Marlon brushed Singh’s pudgy hand off his arm.

“Listen Singh – I’m sick of this! Did you bring the gun or not?”

“No.”

“Well fuck you Singh!”

Marlon fought to control a body wracked with rage. He hated everything right now – especially foreign words, especially “sadhus”. And “renunciation”, he hated that! And that other word Singh had just used – “Regeneration”. He hated that most of all – and he didn’t even know what it meant!

Who cares what it means?

It’s a foreign idea.

It’s un-American!

No – Marlon wanted to bring it all to an end – whatever it means – even if it meant his own life. It didn’t matter. Only protecting the status quo mattered now. And he was the one to do it.

Even if it meant… dying in a blaze of gunfire.

Yes… a murder suicide…

A perfect ending… you, Marlon, the martyr.

The Great Unknown Martyr to the American Dream.

Yes, he could feel it kick in now – the last dregs of the line of cocaine he’d snorted before he got off the plane. Marlon was wired up like a suicide bomber.

“You know Singh,” he said confidently. “I can get a gun anywhere.”

“Oh yes,” Singh responded condescendingly. “I’m sure you could. But even if you did find some kind of weapon… where do you think you will find Max?”

Singh laughed –

“Do you think you could possibly find him out there – out in the street, somewhere among the teeming millions?”

“You’ll at least tell me where he is!” Marlon said, exasperated.

“No, I won’t.”

He can’t be serious!

“Of course you will!” Marlon demanded.

“No, that’s where you’re wrong Marlon. I’m not helping you at all from now on. If you want to persist with this, you are on your own.”

Don’t worry Marlon…

You don’t need him.

You don’t need anyone.

You can do it on your own.