Prologue

During the cold winter night, the taxi driver picked up his passenger. The driver drove a vintage contessa, a good car, to be more precise, a king among cars at its inception in the 80s. Some might call it old, but a refined gentleman with keen eyes knows that a car like that would never go out of fashion. Are you a man of refined taste, Mr Dsouza?  Taxi Driver wondered. He adjusted the mirror to look at his passenger, Karan Dsouza, a paragon of true journalism admired by hot youngbloods and equally despised by immoral old leeches.

"I've seen you on TV," the taxi driver said, breaking the silence, his tone was that of admiration and subservience given to those above in the social ladder. He was good at changing the way he talks and behaves.

"The way you exposed the drug mafia was outstanding, sir! Outstanding! It's because of people like you that students are not spoilt by drugs. My little sister is big fan of you, sir. Big fan!"

"I work for the men like you, brother,"

"God bless you, sir! God bless you! Now I have a question, sir,"

"Ask away,"

"My sister wants to become a journalist, but I am worried about her safety,"

"I understand that you are very concerned about her safety, but she is passionate about it. That's why you shouldn't stop her from doing it. She wants to help the people of this country see the truth. You should be encouraging her,"

"You are right, sir! You are absolutely correct," A silence played out for a moment and the taxi driver smoothly took turns driving not too fast and not too slow towards a destination they would never reach.

"What made you want to become a journalist, sir?" The taxi driver asked while he inserted Puccini: 'Sono andati? in his cassette player.

"I wanted to help people of this country. People like you, Mr..err,"

"Joseph, Sir"

"Ah, Joseph, yes! I became a journalist to help people like you, the working class, the foundation of our fine nation,"

"You always speak the truth sir. Yes, we are the foundation of this country and are used to being lied to our face. Lies aren't always bad, sir. You know what they say? Tell small lies to smoothen the process of marriage. But in your case, sir, you just lied to give a politically correct answer," The journalist was taken aback by taxi drivers comment.

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"Why are you so offended? It's truth, isn't it? You always wanted the spotlight and the money that came with it, even stole your ex girlfriend's report and bagged that precious award. She obviously made a complaint, but nobody believed her," the taxi driver stated,

"How the fuck did you know that!?" the taxi driver noticed the fear slightly veiled by an angered facade.

"It's an interest of mine doing background checks. I also know, you can't squirt enough sperms to create a baby. They say you have balls of steel for exposing the truth and I find it really funny,"

"Who sent you? is it Ansari's men or Ganesh's?"

"You should be asking why you are killing me?"

"Stop the car!"

"You know I can't until you answer the question,"

"Stop the car!"

The taxi driver stopped the car, pulled the journalist from behind and made him kneel by pointing a gun at his head.

"You need to answer the question, and I will let you go and perhaps even give you a name,"

"You got paid." The journalist spat.

"No, but I will give you another chance,"

"I don't know, god! Please! I will give anything you want,"

"You just have to give me the answer," the taxi driver let out a sigh.

He slid his gun under his shirt and pulled out an injection of Pancuronium bromide.

"Ah well, guess someone else will have to give it to me. Until then I'll keep asking the question, why do I do this?"

He handcuffed the journalist and taped his mouth and pushed the injection into the neck of the journalist. He then carried the body and placed it inside his trunk, changed the license plates and drove away into the quiet black night.