Monday, February 26, 2007

The Magical Essence of Fate and Thievery

My father was killed, murdered even, for his theories! His cessation of life was brought about, instigated one may say, by a vile and most-likely evil man by the obvious pseudonym of "Sylar".

The modus operandi of this excessive killer and purloiner of brains is far too disturbing to discuss. I myself have encountered a victim of this Sylar. As was my destiny, no doubt.

For is it not every man's destiny to avenge the death of his father? Did not Luke Skywalker set off to kill Darth Vader for destroying Anakin? Would not the McDonald's Fry Guys do the same to the Hamburglar should he have murdered Ronald in the process of hamburger thievery?

And so is my destiny to do unto others and they have done unto me. Does this mean I will kill Sylar's father? No, why that would be absurd! I must kill Sylar, so that his son will come to kill me with time, and the wretched offspring of the fatty with whom I may be doomed to entangle myself romantically will seek out and destroy the spawn of Sylar. Such is the circle of life. And it indeed moves us all.

"I intend to eradicate this monster known as Sylar," I articulated to Zane.

"Oh my God! That would be way cool, Mohindy. Like you have so gotta wear tights and get a cape first. I could help you with the fitting if you want," he jabbered.

"Indeed. Are we all not hidden by the metaphorical disguises of this world? The figurative costumes of anonymity. Such is the inherent desire for social stereotyping. Preconceived notions allow us to fall behind their blurry masks and strike out in this world perceiving a certain degree of safety and comfortness with the fact others are unaware of our soul's true intent. It is in the same way that Batman strikes fear into all who would observe him. They feel the instinctual fear brought about by the demonic winged creature of Hades. And it is in this way that Batman takes advantage of subconscious archetypes to maintain psychological leverage over his opponents."

"So, like, how about a green cape with bright pink stilettos?"

It could only be the work of destiny that brought me on this path which will lead ultimately to the revenge my heart so desires. And it seemed destiny has too given me a companion in this quest. My own Han Solo, though less manly. A Princess Leia, if you will, however still less manly.

What other explanation could their be? Dale was killed by Sylar the day after Zane and I arrived. I would suspect this will happen to each and every person we visit. It is obviously destiny pulling me toward Sylar, pulling him toward me, so that our journeys can end with their just desserts.

The Hamburglar best be prepared. This Fry Guy is quite the determined spud!

Monday, February 19, 2007

The Destined Path Toward the Discovery of Homo Superior

Ah, Mohinder Suresh. A name that will live on like the names of so many great minds before me: Ludwig van Beethoven, Albert Einstein, Ryan Seacrest.

Some suppositious individuals would inquire as to the authenticity of my evidence. And to those people, the nay-sayers of neo-science, I have as a rebuttal my very own Patient Zero by the name of Zane Taylor.

Is it not fate that this man, this very embodiment of my father's theories, returned my phone call just as I was deciding to call it quits? Is it destiny that created this telephonic coincidence? If so, then where does one go from here? What does the future possess for Zane and I? And isn't it not pretentious to use the subject pronoun to reference myself in the predicate of a sentence instead of the more appropriate "me"?

There can only be one reason, found only in the figurative depot of this causal agent which we can only refer to as God, for my encounter with Zane. For it is the very catalyst of this adventure, this phenomenal escapade.

We, the two of us, Zane and I (proper use can be pretentious as well), found ourselves departing by automobile across the country on our noble quest of Nobel Prize-worthy undertaking.

"You know," Zane stammered, "when we find these people, I like totally wanna show them my cool 'turn things into Alex Mack' trick."

I remonstrated, "Perhaps, Zane, that would not be the best method of initial approach. I would pose forth this suggestion: We introduce ourselves and explain my father's theories of evolution to the individual in question and trust they will reveal some information pertaining to their supposed ability prior to any demonstrations."

"You're like really smart," Zane stated. "I think that we are gonna be really bestest friends forever."

"A sudden craving for nourishment has descended upon my being," I made known.

"You mean, like, you want to eat?" Zane uttered.

"Indeed. It seems that an ample supply of thought cannot sustain a body which requires matter of the edible variety. Ah, if only one could live on brain energy alone. Why I would never require alimentary substances if that were indubitably the circumstances under which we humans lived," I cannonaded.

"Like anyone would eat brains," Zane jested, "That is a funny thought, Mohindy. You are a funny guy. Like, I wouldn't eat brains. That would just be crazy."

"Well, it would seem you failed to captivate the gist of my previous statement," I lambasted. "The aim of my non-literal interjection was not to say that one would find nourishment by devouring a brain, but rather to express that if it were possible to live with intellectual essence as one's only sustenance, then I would...ooh, a Taco Bell!"

Could it have been destiny that led us to this very same location shared by the idol of quickly served quasi-Mexican food? Or was it mere chance that there would exist such an establishment on the very road on which we chose to travel?

"Mmmmm!" Zane soliloquized in regards to his gordita.

"Ah, the quintessential southwestern meal, fit for any weary traveller on their evolutionary quest of universal proportions!" I guffawed to my quesadilla.

After our momentary interlude of spicy deliciousness, we soon found ourselves with another Homo Superior, Patient One, one might say.

She was a portly woman of magnificent girth. Though, the size of her waist was moot when juxtaposed with that of the crazed, Mohinder-obsessed, sebaceous, incandescent heavyweight, with whom my nightmares are affluent.

Despite her obesity, and my obvious intolerance thereof, progress was made.

I felt absolute pride as not only had I helped this large woman make sense of her genetic abnormality, but I astounded Zane with a figuratively glowing kernel of scientific evidence. It indeed made me a happy Mohinder. And a happy Mohinder I have not been for some time. Yet the smile on Zane's face, the joy in his expression, gave me a proprioception of comfort and balance. If only I could know what the aspiring genetic sleuth was pondering.

Monday, February 12, 2007

What is this Aspiration to Coalesce with Mohinder for the Favourable Advantage of his Father's Research?

It seems that I have become a boon, a Holy Grail of Hero-Hunting, the object of so many a person's desire.

And yet am I not but a commodity? As it is human nature to seek out resources and to devour, to use, to strip plunder and pillage, to ransack the riches, depleting them indefinitely, leaving them vacuous and lost forever, surely I am in grave danger of a similar raping of my bountiful booty.

Though I will not stand for it! Indians, especially the overly eccentric wealthy semi-British ones, are renowned for their persistent parrying of peril. And I plan to parry like no other. As a radical wheat monkey perplexes its vicious prey, the rabid Tibetan feline, and escapes from doom, so shall I.

Svetlana the Hefty is en route to my abode. Would she not merely be satisfied with any man? Why is it that she seeks me, a man of nominal girth and a strong distaste of all things sugary? Yet despite the obvious, she finds herself enamored by and infatuated with me, like a raging rhino ravishes toward a Japanese lacquer tree with no regard for its uninviting branches of bothersome turmoil waiting to afflict a disease of uncanny trepidation.

And as though it was not enough for Destiny's cruel joke to cast an adhesion-bound behemoth of blubbery paunchiness in my wake, also on my trail is a vicious villain vying for my affection. And yet am I not the good guy? While it is true that my religious beliefs are questionable and I often liken God to a cockroach, can it not be said that I still fight the proverbial good fight? Why then would such a vile and preposterous man seek out my help? In his vain attempt to coerce me into cooperating, the man in glasses merely exposed his own lack of progression. I will have no part in the cruelty of his paper-making organization sans initials.

Also on the arduous adventure seeking my knowledge and my father's theories as his prize is a man who may very well be Patient Zero. This particular person is the only obstacle with which I'll consider collaborating. It is likely he is the very key to this treasure trove of genetic gems.

With all these happenings in one's life, how can a man still find time to help a narcissistic politician find his sexually-repressed and emotionally-fragile brother?

It seems that there is only one Mohinder, one who is not adequately prepared to sufficiently be rationed amongst the many mouths seeking fulfillment of their voracity. And yet, my destiny lies in their greedy palms. For only through them can I see my father's theories come to life. I must use them like a library patron uses his library card to obtain books. I shall check them out, two at a time, and return them in a timely manner, lest I be indebted a nickel.

Monday, February 5, 2007

What Is This Midnight Fuel Which We Often Find Ourselves Burning?

What is this feeling we call life? Do we control it? Or by it are we controlled?

As often happens in one's life, I became deathly hungry, starved, one might say. And due in part to convenience, I drove my vehicle, my artificial mode of transportation, to the Taco Bell drive-thru.

"Welcome to Taco Bell," the voice said from inside the menu box, like a ghostly apparition, representing human life in the form of food choices. "What can I get for you?"

"I left my house with a craving, a desire for chicken quesadillas. However, it seems now that my stomach has changed its mind. Is that not the way of life itself? We head out into the world to obtain, to achieve. Yet when we find ourselves faced with success and accomplishment, it comes lacking. Mankind strives for more. More land. More food. More wealth. Even more life so that more time can exist for which to grasp more. And like so many humans, I too find myself wanting more. I see the picture of the grilled stuft burrito and it appears rather fulfilling. Yet quesadillas are the motive for my spurring to action, for my being here this very second. They were the catalyst bringing me to my destiny, but only to change my course and choose a grilled stuft burrito."

"I have one grilled stuft burrito, will there be anything else?"

"Indeed! I am certain there will always be more. We will never cease with the abundance of plenty in this world. No matter what happens, there is always something to want and to pursue. Be it food, romance or even paper towels after spilling one's red wine on white carpet. It seems our true destiny is to adhere to the sin of gluttony. Yet is it our fault? We did not ask for the cravings. Nor did we ask to live in a world so ripe with objects suited to fulfill our every whim."

"Okay, that'll be $2.19 at the second window."

I accelerated the vehicle. Slowly I made my way to the penultimate window, also the first window. And then to the second where my Holy Grail, the ultimate boon of hunger, was awaiting me. Like Excalibur to King Arthur, this burrito would be the object that allows me to continue on my quest. Without it, I could not go forth into the night and continue my father's research.

"Here you go. That's $2.19, sir."

I handed him three dollar bills, each with the face of George Washington, the first President of America. How do I know this? Is it not common for Indians to know of American history? Perhaps. Yet I knew this trivial fact. Why me? Out of the billions of Indians in the world, is it mere chance that I, one of the few with this knowledge of American history, would arrive in America and exchange currency containing the very essence of my American history lessons on its cloth-like paper? Or is it fate?

You may say that God has a hand in destiny. That He creates destiny and it is His will being carried out. If that is the case, then I would submit to you that God is a grilled stuft burrito. Afterall, it is this very burrito that is sustaining me now, as I write this post. It is this burrito that fulfills my needs, my cravings. And it is this burrito that is leading me along my path of destiny. And if so, I am prepared to do God's will and eat Him.