The Orange Straw Murders
Hemashankar Pujari spit the paan in his mouth into the spotted brass office spittoon. The arc of thick red brown landed with consummate ease in its designated spot, the centre of the spittoon. Despite this, the walls around the spittoon held red coloured spatterings of dried paan. Hema, as he was generally called, gave little thought to this. His mind was made for greater things. He was a successful hunter of serial killers. He was a household name in Bhopal, the city of his ancestors.
He wiped the red paan from his lips with the back of his hand and took out his sunlight yellow handkerchief to wipe his brow. It was a hot day in Bhopal, despite it being the month of November. He had heard something about the climate of the world changing because of human beings being unfriendly to the environment. His mouth curled upwards. Humans were extremely unfriendly creatures. Look at the case he was on just now. This killer chopped off the heads of his victims with a scythe, like a coconut seller would chop off the head of a coconut.
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