Fiction: First Shoot Out

First Shoot Out
Genre: Fiction
The dreaded street in Bombay, shedding blood shed during the day with gang war and firing, wore a deserted look past midnight. One could spot a dim light at Sapna dance bar and Hindi songs heard from a distance.
The skinny and lanky fellow stood near the tea stall, wearing a tense look and shaking like tree branches. It rained heavily in Bombay and the road was still wet. He looked furtively towards the dingy shops and decrepit apartments, the home of prostitutes and Sapna dance bar, frequented by underworld dons, small time contract killers, undercover cops where deals by Bombay mafia are zeroed. Dongri is the home of crime where the men in Khaki are rendered powerless and fall sway to the gang lords, paying obeisance to the chief in exchange for sweet boxes containing stack of notes to turn a blind eye to the world of crime.
The lanky guy was jobless for years and survived on morsel, it was the chance to prove his might and once the job was done, he would be rewarded handsomely. He wanted to get out of the poverty trap and sleeping on an empty stomach. He prayed for the work to be done in a perfect manner. The tensed man made few steps so as not arise suspicion and finished a pack of Four Square cigarette, the cheapest he could lay his hand on and kept some biddi in his pocket. He has been waiting for an hour.
A Mercedes car stationed in front of Sapna Bar. He knew it was his chance. It was now or never. A shadow erupted out of the bar and he cautiously approached the man with fat belly, unkempt look, wearing white Kurta. The man was too sloshed to notice his assailant who removed the revolver from his pocket and ruthless fired three shots.
The fat man collapsed on the car as shard of glasses exploded. His security had no time to fire back and the time they recovered, the young man already disappeared amidst the gun shots at him. It was his first murder and was successful at it like a maven of crime. He jumped inside the dirty river flowing beneath the bridge.
The don, hunted for decade by Bombay Police was dead finally. The phone rings. It was 3 a.m  in the police chowky where constables and inspectors were bored to death, sleeping on the wooden table. Nobody picked the call. Inspector Damle was brutally woken from his slumber and the voice at the end broke the news, "The kid won the toss, Dongri' Baba has left his abode." Inspector Damle jumped on his feet and laughed. He lit a cigarette at the unbelievable news, cheering for himself that what Bombay Police couldn't do in 10 years was done by a street smart kid. It was the monsoon of 90s and suddenly, it started raining. Inspector Damle laughed, "Now, who on earth would believe it was Bombay Police who killed the biggest underworld don. It was not done by our men yet it was our thought who buried him underground. The neck of Bombay Mafia is broken."
Inspector Damle shouted at his men, "Call the press. Let's run to Sapna Bar. Nakabandi and Bombay bandh."

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