A Crime of Passion

Of this I have long been certain: Rabb, our boss in this life as in the next, is a mean-spirited accountant: a third-rate bania, who taketh away with one hand what he giveth with the other.

Consider the facts: he gave White Master an empire and a wild and perverse sex life, but in return, took away his brain. Rabb condemned the Black Man to servitude and squalor, but he gave him an enormous penis. He gave the Japanese Man untold wealth and genius, but a peanut-sized penis. The Hindustani, it is true, was given no wealth, no genius, no empire and above all, no balls, but exceptions, as we all know, just prove the rule.

And the Jesustani?

My tale begins, as do all great true stories, with an unexplained death. A man was found lying dead in the middle of a farm outside the town of Enumclaw, some 45 miles south-east of Seattle – a quiet, colorless kind of place Tamil Brahmin staff at Microsoft choose to incarcerate their brats and their beasts of burden (in English, “wives”; Punjabi, “khotis”).

Detective Bob Smith began his investigations last month. Some facts were immediately became apparent. Mr. X. was dead. And he was stark naked. Apart from these two truths, however, nothing seemed to make sense. A horse stood near the corpse, as did some cows and sheep, but there were no human footmarks leading through the slush towards it. Nor did Mr. X.’s body bear the tell-tale marks of having been shot, strangled, or repeatedly hit over the head with a Dosa-making dish (which is a common form of homicide in Seattle, the result of the wives of the aforesaid Tamil Brahmins finally flipping).

Bob Smith was even more mystified when the forensic tests run on Mr. X.’s dead body came in. It turned out his colon had ruptured, spilling pee-pee into his blood-stream. Pee-Pee, as all Hindustanis know, is meant to be chilled and drunk for health reasons, not to be spilled into the blood stream; Mr. X.’s death had been an agonizing one. The victim did not, however, have any ailment which might have led this distasteful infusion of blood with pee-pee. Massive force had been used to rupture his colon – but it was clearly impossible for any human being to have inflicted this damage.

Bob Smith was, to put it mildly, befuddled: this was clearly a case for his old friend, Sub-Inspector Banta Singh. Banta Singh started, as the Punjab Police are wont to do, by interrogating all of Microsoft’s Hindustani employees, a villainous-looking bunch if there was ever one. Within half an hour of his ministrations beginning, however, they had all confessed to the crime (lack of balls, as I have earlier noted, is a condition endemic amongst Hindustani men). It seemed that the case had again reached a dead end. At this stage, however, Banta Singh’s genius led him to consider the video-camera positioned a few meters from Mr. X.’s body.

With this brilliant act of intuition, the entire case began to unravel. Mr. X., it turned out, had positioned and turned on the video-camera a few minutes before his death, filming his last moments for posterity. Even the most hardened Seattle policemen, the kinds of have seen dozens of Dosa-dish murders, blanched at the spectacle that unfolded before them:

19:17:06 hours: Tape rolls
19:19:08 hours: Mr. X. takes off his clothes.
19:21:02 hours: Mr. X. begins to play with the horse’s penis.
19:23:14 hours: The horse’s penis acquires the size and shape, as horse’s penises are wont to do, of a fire-hose.
19:24:18 hours: Mr. X. inserts the aforesaid fire-hose into his arse [the “tailpipe maneuver”]
19:24:20 hours: Mr. X emits squeals of ecstasy. The horse looks bored.
19:24:21 hours: Mr. X dies of massive colon rupture.
19:24:23 hours: Still bored, the horse wanders off.

Yes, dear readers: Mr. X. had quite literally been fucked to death. The horse was the active partner in an act of passion; Mr. X. the happy recipients of its loving minstrations. This was a crime of passion without parallel in the annals of crimes of passion. Even worse was soon discovered. The entire farm, it turned out, was one vast house of pleasure for zoophiles, inhabited exclusively by animals of a loose moral character. In Enumclaw, the cows were not kept to give milk, nor the chickens to lay eggs or the horses to break furrows. Instead, primped and perfumed by their owner, they seductively mooed and clucked for their customers. Washington state, you see, is one of the few provinces of Jesustan in which sex with animals is not illegal, and the enterprising owner of Passion Farm ran a nation-wide enterprise which took advantage of this legal loop-hole.

What we me learn from this? The Jesustani pervert is admirably law-abiding; this much is clear. And, as I have noted before, he is courageous, only too willing to give his life for love, as Heer did for Ranjha and Romeo for Juliet. Most important, though, the strange story of Passion Farm points us in the direction of the Jesustani’s fatal flaw: he practices both vice and virtue to excess, and does not know when enough is enough.

Is the Jesustani, then, just a Sardar? I leave it to you to decide.