Arnab was drunk again, and trying to make it home without vomiting on himself. It seemed late, but he wasn’t sure of the exact time. He had just made it to his apartment building when a man appeared out of the darkness, put a gun to his head, and demanded his money.
Arnab laughed. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he said, slurring his words badly.
“I don’t care if you’re the Chief Minister of Bengal,” the man replied, “Give me your money now or I’ll blow your head off.”
“Oh, okay,” Arnab said, stumbling, “No problem.”
Arnab looked at the man, and concentrated as hard as he could. His stomach was gripped by waves of nausea, and his head (or was it the street?) was spinning. He just had to concentrate, just for a moment. He had done it so many times before—just concentrate, imagine a little twist or turn—and then they dropped like flies. Pretty easy, except for the headaches. He just had to ignore the spinning and sick feeling in his stomach and think. Just focus, that’s all it would take, and then—
“Oh, fuck this,” the man said as he pulled the trigger.
Arnab fell to the ground, missing the left side of his skull. The last thing he saw before taking his last breath was his assailant’s sneakers, as he felt him reach into his back pocket and remove his wallet.