Okay, I was just in the kitchen, making a snack, because nothing makes me hungrier than watching tiny people burrowing out of dead people's colons, and there are ants coming out of my drain. Out of the drain, people! Can you even explain that to me? How do they live, with all the water and stuff, coming into the drain? This is typical. The ants and I have a long-standing and deeply bitter feud, going back to the summer I was eight and I made it my life's project to obliterate the ant colony in our backyard, a task I accomplished by sticking the hose down the ant hole and yelling "remember the Alamo!" (We'd just learned about the Alamo in history class). Since that fateful day, the ants have made it their sworn duty to make my life a living, breathing, bloody hell. But I will not be cowed by their brazen attempt on my plumbing! Never surrender!
Anyway, time for The X-Files and whatnot. Are you sure you wouldn't rather I talk about something interesting? Like the ants and my plan to destroy them, once and for all? How about Passions? That Theresa sure is dumber than a box of hair.
Okay, fine. Welcome to the cozy and genial atmosphere of Sahar International Airport, in Mumbai, India. Mumbai, India is hopping, yo; people are yelling, cars are veering to and fro with nary a thought for the sanctity of the rules of the road. It's smoggy. People are in turbans. A rather fat man exits a taxi and is immediately overtaken by various people (all of them in turbans), begging him for money. They're all very dirty. Like, with clumps of dirt. Yet another sensitive thumbnail sketch of another culture, folks, courtesy of Chris Carter and the folks at 1013 -- everyone in India is dirty and poor. Great! The Fat Man -- let's call him Fred, just for brevity's sake -- slams his passport on the counter, makes a snide "India sucks"-type comment to the Customs person, and heads off to his gate.
Behind him, an ominous creaking noise. Fred turns around to see a very small man, with no legs, in the generic Dirty Beggar ensemble, staring at him. He's perched on a little rolling cart-type thing, hence the creaking. "Poor bastard," Fred says. The Very Small Man -- let's call him Morty, just because I'm watching Seinfeld right now, and it's the episode where Elaine and Jerry go down to Florida to stay with Morty and Helen Seinfeld -- just keeps staring.
Fred takes off, but Morty keeps rolling creakily behind him. Fred sighs, puts down his briefcase and hands Morty a few rupee, advising him to invest in some WD-40. Morty takes the cash, but gives Fred a dirty look. As soon as Fred's back is turned, Morty dramatically drops the change on the floor.