An Offer Unable to Be Declined

What is this magical fund-providing concept we call employment? Is selling one's time and work in exchange for an hourly wage desirable? Or is the life we give of too great a value to price with any

Earthly currency?

Moments ago I was approached with a delightful offer. It is certainly a step up from my current profession of Taxi Driver. However, my would-be employee had an evil air about him, and seemed as though

he required my father's research more than he's willing to admit. This set uneasily with me.

But then he mentioned the retribution. The salary alone was enough to persuade even a radical wheat monkey to stop delousing his rectum. Is evolution the force propelling us forward as a species, or is

capitalism the new mutagen? If such a price tag could alter one's very instincts, then what is to say it can't do more? Did we create this monetary monster, or are we merely pawns in its value-obsessed

competition?

Yet Thompson did not find it adequate to stop the negotiations after disclosing the ridiculously high salary. He felt the need to briefly explain the benign benefits, the pleasant perks, that accompany his

offer. "Should you accept employment with Primatech, not only will you have everything you need to conduct your research, but you will also get a delightfully amusing refrigerator magnet. It's a sheet of

paper wearing a hardhat. The subtitle reads, "Construction Paper."

"Well, that is quite the delight. I must say, you are certainly making it difficult for me to refuse, as much as I'd like to. Stopping Sylar is first on my priority list, but that magnet does sound delightful!"

"And that's not all, Doctor. You also of course get a lifetime supply of paper products, including Primatech's top of the line triple ply toilet paper."

"I do use quite a bit of toilet paper. It seems the double ply is simply not enough. At first I found myself disappointed in the strength offered by a single ply, but upon upgrading to double ply, I remained

disappointed. The second ply seemed as weak as the first, and if there is one place one does not desire flimsy paper, it's in the lou. Yet your offer of triple ply is rather appealing."

"And there's more!"

"More?" I inquired enthusiastically.

"Yes. You'll also get something that ever geneticist would love to have, but few can possess.....your very own chimpanzee for testing purposes."

"Wow, I must say, I am more than shocked. My very own test primate? This is good news indeed! At the University, all I had was cockroaches that I managed to catch before they scurried under the

counter."

"And should he die, we'll replace him. An unlimited supply of chimpanzees, a refrigerator magnet, a lifetime supply of paper products, and of course, the six figure salary, Asterisk."

"Asterisk?"

"Oh, nothing. Turrets. So, do we have a deal?"

"Well...."

Thompson reached into his pocket. He pulled out an object, and when he opened his fist, I saw it. The refrigerator magnet. It was as delightful as he had said. "You've got a deal!"

He patted me on the shoulder as we stepped out of the apartment and mumbled, "Asterisk, in rupees."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Turrets."

The Moment of Acquiring a Complacent Sense of Euphoria

It seems as though I have been affixed to the ceilings for weeks. And yet despite all my initial objections to my predicament, I find myself now growing familiar with it. It has become my home away from home away from home.

What is it that incites such a complacent attitude within us? Are we predisposed to desire against change? Or have I found a blog worth reading via my Blackberry, and therefor have no need to separate myself from the once peril predicament?

It is true that I have recently stumbled upon an internet competition, Last Gladiator Standing 2. The premise is intriguing. The contestants, promising. The prize, adequate.

Is it not human nature to compete? Do we not all compete for money, for affection, for land and for popularity? Is this a need instilled within us since creation, or has it only been brought about by recent developments among human society?

It could be theorized that mankind has always been competitive. But are all primates? We often see the senile Silverback Gorilla competing for dominance within its clan. And rambunctious pygmy chimpanzees fight to death, in true cage-match fashion, to decide upon the rights paternity.

Is this desire, this instinctual commitment to competition, only found within us an our primate ancestors? Or does it date back to even the era of primordial ooze, not to be confused with regular ooze that creates hybrid human-turtles with ninja-skills? What would this primordial ooze of our past have competed for? What would a showdown of cytoplasmic skill have awarded to the victor? Would primordial ooze desire $1,000,000? A dream vacation of a lifetime? Or bragging rights? Could the mere desire to win and defeat be the catalyst for such prehistoric competition?

These are all difficult questions to answer. We may only theorize about the motivation of earlier species and cellular organisms. Yet perhaps in the not too distant future, we can truly discover the answers, the answers for which we all long for as a species. Why do we fight? Why do we desire to win? Why do we desire to defeat?

Perhaps Last Gladiator Standing 2 will answer these questions.

The Termination of Poetic Genius and Choice

It is the sad providence of Mohinder that I remain securely fastened to a ceiling without access to new poetry to read. The contest on Burnt Toast Diner has ended. Now one can only await the inevitable announcement of he or she who would win the vote of their peers.

Could it be my moment to shine? Is it perhaps my destiny to win a poetry contest prior to dying a horrific death at the telekinetic hands of Patient Zero himself? Or am I destined to somehow survive this predicament, so that I may continue on in my life, writing more poetic and philosophical ponderings, like a truncated Tarantula spins its homely web of hopeful exuberance?

As I hang around, awaiting the fulfillment of my fate, like a dastardly dingo awaits its pretentious prey, I have found myself realizing the many choices of my life. Choices which have been offered to me, perhaps as a means of escaping this cruel end, and yet I opted to remain on its path. Is it destiny that brought me here? Or did I choose it? Perhaps destiny tried to warn me. I had left to India, I was safely sitting in my glorious abode, and yet was prodded into a panic, a great desire, a pulling need, to finish my father's research.

And yet it is my father's research which will finish me.

Could I have chosen a different path? Was I forced to follow in my father's footsteps?

What would have become of Mohinder had I stayed in India? Perhaps I could have accepted employment with Dell technical support. I would have made a fortune, this is true, but would I have found happiness? Could $1.25/hour buy happiness? Or is there no price on such a concept?

And rather than turn on Sylar (not in a romantic way, mind you), perhaps I could have joined forces with him. We could have been quite the felicitous duo. My father's research would have been the beacon of our murderous rampaging, shining out onto the world, alerting all of the existence of evolution.

Or perhaps, at the very least, I could have chosen better clothing in which to die.

What is this Beautiful Communication of Metrical Form?

Ah, poetry! Formidable phrases formed with affectionate infallibility. They grasp the inner organs, gently caressing their mucus membranes with rhythmic rhyme and rhetorical prose.

Is it unusual for a man of science, a genius geneticist such as myself, to be captivated by such literary art? Or is poetry merely an extension of the mind itself?

And what is it that is the catalyst for my new found poetic appreciation? Could it be the Poetry Contest on the Burnt Toast Diner blog? Could it be my current predicament finds myself needing to express the essence of my soul? Or is poetry inherent in all intellectual endeavors and is merely an appropriate byproduct of my pretentious intelligence?

Nonetheless, I am currently feeling poetic. It is my desire to speak out with figurative allegory. Unfortunately, it is destiny's cruel game to provide me with this desire and yet deprive me of an audience to which I may speak. I am like a dejected silkworm, unable to manufacture my treasured wares.

And yet when we find ourselves lacking the prerequisites to our goals, do we merely give up? Or do we refuse to be up-givers and continue on in the pursuit of happiness, despite the lamentable odds against attainment of said goal?

If the great European Beaver can build a dam without multiple trips to Home Depot, then surely I can achieve my goals, for I am far superior to the damnable rodent. Like the Popillia japonica, or Japanese dung beetle, I must make use of all resources available to me, even if said resources are excrement.

"Peter," I exhorted to my beleaguered companion, "Perhaps you would be interested in listening to some poetry?"

"Death...pain...I do not care," he caroled, "For what good is life without great hair?"

"Excuse me," I crooned. "It seems you misunderstood my request. I do not wish for you to express your angst to me. I have angst which needs expressing currently and you must listen, not speak!"

"Listen. Hear. Speak. Mourn. I am Peter."

"Yes, well, here it goes...
Roses are crimson
Violets are lavender...
Don Corleone
Could have been a contender."

"Mobster. Gun. Shoot. Dead.
Peter. Fun. Gone. Bread."

It was clear to me this would become a battle of poetic wits. And though I may be stuck to a ceiling, I am still quite the rhetorical warrior.

"Thinking of you speeds my basal metabolic rate,
And I am catapulted into a wondrous psychological state,
Is this destiny? Is it coincidence? Or is it fate?"

"You are cold. The flower dies.
I wrap my heart in your cold lies."

"Is death the end?
The final frontier?
The ultimate horizon
On this celestial sphere?
Do we die a little more
With each passing year?
Perhaps I can stop it
For I'm a bioengineer."

"Blood drips on the empty house,
Infecting my lonely heart,
Like obtaining the Black Plague from a mouse,
My body is no more. I'm falling apart."

It seems we must turn to the figments of this cyber-imagination to settle this debacle! At the conclusion of the Burnt Toast poetry contest, I implore you to cast your ballot for the great Indra of poetry, the Ganesha of rhetorical imagery, the Super Mario of figurative prose...Mohinder Suresh!

Rememberance of Past Events and Circumstances

Is it admirable to recollect events in one's life out of context? Or should we cower away from the neglect of chronological accuracy in our metaphorical voyage into the past?

Perhaps it is the altitude, or maybe something more, causing my mind to wander to another time, an earlier time, long foregone and once forgotten. As a faithful orangutan calls out to his besotted consort, so does my memories call out to me. They find their way through the mental jungle of genetic theory and biological possibilities. They rise out of the abyss of my subconscious and take afloat on my vessel of awareness and being.

I recall my childhood. A young Mohinder frolics through the marketplace, enroute to a nearby grouping of fellow youngsters, destined to become involved in the game of football in which they are engaging.

"Chale Jao!" they lambast in unison.

"Please, would you not find it more advantageous to converse in the language of our imperial tyrants? As it is they who are among the ruling class, and perhaps by involving ourselves in their culture they could elevate our status to that higher than a humble peon."

"Mohinder, the English have long gone from here!"

"Yes, but their power and control remains. Are the current leaders not merely puppets of a Caucasian pseudo-regime?"

"Chup Raho!"

Young Mohinder is devastated at their command to cease talking. And though he does not wish to comply, he realizes that there is no other option as he gazes at the maleficence in their optic peepers.

I find myself pondering that particular moment in time. It was a significant event, one that taught me of my upper-class upbringing and made it known to me that I would never find a place among my so-called people.

And then another memory descended upon my cognitive realm...

Student Mohinder sits quietly in his classroom chair awaiting the arrival of the professor. He is pensive, his mind lost in the depths of philisophy. This class, Cognitive Philosophizing 101, is Student Mohinder's favorite. And though one could not gather it from his boring exterior, he is most definitely stimulated and stirred within by the thought of the approaching lecture.

And then she enters. She approaches an adjacent desk and claims it as her own with the dropping of her classroom materials onto it.

"Hello, Mohinder," she purred.

"Mira, what a delightful surprise. Why I had not known you too were enrolled in this class. I look forward to engaging in intellectual conversation with you, as well as our fellow students."

"Oh, Mohinder," she coaxed.

"I feel fortunate, blessed by God himself, to have you here at my side. And I would rather like to take this moment, utilize it, so that I may inquire as to your plans for the upcoming celebration, particularly, whether or not you currently possess a companion, or escort, for the evening. Would such a person exist in your current predicament?"

"No, Mohinder," she testified.

"Then, perhaps, if it is not too much of an inconvenience for you, would you at all mind to do me the great honor of allowing me to be that aforementioned person, which currently is lacking in your life? Would you allow destiny to take its course as it would most assuredly plan to utilize me in a manner that would fulfill that void? Or would you rather crush my hopes into bitter remnants of despair, like a heinous Hyena would crumble Caribou corpses?

"Yes, Mohinder," she announced.

And so Student Mohinder transformed into Happy Student Mohinder. But the happy status was soon removed as he and Mira arrived at the celebration.

"Hey, Mohinder," a young man jabbers.

Still Happy Student Mohinder turns to be made aware of the presence of Nikunj Patel, the archetypal bully and otherwise annoying prick.

"You're such a nerd that even the Pac Man champions think you're a freak!" Nikunj asserts for all to hear.

"Yet is one man's freak not another man's god? Who are any of us to say what is normal and what is not? Would you not be a freak for possessing a matriarch who finds comfort within the arms of numerous suitors from day to day?"

And thus Happy Student Mohinder was knocked unconscious and awoke as Battered Unhappy Student Mohinder. He had missed his first date with Mira, though present physically, his mind was locked away into the depths of the unconscious.

From my current vantage point, I reminisce and ponder my past. With each memory that rises to face me, I find my resolve weakening, and I grow afraid that perhaps my life has had no meaning, and I am merely the subject of ridicule, like the dormant red-nosed sloth of West Africa.

Game Over

Peter has been sobbing profusely for the last hour or so. It was due to his excessive depression that I felt the need for counseling. As we were both currently rendered immobile by the fork-spoon hybrids punctured through our clothing, I realized his psychological evaluation would require myself to perform it.

Is it not destiny's grand plan that I provide psychoanalysis to this emotional crybaby? For, when at the University, and it was required of me to take an elective course, something outside the field of genetics, I was forced into Introduction to Psychology due to the lack of availability of my true calling, Wonders of Bewilderment 101. And so it is because of that, a direct consequence, that I now find myself with the appropriate amount of introductory knowledge which this very situation requires.

And will I stand tall, figuratively, as I'm currently fastened to the ceiling, and face the challenge destiny has brought to my metaphorical doorstep? Or will I cower and run, again figuratively, from the obstacle?

Thinking back to my father's theories, I attempted to discern whether or not Peter would qualify as a human, and thus be capable of being psychoanalyzed as such. Evolved persons are still persons, are they not? As my pachyderm friend would say, "A person is a person, no matter how genetically advanced."

And so I began with the basics.

"Tell me, Peter, how would you estimate your current sense of emotion?"

"I'm sad. Totally depressed. Like always! Life just keeps getting worse, yet it won't end. Why am I tortured like this!"

It is unfortunate I neglected to attend my psychology class enough to be aware of the next step. It seemed Peter was not cured by my attempt.

"Very well. Let us continue this conversation at a later date. In the time preceding that event, I shall attend to the matter of our escape, or rescue as it may need be."

I allowed myself to ignore the man-baby so that I could concentrate on something far more important. No, not Solitaire. I have grown weary of the game. It was time for a new challenge. A much more difficult game. Perhaps one could call it evolution.

I moved on to Free Cell.

The game was progressing nicely, until I made a tragic mistake! It seems I have occupied all my free cells with cards, and now haven't a move to make. It is most assuredly game over.

Could this be destiny telling me something? Have I exhausted every opportunity for survival? Or is there still a free cell waiting for me out there, ready to take my card of misfortune and hold it, so that I may play out the rest of my life? Or is this it? Is this game over for Mohinder? Game over for my father's theories? Or perhaps even game over for Earth itself?

Reaching New Heights in Destiny

Sylar's dupery has finally arrived at its conclusion. I discovered the horrific truth, the bitter verity, of Zane's persona. And yet the confrontation has resulted in quite the near-death experience; a hyperbole that is not.

I find myself looking down on the events as they unfold, wondering to myself if perhaps I have already vaporized into the great nothingness, the eternal void, of the afterlife. Could I continue to affect this world, this reality, as it unfurls before my very eyes? Or am I merely an external observer, a true scientist, one may say, unable to affect that which I observe. For my participation in reality would alter destiny itself, and so it seems I am doomed to watch from above.

Though let it not be said that I did not try to affect change. Upon noticing the arrival of one Peter Petrelli, I called out and gave a succinct warning. "Sylar" I muffled. And yet it was not enough. Perhaps I had chosen the wrong time to speak shortly on matters. Would it have been more advantageous to Peter had I engaged a more lengthy delivery, ripe with abundant verbosity and vibrant vocabulary? Perhaps then, he could have managed an escape.

Unfortunately, he was merely annoyed with my bleeding on his head. Rather than up and flee, like any good nobleman would do, he looked up and lambasted, "Hey, jerk, stop bleeding on my amazing hair!"

Then, with the speed of an uprooted tree in a hurricane, Sylar set forth action resulting in the incapacitation of Peter. As he held the male nurse to the wall, I could only postulate his next move would surely result in Peter's death. Though I was not afraid. It is not in my nature to fear. For I knew that any distraction Peter could cause may allow me to escape. And it has been my dream since arriving on this ceiling to up and flee.

While up I am, flee I cannot. And so in the meantime I will observe, and document that which I see. For above anything, I am a scientist. And as I scientist I must explore the ramifications of my current predicament. I must hypothesize on the outcome. And I of course must wonder, for it is wonder that brings about discovery. And if I am to discover a way down from here, I must wonder.

"NooOOoocoOOoO! Not my hair!" Peter shrieked. I could only watch as Sylar performed this unholy haircut. Speaking quite frankly, I would theorize that he will not have a future in cosmotology.

Then, like a crazed Bermuda jellyfish, Sylar shot sporks at me with his mind. I was most assuredly stuck to the ceiling for good. Some would estimate that to unspork myself would take weeks! Peter did not escape the cruel fate of spork trapping. He too was sporked to the wall.

Sylar uttered some strange words, mentioning a vendetta with Simon Cowell, and vowed to return.

"So, Peter, what would be your supposed duration until we escape or perish be?"

"I'm already dead! Dead like my girlfriend. Dead like my lock of hair lying on the ground staring at me, just like my girlfriend stared at me before she died, her body falling limp like my lock of hair falling on the floor, in the same manner my girlfriend fell on the floor."

"I must say, it is quite a revelation to discover that you had relations with a female. Though it is unfortunate about her demise. Let us hope we do not suffer the same fate."

"Dude, how can you talk about hope at a time like this? We're sporked, man, sporked! This is the end. This is the end for Peter, the annoying little brother. Happy, Nathan? Yeah, I bet you're pleased. This is what you wanted! This is what everybody wanted!"

"Well, I would beg to differ. While I had no standing on whether I would desire your death, 'the end of Peter' as you put it, I do however know that this particular predicament is not what I wanted. As enjoyable as it was at first, being up here can become rather nauseating. I would dare say I may virtually be on course toward vomiting."

"Puke. The truest of God's art! Oh, how I wish I could live your life, rich with chunks of hope and life. Yet I only throw up chunks of despair and death." He then started to sob, like an apologetic offspring of a female canine.

Destiny. It certainly seems to do the oddest things. Is this my destiny? How much more time have I in this world? One could only wonder.