Ding Dong

The musical note made Sir Whipson lift his bum out of the sofa and slowly inch towards the door. As he gently swayed and bobbed like a pendulum, while moving his fat old feet forward, a thundering Richter bolted past him and crashed into the door.

"I am fine." He declared while rubbing his temple.

Ding Dong

Richter quickly forgot about his head and opened the door, making it swing wide open and crash on the adjacent wall.

"It's the food delivery!" He screamed, making the already jittery delivery boy leap in fright.

He nervously clutched the food box and peered at the two contrasting faces in front of him. One seemed confused as a cat and the other seemed so happy, he could pounce at him and make love with the box at any instant.

He clumsily lifted the food parcel which was the hot girl at the moment, and for the sixty-seventh time checked the name and address.
"Rich?ter?" He asked, carefully syllabling the name with the best pronunciation his brain could provide.

"Rick-ter!" Richter screamed and took the box away from the delivery boy's hand, making a face before marching away.

"He is kind of protective of his name." Sir Whipsonfreak explained with a smile while handing out the money. "Keep the change."

The delivery boy nodded in quick succession and with an almost inaudible thank you, ran away and down the stairs.

Sir Whipson closed the door with a sigh and turned around to face his grandson who was standing with his back towards him, busily pouring the box contents in a plate. "That was rude."

"His mispronouncing my name was equally rude. Tit for Tat."

Before Sir Freak could open his mouth to object, Richter turned around with a plate full of dead tapeworms and a small meatball. A fork also seemed to be embedded in this squeamish dish, it's silver handle protruding near the meatballs.

"What is this monstrosity?" Sir Whipson asked, his eyes widened with fear and disgust at the sight of the grotesque delicacy. " I swear I will put my whole property under your name! No need to torture me with that nastiness!"

Richter drooped his eyes at the question and gave out a heavily tired sigh. " I am your only heir after father, and anyway this isn't some nauseating, unappetizing torture food."

"Then what is it?" Sir Whipson reluctantly asked.

Richter gave another disappointing exhale of breath to show his disenchantment.
"It's Spaghetti and Meatballs."

Sir Redhawk stared at the potted plant that stood beside the small fish aquarium, contemplating whether he should walk all the way down the long corridor to pee or simply relieve the pressure on the potted being.
'All the way down the hall? Nah, that would be too embarrassing.'

He slowly walked towards the soon-to-be-yellow Peace Lily and just as he was about to disrupt the peace of the natural air-purifier, Ms. Pinkhead came inside without knocking. Sir Redhawk leaped in the air and quickly pulled up his fly.

" Oh hello, Ms. Pinkhead. I am just enjoying the view. It's a beautiful day."

Ms. Pinkhead furrowed her thin brow in confusion and voiced her wonderment, " But sir you are starting at a blank wall."

Mr. Redhawk looked in front of him to double-check and then gave a nervous chuckle.

Not wasting her time while her boss knits out an oafish reason, Ms. Pink handed a handset to him and rushed out, not wanting to know -although morbidly curious- as to why Mr. Redhawk was standing near the plant, with his fingers near his fly.

Mr. Redhawk wondered who was there on the other end as he plastered the handset on his ears and boomed into the receiver

"Hello."

"Hello Mister Redhawk", a voice came from the other side, the one who had kept him wondering the whole yesterday.

"Mister Whipsonfreak! You again!" He roared.

"Yes sir, " the voice once again replied." I called to say I won't..."

"Fine!" Sir Redhawk roared again, cutting Sir Whipson in between. "Stop calling me every single time you do that! You are anyway working in extension instead of retiring like other graveyard guys!"
He cut the phone and called his secretary inside.

Ms. Pinkhead slowly made her way inside, not knocking for her boss was already expecting her. Mr. Redhawk frowned and handed her the handset, "Next time you get Sir Whipson's call, please handle it yourself."

Ms. Pinkhead nodded and gingerly took it from his hand, making her way towards the door. As her hand reached the door handle, she turned around and smiled at her boss.
"I hope you know sir that I am an earnest believer in love. Be it in any form."

Sir Red looked up at his beaming secretary and raised his eyebrows, " I am not really what you are talking about."

Miss Pink smiled broadly and said, " It's okay sir. It's okay to be a Dendrophile. Love can be in any form and towards anything."

"Dengue what?"

Miss Pink shook her head, " Not Dengue Sir, Dendrophile. A person like you, who love plants and are sexually aroused by them."

Sir Red's eyes grew wide as he wondered if his secretary had chipped her brain cells," Sex... Sexually aroused by plants! Are you a nincompoop! Why will I sexually love plants for God's sake?!"

Miss Pink dropped her grin and looked at her boss in utter confusion.
" But sir.." She finally asked, " If you aren't a dendrophile, then why were you about to pleasure yourself in front of this poor lily?"

"When did I do that?"

"When I walked in on you today!"

Mr. Redhawk's eyes widened like an elephant's butt at Ms. Pink's word. Realizing her mistake, he started laughing and wheezing. "Oh dear... Oh lord... Oh dear lord," was all he could manage to say before starting to guffaw again.

Miss Pinkhead looked reasonably horrified to see her boss in such a demented state. " Are you alright sir?" She asked.

Sir Red shook his head and took a deep breath before speaking, " Oh Miss. Pinkhead, you are such a lamb. When you walked in on me, I was about to pee on the poor lily, not pleasure myself at its sight."

This time, it was Ms. Punkhead's turn to widen her eyes and make her already minuscule head look smaller.
"I will put an appointment for a psychiatrist", was all she managed to say before she quickly went out of the room.

"Who was that angry young man?" Richter asked as Sir Whipson replaced the receiver and lifted his fork for his last bite.

"My boss."

"You have a boss?"

Sir Whipson nodded.

"So does he like, call you Sir or do you call him so?" Richter asked, his curious cat getting her way before he could object.

"We both refer to each other with Mister, followed by the last name."

Richter shrugged his shoulder as the cat moved on to another interesting question: "Did you like the spaghetti and meatballs?"

Sir Whipsonfreak looked at him and frowned, " Do you see the happy tears that have stained my clothes?"

Richard inspected his grandpa with utmost sincerity before shaking his head. "No", he finally said.

" Exactly."

Sir Whipson stood outside his apartment door, wondering what to do today when he saw Mr. Suspectre descend the stairs and move towards him.

Sir Suspectre's eyes widened in surprise to see his workaholic friend in front of him during office hours, that too on a weekday.
"Whipson?" He cackled, adjusting his spectacles to peer at the figure in front of him.

Sir Whipson stared at the voice that sounded like a mat being scrubbed and smiled. "Suspectre!" He loudly said, moving towards him and shaking his frail assortment of bones in his broad hands, and then moving on to crush the whole collection with a bear hug. "How have you been? Long time no sees."

Sir Suspectre pointed a finger at his friend and blinked innocently, " Didn't we meet two days ago?"

Sir Whipson nodded, suddenly remembering the whole episode. "Of course, how could I forget."

"So tell me, what keeps you here instead of behind a boring pile of work?"

Sir Whipson rumbled with laughter at his acquaintance's joke, " Just took a leave today. Wanted to enjoy a free day in the open sky."

"Oh at this age, almost anything could cause us to forever fly in the open sky." Sir Spectre joked, "it's a nice change though. Say, why don't you come with me to Mr. Belittler? He, me and Mr. Fatblob play cards every second day of the week. Mr. Fallbook used to join us sometimes and bring his jigsaw puzzles along with him, but not anymore. He is too busy being dead. "

"Well, I don't see why I shouldn't come." Sir Whipson said, happy to have finally got an idea of what he could do today.

Sir Spectre clapped his hands in glee and smiled childishly. "Well then what are we waiting for? We aren't getting young any time soon."

Richter stood at the balcony, waiting for his grandad to come out so that he could click his picture. He was a good five minutes late which made Richter slightly anxious.

Just as he was about to go and look at the stairs to make sure his grandfather hadn't died upon them, he saw him coming out, surprisingly chatting away with a tiny old man who was wearing a brown suede jacket and clutching a stick. They stopped a cab and jumped inside, just in time for Richter to click a picture.

He looked at his work and smiled, swiping to see the picture he had taken that morning when Sir Whipson was talking to his boss.

Ding Dang

As the strange tune reverberated in the house, the old man kept down the stack of cards he was shuffling and scuffled his feet towards the door. As soon as he opened the door, his lips curled into a nice little 'o' that could make a honey loop cereal shy away.

"Freak!" He screamed in delight.

"Surprise!" Sir Whipsonfreak screamed even louder with Mr. Suspectre giving a fainter, almost insignificant contribution to the yell.

After a few more minutes of hollering at the front porch and getting a few stern looks from the neighboring ladies, the men finally went inside and sat on the hoary sofa, still laughing and chattering.

"So what blessing of the universe finally brought you here?" Sir Belittler asked his new guest.

Sir Whipson smiled and traced the brim of the glass he was holding. "Just the thought", he finally said, " of taking a break from my strict and a little boring regime, I guess."

"Little? That's an understatement", Sir Suspectre breathed his thought into the glass of water he was drinking.

" Did you say something Spectre?" Sir Whipson icily asked his friend who was still busy breathing and drinking the glass water.

"N-Nothing", Sir Spectre stammered, looking around for a change of subject. " Say, where is Mr. Fatblob? Busy eating pie in the kitchen?"

Mr. Belittler laughed at the thought, his stomach rumbling with each chortle. "He must be on his way. Say, why don't we start our play? He could join on arrival."

The other auditors nodded in agreement and cleared the table.

"Let's start with Black Maria."

Richter packed his small bag and headed out of the apartment, locking the door behind him.

He made his way down the stairs and out of the building with surprisingly zilch accidents, not counting the knocking down of the notice board on the building's caretaker's feet.

He looked around and started walking towards the left direction where the forlorn cemetery of the busy city stood.

Upon reaching the stony regimentation of sadness and regret with a few scattered smells of hope, Richter looked about to see if someone was in sight. Finding none, he jumped over the wrought iron gate and landed on the other side with a thud, being careful that his backpack takes a soft landing.

He looked around and sighed at the hopeless beauty surrounding the dead. Sprinkles of primrose and bluebells lay scattered about with lush green grass lying around like a soft carpet for the ground that rarely has a visitor.

Slowly, Richter moved towards the abandoned part of the graveyard.
He lightly treaded over the fresh sprung of grass and dry leaves, making soft crunches and squishes based on what lay under his feet. Rows of tombstones stood around in the congregation.

He looked down at the ground, as he walked in the sea of dead, letting the silence and eeriness seep into his soul and bring him comfort and solace. Finally, he stopped, his eyes meeting the name etched in the epitaph-

In the living memory of,
Martha Whipsonfreak
(1945-2008)

A sassy wife,
A kicker of asses (in all shapes, meanings, and forms),
A wickedly fierce mother,
And an equally gentle grandmother.

May you whoop the devil's ass up in heaven as well.

Richter slowly kneeled down and stared at the gravestone, reminiscing the last memories of his grandma, not caring to wipe off the tears that had welled up in his eyes.

" Every birthday of yours, you would ask me to gift you as many rose petals as I could. And I would religiously do so. Every rose in the neighborhood would be depetalled that day and be submitted to your lap." He said, his voice breaking and creaking with the weight of emotions. "A month later, on my birthday, you would gift me a handmade potpourri of rose petals which I would absolutely love. I never realized how even in your day, you would think of mine. Think of what I love, instead of what you do. You may be a fierce mother, but you were hella crazy loving grandma! So thanks! Thanks for everything! I know I couldn't repay you but— He turned around and opened his bag, bringing out a jar of handmade red rose potpourri and kept it on the marble base— here's a gift for you. And I promise you, I will bring back your husband. I will wake up the man you loved, who is now asleep with sadness and loneliness. I promise you."

As he stood up and turned about to go, his feet knocked down the jar which shattered into millions of pieces. He looked at his broken handiwork and facepalmed himself.

"I am so sorry! I did not mean it", was all he could muster to say

Ding Dang

Just as Mr. Belittler started the third round of Dirty Lady, the bell rang.

"Must be Fatblob", Sir Whipson said and motioning the others to sit down, went to receive the door.

As he shuffled towards the door, Mr. Belittler leaned towards Mr. Suspectre and whispered, " Shall we shout surprise when Whipson opens the door?"

Mr. Suspectre turned to look at Mr. Belittler and sighed at his foolishness. Then leaning towards him, he whispered back, " Fatblob is a heart patient. If we shout surprise, he will give us a better surprise of his own immediate demise."

Mr. Belittler nodded at Mr. Suspectre's common sense and looked expectantly at Sir Whipsonfreak.

As soon as Sir Whipson opened the door and smiled at Mr. Fatblob, the latter mockingly grabbed his chest and staggered back. "Whipson! For Pete's sake, is it really you?"

Sir Whipson nodded and beamed at his friend, " Surprise Fatso!"

Mr. Fatblob shook his head laughingly and entered inside. He dropped his coat on the expectant coat hanger, much like the others, and turned to look at the great surprise of today's visit.

"How come you suddenly decided to drop all the work and meet your old friends?" He asked as he took a seat opposite him.

"Just a fleeting accidental thought to do something new." Sir Whipson answered, shifting towards his seat. He plopped down on the sofa, making poor Mr. Suspectre, who had the misfortune of sitting beside him, bounce off his seat from the impact.

"And here I thought your superannuation will succeed your expiration." Mr. Fatblob said with a grin.

"Oh no, it's just one day off, not like a whole retirement plan." Sir Whipson said, alarmed that his friends may expect a little too much from him.

"Hey!" Mister Belittler said, looking at his friend while impressively shuffling the cards blindly, " Why don't we play bridge? Me and Fatso, and Spectre and Whipson? Let's start."

Sir Whipson looked around to see his friends discussing what to play next, all their problems seeming so small in front of the topic of discussion. Their enthusiasm made him smile as he wondered if he should really consider retirement so that he could play with these doofuses and maybe once again enjoy his life.

"I was wondering —Mr. Suspectre interjected Sir Whipson's thoughts as he stood up to address the four dignitaries present in the room— Why don't I and Whipson go to Fallbook's house and get some of his jigsaw puzzles?"

Sir Whipson turned towards his friend and frowned, " You really want to go to a dead person's house to take his jigsaw puzzle and have fun?"

"Oh for Christ's sake Whipson, " Mr. Suspectre said, hoping the Lord's name could help him win the argument, " Mr. Fallbook must be enjoying his day in the heaven playing bingo with the ladies to care about us mortals who have to fend for themselves during the crisis of entertainment! Anyway, it's not like he is gonna come back for the puzzles, and God forbid if he does, he will have to face a bigger problem of getting exorcised to care about who took his puzzles."

"So it's settled then, " Mr. Fatblob said before Sir Whipson could protest, "Whipson and Suspectre will go and get the puzzles and exorcise Mr. Fallbook if necessary."

As the murmurs of agreement surrounded the chair, Sir Whipsonfreak accepted defeat against the majority. Mr. Belittler leaned towards him and whispered, " Don't fear, I will write an apology note with my phone number and email-id, dig up Fallbook's grave, slip the not between his fingers and then bury him back."

Sir Whipson turned to look at the crazy whisperer in alarm only to get a reassuring smile and a thumbs up in return.

As Richter climbed up the staircase, he found Sir Whipsonfreak standing in the corridor looking into the neighboring apartment.

"What are you doing here?" He asked his grandfather who leaped in fright at his voice.

"I am sorry Fallboo-" Sir Whipson blabbered before opening his eyes to find his grandson instead of his dead friend. He scowled at him and asked, "Where are you coming from?"

"Jogging." Richter lied, not really sure if he should tell the truth.

"You jog?" Sir Whipson asked in surprise.

"Well, how else do you think I am so fit?" Richter asked in return, folding his arms and making a face at his grandpa.

"I don't know, starvation?" Sir Whipson replied, making Richter fume.

"Whatever", the boy grumbled and turned to unlock his door, wincing as his bloodied knee pained with the sudden shift in weight. He had earlier hurt his knee unceremoniously while jumping over the cemetery wall to return home.

Sir Whipson looked at the wound and pointing at it, asked, " How did you get hurt?"

"I... I... I fell", Richter stammered.

Sir Whipson frowned and shifted his gaze up towards his grandson, "That's exactly what happens when you are constantly on phone."

Richter huffed sat his grandfather's talk. "Last year you said the same when I fell ill."

"Well that is the truth, so much screentime would only har-", but before he could complete his sentence Richter entered his apartment and slammed the door shut on his face.

"Let's go", Mr. Suspectre said, as he came out of the house unpossessed, his face hidden behind boxes of jigsaws. Somehow Sir Whipson knew that behind those puzzles, Mr. Suspectre must be smiling victoriously.

After a whole evening of cards, jigsaws, and tea, Sir Whipson, and Mr. Suspectre made their way back to their building.

" Goodnight, Suspectre", Sir Whipson called behind his friend as they parted ways on the staircase.

Before he could raise his knuckles for a good knock on the door, Richter opened the door with a cheerful smile and skippered inside towards the sofa. He restlessly sat on his seat and pointed at the one facing him.

Sir Whipson sighed and shrugged off his coat and sat on the seat he was expected to settle down on.

"So", Richter chirped," How was your day?"

After hearing his grandfather for a few minutes, Richter frowned. "So you mean to say", he said, " that today, instead of going on an adventure, you decided to sit among your friends and fritter away the time?"

"Not exactly! I connected with my friends after a whole decade! Cut me some slack."

" You aren't my mother during her birthday or mother's day that I will cut you some slack and gift you a free day!" Richter shouted, springing up from his seat in anger. " You know what, I am done with your laziness. Tomorrow you are going to follow my list!"

He then stomped into his room and locked the door, leaving his grandfather perplexed at the sudden outburst.

Richter looked at the picture and the caption for the last time before finally posting it:

"The Adventures of Sir Whipsonfreak. Chapter 2:
Spaghetti and Meatballs was a flop.
The adventure? Not sure."

Ding Dong

Richter looked at the clock which showed half past midnight. Grumbling, he got out of his bed and walked towards the door.

He opened it to find a smiling delivery man staring back at him "Your pizza, sir." The man said.

"Are you kidding me?" Richter shouted and slammed the door on the man's face. " I ordered it yesterday for the love of God." He grumbled as he went back into the warm embrace of his bed.

Hey guys! Long chapter huh? Well, I had already warned you last time so don't blame me.

Did you find Sir Suspectre funny? I loved him! He was so fun to write along with the other chums of Sir Whipson.

FYI: I named Mr. Fallbook so because he fell with his books. Similarly, I named Mr. Belittler so because he was a belittler.

Anyways, if you liked the chapter please do vote.

:-)