Of Ballots and Hockey Sticks

Ah... it's been a long while. But as my readers may know, yours truly only likes to put up top-quality content on this blog. Oh, I'm the greatest. Anyway, last night one of my mates from school, finding I was sitting on my ass and would continue to do so for the next 2 weeks or so, asked me about this clusterfuck of an event that went down at college. This was a rather long story, mind, and I, the preeminent planner, concocted out of it a six part feature, complete with a prologue and an epilogue. Please do note that in order to protect the privacy of those involved, and also to prevent my opprobrious demise, I have refrained from using names and edited out a few (possibly, vital) parts to the narrative. Also, a few facts have been twisted or otherwise undone, either to suit my warped mind, for narrative effect, or again, as a countermeasure from a most disturbing expiry.

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Of Ballots and Hockey Sticks
Dedicated to Hari, the schmuck who asked the question in the first place.
Rated M for Mature

Prologue: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Indian Democracy -- IT AIN'T A LAW IF THERE'S NO STRIKE.
For as far as anyone cared to remember, there have been two parties at NITC. The official-sounding SPF (Students' Progressive Front) and the opposing hopefuls, the Independents. As of late, what with the upcoming elections, both parties had been riding many sick dreams of global domination and what-not, especially the SPF, who, it seems, were confident of victory. The Independents, on the other hand, were just as determined to capture the glory this time around. So much so that campaigning turned out be very much like a Jerry Springer show: long, nasty and involved a lot of vodka.

Part 1: The election day was cloudy, as if an omen of things to come. It went on for the entire day and by the end, certain members of "a certain party" had already started celebrating, with booze and... mainly booze. But then the results were out. Surprise, Surprise! The Independents had bagged the two most sought-after posts. That meant the SPF's majority was still just an ice bag after a kick to the balls.
Chaos! The Independents were so stunned, half of them went and bought lotto tickets. The SPF parties degraded into something sadder and more pathetic than a Justin Bieber album. As the raucous crowds of the Independents on the streets moved to the hostels, their path was blocked by the sorry losers (Sorry!), who decided to be disgruntled jerks, rather than the gracious runner-ups. It was a classic Mexican standoff, except with about a hundred people and shit for guns. The Independents flung remarks at the SPF with all the wit the alcohol frying their kidneys would allow them to muster. Finally, one remark ended with a taunting nudge, as people tell me.

Part 2: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Caesar's Royal Whisky -- IT MAY NOT "BLOW YOUR TOP", BUT IT SURE BLOWS A HOLE IN IT.
Whether from the booze screwing with their depth perception, or their shot-to-hell egos, the nudge was alleged as assault. War broke out on the streets of Rome, err... the college. People were being beaten L, R and C. The "party" idea was just an concept, now. It seemed more of a juniors versus seniors fistfight. Some dumb schmoes who challenged the other to come out in person and fight were greeted by a welcoming party of twenty or so. From the rear. Talk about rear entry! The recent release of Shikar also seemed to have made an impressive effect on fighting techniques.
The college authorities finally intervened and a temporary state of cold separation was established. Over the next few days, random brawls broke out all over the college. In essence, there were squabbles of revenge, avenging a revenge, taking revenge for an avenge, revenging revenges and so on. If I weren't the impartial sideline observer that I am, I probably wouldn't be saying this, but being less in number and at a genetic disadvantage, the fourth years did NOT come out looking pretty with fights against the juniors. But even as college authorities mourned the graying of their lustrous black hair, the situation was still reasonably under control as no one had been staked, dished, fried, holed, stoned, bombed or otherwise assaulted, yet.

Part 3: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Yonex Sports Equipment -- LIKE A DICK IT HAS MANY USES... LIKE AS A DICK.
The fourth were still smarting over their apparent humiliation against the juniors. They laid plans to turn things around at the upcoming DJ Night. All the big guns were called upon, men reputed not to quail at the sight of blood, and a bevy of drinks were brought in to wean any sense of mercy or for that matter, any sense at all. These were men renowned for threatening to chop a hand and ending up whacking both hands, and then a leg for luck.
The fateful night was tense. Even though rumors of the planned carnage had spread, the sight of 12 or so hulks thumping down the street was not exactly unicorns and rainbows. The final damage report confirmed our trepidations. A group of kids were said to have been stampeded, their chicken-like bones ground into what we can only assume to be powder... of the talcum variety. One kid ended up with stitches to the head, and all of them presumably developed a phobia of anything over 6 feet.

Blood begets blood, they say, but nothing would account for the retaliation unleashed after that. We can only assume that a goddamn hit-list of the faces the beat-up kids managed to catch was drawn up, one for each of the following days, unclouded by booze so as to revel in the Hell they unleashed with clear minds... Ooh, nasty! Numero Uno, for instance, was reported found in the gutter with a busted femur and an assortment of other damaged parts he probably would have use for later. But it was No. 2 that really got things kicking.

Part 4: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Hanuman Police Lathis -- LAB TESTED TO BE 4.67 TIMES THE CONSISTENCY OF HUMAN BONE
On the morning of September 23, when half the good world were in their beds, a gang or twenty (or so I was told) hunted down Victim #2. With calculated precision, they got him into his single room and methodically proceeded to beat all shit and reason out of him. With Big-Ass (TM) hockey sticks. Until all that was left was about half a gallon of blood on the floor and a fetus shaped pulp on the floor. (Read disclaimer below).
The college authorities were so taken aback, they called the police, which is a dumb thing to do because then they get total control and your word don't get to mean shit no more. For four hours, while #2's remains were being scraped off the floor, police patrols roamed the campus waiting for something else to go down. But since we were Engineering students, or rather, 10th Standard pass-outs, nothing DID go down. Finally, when the cop figured that sitting on their asses wasn't the most judicious way of exercising their new powers, they ordered the evacuation of the campus by 2200 hours that very day, failing which would be a criminal crime.
Now this new turn of events played havoc with those who had upcoming placement interviews and the like, but the cops played piñata with them anyway.

Epilogue: This part of the feature is brought to you by the Transportation Industry-- EVEN TERRORISTS LOVE US!

1. On Thursday, the 23rd of September, masses of students cleared out of the college grounds. A few stayed back to argue the terms of the shutdown -- duration, placements and other stuff the police decided were too inane to matter (this was on the record).

2. Charges of attempted murder were flung both ways, but both sides realized they were going down together, so all charges were dropped.

3. On the 25th of September, almost 2 days after the incidents, an undisclosed source revealed the truth behind the NIT-Clusterfuck (as in NIT-C), sending shock-waves through campuses across the world.

THE END... for now.

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Disclaimer: As I've said before not all of the above is to be taken at face value. What can I say, I like to exaggerate. If you would like to point out inaccuracies in the descriptions, post them in the comments... I would prefer that over getting it pounded into me. Also, the gory description may not be suitable for certain readers, but that's what you get for reading the blog of a 20-year old adolescent in the Industrial Age, who listens to death metal.