soon as Hermann had bid his farewell, a slight breeze came up, flaring up the flames blowing the smoke directly in her direction. Coughing hard she tried to free herself, but all in vein. Obviously the soldiers knew their knots. Meanwhile the contents of the third bag had also gone up in the flames. A thick carpet of billowing, gold glistening smoke was creeping along the ground in Sherie’s direction, at first wrapping itself around her feet, her legs and finally her whole body. She tried to hold her breath as long as possible, but it was of no use.

  Finally when she could no longer stand it, she sucked the aromatic smoke with a violent gasp into her lungs…and all of a sudden all the fear, desperation and anger fell off from her. She felt lightheaded and very much at peace. She did neither feel her shackles any longer nor the pain in her joints. The golden fog parted and a figure was slowly approaching her. Sherie tried to recognise the face, but whoever was coming towards her was wearing a golden mask.

  “Who are you?” Sherie asked with a leaden tongue.

  “I am the Golden Biker, the alpha and the omega...,” the apparition said. Then it removed the mask from the face revealing the features of a beautiful woman. “I take from the poor and give to the rich...”

  Sherie nodded interrupting her: “The poor really don’t deserve any better anyhow...”

  “The Golden Biker!” Hermann rejoiced, “They know where he is! Fantastic!”

  He was running up and down inside his tent agitatedly. His gaze wandered over to the Fuehrer’s portrait. “Finally, we will get our revenge!”

  Dark, sceptical eyes looked down at him from the frame on the wall. You out of all people want to find him and get your revenge, ja?

  Herman looked up in irritation. “Yes of course. It’ s because of him that the mission had failed back then. He is the one to blame, he alone!”

  The Fuehrer gave him a cold condescending smile. The mission failed because you did not only disobey my orders but you also screwed up in your little solo adventure. You are a deadbeat, Hermann. Sheepishly Hermann looked down at his shoes. “Jawohl, mein Fuehrer...” he mumbled listlessly, he slowly went over to his bunk bed and with a sigh he let himself fall down. With arms crossed he stared at the ceiling. He had made up his mind nevertheless. He would find the Golden Biker and get his brutal revenge. And to his master he would thereby prove he was no loser. He would be in for a big surprise, the Fuehrer, that is.

  An optimistic smile played around his mouth and he fell asleep.

  In the middle of the night a man sidled out of the hotel. Carefully, he closed the door behind him in order not to wake up Bear, Arthur and Gerd. He sneaked down the dark staircase, until he finally stood on the boardwalk. Nobody took notice of the stark naked figure crossing the street into an even darker side alley. The man pulled out a long antenna from the broomstick that he normally used for swiping away any microorganisms in front of him.

  “Vegetarian to lion’s den! Come in please!” he spoke into the hidden microphone.

  Part III

  -New-Delhi-

  Beware of eating the golden Ganja. As tasty a delight it may be served in form of a cookie, however the effects...(illegible), but if you are into pastry, be sure not to skimp on the delightful produce of the cocoa bean.

  (From: The teachings of the Golden Biker)

  1. New-Delhi

  The distance from Bombay to Delhi is 818 miles, as the crow flies. Adding another 186 miles from Goa to Bombay and you get a total of roughly 1.000 miles. ‘As the crow flies’, as has been mentioned. Alas, since Sunil’s rickety tuc-tuc could not fly, it had to manoeuvre along potholes, single-lane or no-lane roads, traffic jams and ruthless heavy load vehicles, which had a tendency to honk the little tuc-tuc off the road as casually as the other lesser creatures such as cyclists and pedestrians. Furthermore the road was all but going in a straight line, so it was well over 1.200 miles of heat, sweat and dust Sunil had managed to put behind him eventually.

  His regrets to have fooled the foreigner out of some sodden rupees, increased with every northbound mile. To make amends, to find his victim and give him his money back seemed increasingly harsh and he secretly cursed the temple priest who had clapped this penance on him. His petrol costs alone had by now reached a limit that was ten times as high as what he owed the foreigner. In Ratnagiri he had to pay for the chai bill, which the foreigner and his friends had not settled and in Bombay he was coerced into covering the damage they had caused to a small spice shop. Sunil had paid for everything even though he had to dig into his personal savings. From a financial p
oint of view, he was more than even with the foreigners.

  But he had sworn to high heaven to carry on just the same. He wanted to be a good Hindu, he did not want to corrupt his soul with this fraud and thereby risk being reborn as a tuc-tuc driver in his next life—or even something far worse. No, through this repentance in his next life he would be reborn at least as a Brahmin—or even better as a Bollywood film star! He would find the foreigner, give him the money and regain his peace of mind.

  Apart from all the hardship Sunil had to suffer on this journey, there was however something happening, that seemed to him although agreeably pleasant but nonetheless strange and inexplicable. The more time he spent on the road moving further North, the friendlier the people interacted with him. Other tuc-tuc drivers were greeting him, not only politely, but also even reverently. Petrol pump attendants filled his tank for a knocked-down price and once it happened that a small group of people standing at the side of the road were throwing flowers at him as he passed by. Sunil had no explanation for this behaviour. In Goa he had always found himself in a ruthless struggle with other competing tuc-tuc drivers. It came with the territory that in this business there was no prevailing friendliness amongst each other, let alone respect. Or could it be, that people in the North were generally nicer?

  As he was approaching Delhi, three tuc-tuc drivers stopped him before the city gates. He anticipated a pounding—the colleagues from Delhi had after all, a good enough reason to believe that another competitor was going to nudge into their market—but to his utter surprise, they had offered him a refreshment plus a dinner invitation from the leader of the tuc-tuc driver’s union. Gobsmacked, Sunil had accepted the invitation. Before the three drivers got back into their tuc-tucs to lead ahead, they inquired reverently if they could maybe touch him. Sunil who, by now was convinced that his colleagues either had to get out of the sun immediately or it must be a simple case of mistaken identity, had agreed to it, although mystified. Bashfully they touched his arm, bowed down before him in supplication. One of them even seemed to get slightly lightheaded in his presence. He opened his mouth as if to say something but could not get a word out; he then smiled inanely, tore himself away from Sunil’s arm and followed his colleagues back to their vehicles. Sunil could have sworn that the man had to wipe away some tears.