The Cracks of Doom
The World as we know it is rife with the mysterious, the unknown and the weird. How were the Pyramids erected? What sinister power curses the Bermuda Triangle? Why the hell did the Sumerians go and invent school? Answers that, ultimately, may remain... unanswered.
Even in our little motherland of Bangladesh, we are besieged by that which we know not of. But beyond ghosts, djinns and other horrific folklore there lies a greater evil. A place of utter horror, steeped in a sickly darkness from which there is no escape. The pungent odours there are enough to melt the very skin off your flesh. These are The Cracks of Doom...
An intrepid and brave (and utterly gullible) group of explorers from the organization known only as the Rising Stars decided to face this peril to bring back news to the outer world.
So what unspeakable evils did we find in those putrid depths? Read on…
Teenage Mutant Nin… er… Ganja Turtles
TMNT got cancelled a long time back both here and abroad. Why? Well we asked the former prime time stars while trying not to get high on the mass quantities of rotten, old Ganja these guys… erm… reptiles were smoking. Theirs' was a tragedy of getting lost in the Big Sewers of the Big Apple. Since they were going for authenticity for a particular episode, they filmed in a real sewer. It wasn't long until they Michelangelo, driven insane by the smell of pizza (now he admits it was probably something else), followed his nose. The others followed up. They ended up near a huge waterfall pipe which was conjoined to the International Sewer Route®… and you know where this is going, right? Suffice to say, that's sort of what their story sounded like. It was hard enough not to feel high when surrounded by brown, intoxicating smoke, but then they'd be using “dude!” after every two words followed by “Cowabunga!” at the end of every sentence. Our translators had to work through the Witching Hour® to decipher this stuff. Applaud them! Sadly the TMGTs were starting to get a little rowdy and began flailing around their weapons like little kids. It was definitely the time to move on.
Ah, yes. The most sought out profession of this teenage generation: being the member of an 'underground' band. Of course all isn't about head-banging and becoming ridiculously hirsute. There are those who have tasted fame and stayed up at the top. And there are those who slipped on the proverbial banana peel and have fallen in poop. We're not naming any names. Seeing more Ganja smoke in the tunnels led us to believe that the TMGT were back to maul us, but no there was something else.
A lot of drawling, 'I-think-I'm-American/I'm-a-pure-Bangalee' voices were drifting towards us. And then, an utterly detestable cacophony of what some might call 'music' assaulted our very ears. We rushed to the scene, afraid that some lost soul was being tortured to death by a group of savage Sewer Dwellers®.
We were wrong. Clad in tattered black clothes, faded (but now green, due to reasons that cannot be printed) jeans and tangled, horrifying locks of hair, they lay haplessly on the floor. They were the Rejected. Some were instantly recognisable they had, after all, been in the limelight for the duration of an entire song. Otherwise it was like The Attack of Stoned Cloned. Some had broken instruments on their laps and were attacking them with vigour causing them to emit screeching noises not unlike the ones people hear just before being run over by a truck. And the ones without the tools? They were head-banging in complete and perfect sync with each other. It was like some cult and it was scarier than the blue poop our rear-lookout found now, that was scary. Suffice to say, even the Ku Klux Klan would have found it disturbing.
BBQ (Bangla-Bhai-Qaeda) Coalition HQ
Yes, people have been speculating for years and they're right! Al-Qaeda's Bangladesh branch office is indeed one born of a joint venture. Known only as the BBQ Coalition HQ, what better location could one think of for maintaining secrecy than our Deshi Sewers? The people there were quite nice actually! They even acquiesced to use silenced rifles should we 'see too much'.
According to the BBQ representative, the Deshi Sewers provide perfect cover from even the most sophisticated of surveillance tools. Even the most powerful satellite sees the region as a sickening green hue. Reconnaissance robots' electronically integrated systems immediately fail upon contact with the ever-permeating odour.
He commended the 'deshi people for adapting to such a lethal, noxious fume. Contrary to popular belief, there are manholes in the sewer floor which are there for maintaining 'liveable' standards in such a place. These are opened up whenever the USA sends over covert ops specialists. The current body count stands at 67. At one point the man pulled out an AK-47 and asked us whether we'd like to buy any. He agreed to throw in 'fake', metal-tipped bullets for free. We graciously (while muttering any and all prayers we could remember) managed to leave (with all limbs intact) with a simple 'BBQ or Bust… literally' support button each. Oh, and a fake beard apiece as well.
The Mole-men Conspiracy
They have always been there, yet we of the outer world lack the high level of perception to see them. A race as old as the sewers themselves, the Mole-men have toiled endlessly to make sure we never forget the existence of the underground. Sewage over-spills, stolen manhole covers (which cause people to fall through during floods) and the fermented vapours that emanate forth are all their doing. Standing 4-foot high, their entire bodies are covered in various waste materials, with many an appendage sticking out from awkward angles and erm… places. Only their shockingly shiny eyes and blinding white teeth betray an otherwise indiscernible camouflage.
When asked, they smiled in their usual terrifying manner and declared that no bacteria can stand the cleansing power of raw sewage thus, their pearly whites of legend. Each one is equipped with what appears to be a toilet brush. Muddied by god-knows-what (okay, fine… you know what it is) it is right of passage for this members of this faction. Frequent tournaments are held to see who possesses the highest level of skill with their weapon. Around then, their smiles grew more maniacal and they began to spar and brandish their tools with a flourish. Definitely a good time to leg it, sharpish.
Pirates of the Seven Sea…wers
We sensed the waters (if you want to call it that) swell as if in turmoil and realised… something (although everything here could be classified as 'something') was approaching. And it appeared. A 'magnificent' craft hewn solely from things unmentionable was approaching us at great speed. A song heralding death broke forth and we suddenly knew what it was: pirates! Alas! It was too late and we were inevitably caught face to face… with small, bespectacled little chaps. Instead of a Jolly Roger there was a CD flapping in the wind and it seemed to be on fire. These were no mere pirates; they were heroes! Thanks to them we have been spared the absurdity of paying (gasp!) full price for our CDs and DVDs. Working endlessly into the night, the pir@tes (as they declare themselves as) churn out hundreds, nay thousands of pir@ted™ discs every month. Our 'deshi shopkeepers have had many a quota fulfilled thanks to this brave group.
The leader, a grizzled veteran with an eye-patch made of what was once a pink Verbatim CD-R, told us that the RIAA and other anti-piracy lobbies had tracked them down and threatened them with billion-dollar lawsuits. How did the Pir@tes respond?
Everything began giant belly laughs unbecoming of their stature and the leader silently mouthed something and everyone became quiet. 'E-mail Spam' he said. We bowed graciously and took our leave. Things were starting to get on the hairy side. Yes, hairier than the Underground band members we confronted, if possible.
Should you ever wish to embark upon a journey requiring the highest levels of testicular fortitude and one that will test the mettle, physical and mental, of anyone… then traverse to the Deshi Sewers. It's an expedition of a lifetime and the memories will be seared in your mind (and nose) for an eternity. For now, we of the organisation known only as the Rising Stars bid you farewell. Adieu!
By The RS Team & Le Chupacabra