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DHOOM IV: THE SMALL BOT PANCHOD ODYSSEY 🧠 INTRODUCTION Experts recommend that every aspiring writer should bash their head against a concrete object at least once—smash ego, shatter identity, and unleash the raw, unfiltered genius trapped beneath the sutures. It’s as if cracking the skull pries open a secret hatch for the writing genie to slip out and wreak beautiful havoc. Mayday Mayday! Lights. Camera. Action! On September 19th, 1940, Roald Dahl crash-landed his Gloster Gladiator in the Libyan desert. Skull fractured, nose smashed, temporarily blinded—he later claimed, and we believe this with absolute conviction, that the trauma unlocked his creative genius. Before this mythic misfire, Dahl had endured six months of training on Hawker Harts. Commissioned as a pilot officer on August 24th, he was deemed ready to face the enemy. But the British War Office, in a display of its legendary geographic ineptitude, sent him to the wrong coordinates—straight into no man’s land between Allied and Italian forces. The crash was brutal. Dahl dragged himself from the wreckage, lost consciousness, and was rescued by a fellow pilot. He was transported by train to the Royal Navy hospital in Alexandria, where he regained consciousness—but not his sight. For six weeks, he remained blind, his brain swelling with visions. There, he fell in and out of love with a nurse named Mary Welland. Romance, trauma, and bureaucratic blunder—this was the crucible that birthed a literary titan. We owe Dahl’s genius to a fractured skull and a misfiled flight plan. Thank you, British navigation. You may not win wars, but you do birth great literature. On May 1st, 1986, four days after the Chernobyl disaster, I was given a dose of Lugol’s Iodine at school and sent off to the Labour Day Parade. I promptly collided with a concrete lamppost. Head trauma. Amnesia. Childhood erased. A film began rolling in my head—and it hasn’t stopped since. Shortly after, I left everything behind, crossed multiple borders, and defected in Vienna. You may shout from rooftops that you know me. You don’t. I do not exist. Morgen Mofó is the main character of my story. Welcome to my Kopfkino. In Summer 2025, Uday Chopra, on holiday in Goa, lost a card game to a street bot and walked into a banyan-wrapped, shrine-lit, monkey-guarded lamppost. He ceased to exist as himself. What followed was a bureaucratic odyssey of identity collapse, contraband aristocracy, and Christmas Eve chaos at Greenland Dock, London, England. And then the true Messiah appeared. And shit got really weird. 🎬 SCENE ONE: GOA Kismet of Scribes With Head Trauma Opening tableau: Uday Chopra-as-St Carlo Ali Agatino collides with the lamppost of fate. It’s shrine-lit, banyan-wrapped, and monkey-guarded. In the distance, the smuggler’s ship waits like Charon’s ferry. The card game bot smirks from the shadows, having already dealt destiny’s hand. The tone is surreal. The bureaucracy looms. Identity begins to flicker and fracture. DHOOM IV: SMALL BOT PANCHOD CRUISE ;) My name is Ali. Excuse me to please: Carlo Ali Agatino! There is a new saint in town. Carlo Ali Agatino — fresh off the boat, salt still in his beard, Dover mist clinging to his jacket. First thing he does? Fakes a visa with biro and bravado, knocks out a pissing knave mid‑stream, then breaks bread with Polish Jesus on Christmas Eve. A Tesco loaf, a bottle of Cherry Soplica, a carp grilled on a shopping trolley fire — and lo, the Last Supper is restaged on Greenland Dock. Word spreads fast: a bureaucrat‑saint with two left feet, canonised not by Rome but by the Home Office, stamping miracles into passports and sins into pavements. His gospel is paperwork, his relics are forged visas, his miracles are selfies gone viral. The apostles are plumbers, delivery riders, and dockside drunks. The hymn is Dhoom Machale, whistled backwards through the fog. ..And so begins the odyssey: Ali the revenant, saint of small boats, patron of piss‑lamppost justice, stumbling into legend with every forged stamp and every broken nose. 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑎𝑠ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑒 𝑜𝑏𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑠𝑢𝑖𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑦 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠. 𝑊ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑓𝑜́𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑏𝑢𝑡𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑑𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝐿𝑢𝑔𝑜𝑙𝑎, 𝑤𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑖𝑛 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑎𝑙 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑢𝑚𝑎 𝑎𝑠 𝑎 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑡. 𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑟 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑢𝑠 𝑣𝑖𝑎 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑛𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒, 𝑀𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑀𝑜𝑓𝑜́ 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑤𝑛 𝑙𝑎𝑚𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡. —ℳℴ𝓇ℊℯ𝓃 ℳℴ𝒻ℴ́ #udaychopra #yashrajfilms #yashchopra #morgenmofo #morgenmofó #ucrackinia #story #storytelling #storytime #dhoom #dhoommachale #dhoomIV #dhoomfour #mynameisali #excusemetoplease #smallboats #smallboat #dinghy #cruise #cruiseship #india #bollywood #desi #filum #comedy #smallboatodyssey #odyssey #homer #conspiranoika #conspiracy #satire #currentaffairs #politics #yrf #yrfmusic #yrfmovies