The pugilist was leaning at the balcony. The body seemed sculpted in the moonlight. The broad frame, the muscular built, the tall figure...motionless. Hours ago, the same figure was moving at the rate of a blink, each muscle raring to charge, every action personifying aggression, in the ring. Blood mixed with sweat, crimson perspiration. The opponent had a bath though...bloodbath that is. An incursion, bruised and battered, he was rendered immobile in two rounds. The pugilist, amazed & mortified, stood agape at the pitiful figure lying in the ring. Photographers buzzing around like flies around jaggery.

Why did the ring change him so? The phone rang. His head felt heavy. That’s how it felt usually after a bout.

The dancer gave gyration a new meaning, the Lebanese way. Her beauty, though misinterpreted in the 'she-is-hottttt' way, was a rare kind. She kept searching for a view to a kill. It was easy to identify a superior specimen in a bar. ‘If only Luck's on your side, today’ she thought. The pugilist stared at his glass of apparent elixir. The dancer caught the right glances, expecting reciprocation. All she got though was a dead post, yet again.

The car looked cut in half, the moonlight illuminating only half its sleek body, the other half slept in the shadow of the building. The pugilist emerged out of the bar. He felt suffocated as usual, but the elixir was good here. He asked the chauffeur to take him to the beach.

The sea was getting wild. Waves were crashing the stone wall built round it. The pugilist went back to the thought of his savage half, beating the pulp out of the other. How could he do this? He felt remorse after every bout. He couldn’t continue this way. But he was a natural boxer, which meant, he wasn’t good at anything else, but swinging his fists. And remorse followed him from the day he started. He had no one to fall back to as well. He was an orphan, wasn’t good at making friends, the reclusive nature didn’t go a long way helping either. And every time he sought love or friendship, his fiendish image blew things up. That’s all one saw on television. Who knew that behind this fiend, was a 24 karat character, a heart specially ordered by Purity, a mind with a 'Razor Sharp' trademark, a rare fierce temper collateralised by a wonderful sense of humor. Alas, all he had was himself …and the endless remorse.

The pistol was there again, in the breast pocket of the coat. He could feel it against his heart...everyday...cold as a cucumber, much like the result of its use. He moved his hand slowly, into the pocket, when the chauffeur came running.

“Sir....parcel for you."

“Carl.....what parcel? Did you check?"

"Sir...the courier person said it was confidential."

"Its one in the night...and courier’s don’t deliver parcels this way! Which way did the person go?"

“Sir...there she goes", said Carl, pointing to the figure walking on the footpath far ahead.

"SHE!?" The pugilist looked at the object in his hand. A lollypop wrapped in a piece of paper, with something scribbled on it. Lollypops were a weakness. Every night he picked one up from the sweet vendor, before returning home. But only Carl and the vendor knew of this. He ironed the crumbled paper, and moved below the lamp post, to read clearly.

"Harry....the lollypop's for you....the pistol is mine, so return it."

Could it be her? He had a faint memory of her face...haggard and pale. She had come down to the beach, to shoot herself. He had seen her during his usual visit to the beach. He had stopped her from doing it...had just taken away the pistol and asked her to go home.

He looked up. The figure was gone. He gazed at the letter again and smirked....sense of humor. Someone tapped his shoulder. Couldn’t be Carl....couldn’t have dared that! He turned behind. There stood the dancer, or the girl he had saved. Memory plays such tricks.

"I can’t give you the pistol back", said the pugilist.

"How about giving me the pleasure of your company for a few minutes? Wouldn’t be better than having a pistol, but I reckon it'd work on a night like this."

The pugilist laughed and consented. The dancer had tears rolling down her eyes.