I am stuck and regularly snug in as the interstitial piece in the high school chemistry lattice.
No respect, no concern, and all that I get are copper flats for my flatbreads. That goddamn
Elliot took away my shares and my money. With nothing in this sucking hole, I am with no
event horizon in sight.

“Bang, bang!”

A howl and a growl, and some more shots fired. A startled Walt, oh, for you, Walter ‘Walt’
White! In the melancholic state of his with the lung cancer bellowing within, the fire at the
corner doesn’t strike a bullet, and he continues to move on.

***

“Why are you requesting me to make your meth?”

“I work for Heisenberg.”

“And who the hell is he?”

The conversation ends abruptly. The questioner disappears into the hollow he came from, and
Walt is left all alone again.

None is so entitled that they meet The Heisenberg. Docked in the palls of methamphetamine
and pot, he decides to meet, not you. He wanted you to work and so shall you. No questions,
neither asked nor answered.

***

I know it is too abrupt that I started to walk from the hospital from the doctor who dares to
pronounce my death sentence to the drug suburb ‘territory’, and now out of the scene to a
civilised neighbourhood. A job offer, money in future, tensed cardio and all balance the other
in symphony. In this resonating self, I approach my gloomy household where the same chores
repeat like ablutions.

“Happy Birthday!”

As the room was filled with people and pizza, the realization dawned upon White that it was
his start of the countdown of death and the coinciding birth date. With a heavy heart and a
broader smile, he joins the merry-men, all but one.

“What were you doing in the suburbs?”

“Hank, I was roaming around, and happened to take a wrong turn and landed in the hollow. I
was not at all conscious and something else was on my mind.”

“Do you even understand the dangers?”

Shit! This man is to describe the dangers to a man to be dead in a few days. This shallow man
who is a bloody DEA agent with a remaining D in the hands of the cartel. This man who has
achieved nothing but petty fame and fallacy.

***

“So, you are ready to start?”

“Yes.”

Pinkman, a flunking drop-out who learnt not a straw was the meth-head meth-cook. Guiding
the new cook into the lab, he shows the ‘elegance’ of his preparation – chilli meth. The lab in
a wonderful state with shelves set and state of the art gear sadly fails to influence the novice.

“You cook here?”

“Yo!”

“And people buy your meth?”

“Hell, yeah!”

“I am out.”

“Why the fucking you come into my lab and come into my territory if you were never
working in this manner?” expressed an agitated Pinkman.

“If I am to cook, we are to do it my way, the scientific way.”

***

“And, this is Methamphetamine, or as you shitty people call, Meth.”

A roused up Pinkman takes the crystal into his hand and sniffs in a jiffy.

“This is legend-level, Heisenberg needs to see this.”

“Can I meet him?”

A pause, and a gunshot.

“The shank shit!”

A disturbed Walt is held by the sight of the shot eavesdropper. Shocked and perturbed,
Walt watches the blood flowing down his sneakers. The crimson colours his leather in the
deepest hue, and brings up the gory of death in him. With fear in eyes, he speaks –

“Can I meet him?”