Chapter 5 — Bait
And thus begins Chapter Five.
Now, children.
Mith returned.
The fisherman had left the lake.
No fish.
No glory.
But
education.
He approached the observation lounge.
The wall.
Nuo.
Cigarette.
And finally asked the sacred question.
Actually
two questions.
Children.
Progress.
Part One.
“What is appropriate bait?”
The council nods.
Correct question.
Excellent.
And then
Part Two.
“What is your most successful bait?”
Pause.
The council slowly looks toward Mith.
Oh.
Better.
Much better.
Children.
This man had successfully identified that there were two levels of Dee Tee education.
General curriculum.
And
classified techniques.
The council opens a folder marked:
PREMIUM ACCESS.
Exactly.
We found seats.
Good?
Bad?
Still irrelevant.
Children.
I have absolutely no memory of Dee Tee furniture quality because furniture was never the point.
Seat existed.
Ass on seat.
Education begins.
I looked at Mith.
First
Part One.
Appropriate bait.
Now.
Children.
The mistake people make is assuming the opening must be impressive.
No.
Impressive is difficult.
Impressive requires skill.
Interesting?
Much easier.
And in Dee Tee,
interesting was enough.
My rule was simple.
Say something strange enough
that it creates another question.
Then answer that question with something equally strange
or worse.
The council pauses.
So
conversation through escalating nonsense?
Precisely.
Children.
You do not need to arrive holding the greatest story in human history.
You simply need to give the other person a reason to go:
Wait.
What?
And then
you have another few minutes.
Another question.
Another answer.
Another laugh.
Another:
No fucking way.
That was the mechanism.
Not sophistication.
Momentum.
The council nods.
And usually?
That was where my lessons ended.
Because Mith was not the first friend to visit Manipal
seeking the sacred lifestyle.
No.
There had been others.
Normal tier friends.
Children.
Friends.
People I liked.
People I would smoke with.
People I would absolutely help if they got into trouble.
But not
premium.
The council inspects friendship subscription tiers.
You have tiers?
Everyone does.
I simply admit it.
Normal tier friend visits?
Fine.
I explain the lake.
The fisherman.
The bait.
The need for something memorable.
Then
go.
Learn.
Maybe succeed.
Maybe fail.
Maybe meet someone.
Maybe get rejected and return to me with shattered confidence requiring alcohol.
Children.
The free market of Dee Tee.
But my own personal bait?
No.
Trademark.
Protected intellectual property.
The council begins filing copyright paperwork.
Don’t.
But yes.
My most successful opening?
Not available to standard membership.
That required
premium friendship access.
The council looks toward Mith.
Unlocked?
Fully.
Brother privileges.
Lifetime subscription.
No ads.
Mith had access.
So I leaned in.
And told him.
“Bongo.”
Pause.
The council goes quiet.
Yes.
Children.
Bongo.
My son.
My Golden Retriever.
The best boy.
The grief.
The story that could still crack something open in my chest
even while I was actively using it for deeply unserious objectives.
We had established this already.
Bongo Story
worked.
Not always.
Obviously.
No technique guarantees anything.
Human beings are not vending machines.
But enough times?
Children.
Enough times that Story Nuo had identified a pattern.
Tell Bongo story.
Person listens.
Emotion arrives.
Distance between two strangers shrinks.
Sometimes
later
bonk.
The council looks at me.
Questionable.
Yes.
But children,
do not ask me to pretend I considered it some desecration.
I didn’t.
Even now?
I can see why I did it.
If grief was going to live inside me rent free,
if Bongo’s absence was going to hurt whether I stayed home or went out
then perhaps the old boy could continue helping me.
The council pauses.
Wingman.
Exactly.
Bongo had been my wingman alive.
Not literally.
He was a dog.
Though children,
Golden Retrievers are excellent conversation infrastructure.
Walk Bongo anywhere?
People appear.
Women especially.
“Awwww.”
“What’s his name?”
“Can I pet him?”
Children.
Bongo did half the social interaction for me.
The best wingman.
Then he died.
And apparently
continued the job.
The council sighs.
A questionable memorial practice.
A highly effective one.
Children.
A way to honour his memory
and satisfy my lust.
Win win.
Questionable win win.
But win win.
Now.
Mith knew Bongo.
Important.
This wasn’t me handing him a fictional tragedy and saying:
Perform.
No.
Mith loved that dog too.
Deeply.
He had known him.
Played with him.
Been part of that era.
And when Bongo died?
The grief had reached Mith as well.
Not identical to mine.
Children.
Nobody’s grief is identical.
But real.
Very real.
So when I told Mith:
Use Bongo
I wasn’t asking him to fabricate emotion.
The emotion already existed.
He merely had no idea how Story Nuo packaged it for Dee Tee.
The council becomes interested.
Training begins.
Yes.
Children.
Premium seminar.
I gave him the broad architecture.
Where the story begins.
Where it turns.
Where the grief naturally sits.
How not to bury the actual heart beneath too much nonsense.
The little changes in phrasing that made the story sound like his memory instead of mine.
Because children
important.
Mith could not simply steal my exact relationship with Bongo.
That would be absurd.
He had his own.
I adjusted the language accordingly.
His story.
His affection.
His grief.
Same Golden Retriever.
Different human.
The council nods.
And yes
I gave him performance notes too.
The full Story Nuo crash course.
The rhythm.
The emotional beats.
When to stop fucking talking and let silence do some work.
Children.
I am not reproducing the entire field manual for you.
Some intellectual property remains proprietary.
The council looks relieved.
But Mith listened.
Seriously.
Because unlike the lake metaphor,
this part he understood immediately.
Bongo was not theoretical.
One mention of him
and the joking expression on Mith’s face changed.
A little.
That was all I needed.
Children.
He did not have to pretend to care.
Did not have to manufacture sadness.
Didn’t need acting lessons.
Bongo had already done that part for us.
The ache existed.
My job was only
grammar.
The council pauses.
Grammar?
Yes.
I am a writer.
Eventually we become useful.
I corrected a phrase here.
Changed emphasis there.
Told him where his version of the story landed better.
Not because his natural telling was bad.
Because Story Nuo had deployed this particular story enough times to possess
experience.
The council looks horrified at the resume.
BONGO STORY:
Field tested.
Children.
Many occasions.
Many strange women.
Many nights.
The old boy had apparently retained posthumous employment.
And honestly?
I think Bongo would have enjoyed the attention.
The council stares.
You cannot possibly know that.
Correct.
But I choose to believe my son would support me getting laid.
The council refuses further theological analysis.
Good.
Now.
Mith finished the crash course.
Sat there.
Large man.
Soft soul.
Now carrying
bait.
Proper bait.
Not invented.
Not borrowed completely.
His version.
His Bongo.
Children.
Premium friendship access had delivered.
I leaned back.
Looked at him.
And said
“Make me proud.”
Pause.
The council erupts.
PARENTAL?
No.
Professor.
Coach.
Questionable Dee Tee mentor.
Whatever.
The words felt correct.
Make me proud.
Mith stood.
The Hulking Monstrosity had changed.
Not physically.
Still same.
But the panic from Amateur Hour One?
Less.
The confusion from Amateur Hour Two?
Gone.
Children.
Now he had a framework.
Lake.
Fisherman.
Bait.
And most importantly
the premium bait.
Bongo.
The council opens graduation requirements.
RETURN TO DANCE FLOOR.
APPLY LESSONS.
RESULT:
UNKNOWN.
Exactly.
I sent him back.
Mith walked toward the dance floor.
Into the crowd.
Into the music.
Into the bodies.
And me?
Back.
To the wall.
Children.
Observation Lounge.
My beloved teaching post.
Another cigarette.
Light.
Inhale.
Lean.
And watch.
The council looks at Nuo.
You weren’t even trying for your own bonk partner yet?
Not yet.
Children.
There are nights for personal achievement.
And there are moments when watching your best friend attempt to execute your deeply questionable methodology
is far more entertaining.
This was one of those moments.
Professor Nuo had taught.
Student Mith had received.
Graduation ceremony
pending.
And I stood there
watching him disappear into Dee Tee.
The same man who, maybe half an hour earlier,
had looked like a deer surrounded by attractive headlights.
Now?
Purpose.
Not necessarily competence.
Children.
Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
But purpose.
That alone improves posture.
He stopped scanning like prey.
Started moving like a fisherman who had finally been informed that fish do not generally leap directly into buckets.
The council regrets allowing the metaphor to survive this long.
Too late.
It is curriculum now.
And I watched.
Cigarette smoke rising.
Music shaking the room.
Somebody making out aggressively within peripheral vision.
Someone else dancing as though medical intervention might soon be required.
Dee Tee performing Dee Tee.
And Mith
somewhere inside.
Children.
This is the exact kind of stupid little moment I love in retrospect.
Not because I had bestowed great wisdom.
Please.
I had taught my best friend how to weaponize a mutually shared grief story in a college pub
for the possibility of bonk.
The council reads that sentence again.
Yes.
No Nobel Prize incoming.
But friendship?
Children.
Friendship is not always noble either.
Sometimes it is:
I know a trick.
You are my brother.
Therefore
you get the trick.
Simple.
Normal tier friends received principles.
Mith received source code.
That was affection.
Deeply questionable affection.
But affection.
The council accepts this with visible reluctance.
And Bongo?
Children.
There he was again.
After his death.
Still entering rooms through stories.
Still causing people to stop.
Listen.
Feel something.
Still making strangers care about a dog they had never met.
Maybe that is why the story worked.
Not because of technique.
Not really.
Technique helped.
But underneath?
Bongo was Bongo.
The love was real.
The loss was real.
People can often tell the difference between a fabricated tragedy
and a person whose voice changes slightly because memory just walked into the room.
Mith had that.
So did I.
The council grows quiet.
Then Story Nuo ruins the tenderness.
Obviously.
And if said authentic grief resulted in bonk privileges?
Excellent.
There he is.
Children.
I warned you.
Present Nuo has not evolved into some monk looking backward and clutching pearls.
Would I still tell Bongo stories to attractive women?
Absolutely.
Would I secretly enjoy if they found me more appealing afterward?
Children.
Please.
I remain human.
Maybe slightly more aware of when I’m being a manipulative little shit.
Software patch.
Not replacement operating system.
The council nods.
Continuity restored.
Good.
So there I remained.
Wall.
Cigarette.
Watching.
Waiting.
Mith now armed with something stronger than confidence.
A story he genuinely cared about.
A story I knew could pull people closer.
The fisherman returned to the lake.
This time
proper bait.
The council looks toward the dance floor.
Graduation?
About to commence.
Exactly.
And children
I was proud already.
Not because he’d succeeded.
We didn’t know yet.
But because he had finally stopped trying to force Dee Tee into the shape of Kochi.
He had accepted the environment.
Learned the rules.
Adapted.
And now?
Trial.
The rest belonged to him.
For a little while.
The council narrows its eyes.
For a little while?
Children.
This is Manipal.
Do not assume any victory remains simple.
But we stop here.
No skipping ahead.
No stealing the graduation from the student.
For now
Mith enters.
Nuo observes.
Bongo joins us invisibly through memory.
And the dance floor waits.
Thus concludes Chapter Five.
The Sacred Two Part Question.
“What Is Appropriate Bait?”
And
“What Is Your Most Successful Bait?”
The General Curriculum.
Chaos That Creates Questions.
Questions Answered With Greater Chaos.
The Normal Tier Friendship Package.
The Premium Friendship Subscription.
The Trademark Technique.
Bongo.
The Best Wingman.
Alive.
And Apparently Still Working After Death.
The Questionable Win Win.
The Genuine Shared Grief.
The Premium Crash Course.
The Editing.
The Grammar.
The Story Becoming Mith’s Rather Than Nuo’s.
The Final Instruction:
“Make Me Proud.”
The Return To The Lake.
The Observation Lounge.
The New Cigarette.
And
Graduation Pending.
Children.
Normal friends received guidelines.
Mith was my brother.
He got the source code.
I sent him back into Dee Tee
carrying the one story I knew could make strangers stop and listen.
Bongo.
And from my wall,
cigarette in hand,
I watched to see whether the old boy
still had wingman privileges.
