The super moon lit the sky like an oversized strobe light and so me and a few buddies of mine were downing liquor by the gallon like a thirsty 60s cadillac, finding reasons to drink in any trivial thing, finding the answer alcohol if we stared at any coming event for long enough, an alcoholic version of Jim Carreys character in that below par movie the number 23. Today it was the Supermoon , perfect, adequate, reasonable supermoon, something that only happened once in our lifetime, twice I believe if the dice of time were weighted in your favor. So when the whistles were wet, I spoke of the 3 Indians. The story went If one on a supermoon spoke the word Indianman three times in the mirror, 3 Indians would come and dispose of you that very night tomahawks and battle paint ready, only however if the door of the house was left unlocked. I double dared my friend John who was the most susceptible to fright and the creep along the hairs of the back, my other friend let’s call him Jack noticed John was shook and gave out a bellowed laugh, finally we pushed him mentally to perform the menial task. You could hear the first two Indianman spoken consecutive and then a gulp, a silence finally ending with the last Indianman in a low whisper. So the door was left unlocked and we awaited our curse drinking like today was the last day on this hollowed earth. The door creaked. I jumped up with a fright like a deer would on top of a colliding car, beer spilling on John. Somebody had entered the house, I vodka bottle equipped as weapon of choice slowly walked down the corridor that seemed to stretch in length the closer I got to where some unknown had breached our humble abode, walls mocking my ability to move forward, a shadow from the corridor begun stretching in length and there were three of them, I chugged on my weapon of choice, if going to war drunk worked for the Brits it would so do for me and then I heard it… “Who ordered the Tandoori Chicken, we came in the door was open sir, it’s cold outside” There had been something lost in translation, three men from an Indian establishment not far from our drinking quarters had gotten a mumbled call for food. We paid gleefully knowing that the only thing slaughtered would be our assholes and intestines the next day by the spiciness of the food. So the moral of the story is if, if you ever feel like Indian food on a Supermoon go by your mirror and say Indianman, it really works, prove me wrong, too bad you’ll most likely be dead before the next one.