A Hatred Of Light

BGE Season One: Episode Guide

2010-12-06T03:05:00.000-08:00

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Greetings and welcome to Beyond Good & Evil. Here lies a collection of short stories, telling of the unlikely, the macabre, and the horrifying.

Click the links/story titles below to go to the stories.

Read in the dark.

Alone.

Enjoy. I hope you had a tense time.

- M.E.S

Tiger, Tiger

2010-02-13T04:31:00.000-08:00

*this story is now complete. the one published here is the story in its entirety.

as always, let me know what you think in the comments section.

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Rosman ended the telephone call he had just received. It was from an 'agent', asking for his services. A businessman wanted the pelt and gonads of a tiger. These businessmen amused him. Who would have thought that a rich, successful person still put faith on traditional medicine and potions? Witchcraft, it would seem. But Rosman supposed it did not matter. After all, he was being paid for what he does best.

Rosman is a hunter of wild game. Throughout his 45 years of life, he has hunted them all within the lush tropical jungles of the Malaysian Peninsular: elephant, rhinoceros, leopard, wild oxen, tapir; and his favorite quarry: the tiger. He did not fear these animals. In fact he downright looked down upon them.

To him, man was the supreme creature on Earth. Everything else just fell in line.

By now one could reason he was more of a poacher than a hunter, and one would not be wrong. Rosman hunted illegally. He kills whatever animals he can for fun, and also for profit. His day-job is a coffee-shop owner, in the sleepy town of Grik in Northern Malaysia. As it is, Grik borders the untouched Belum Rainforest reserve.

Poaching is a dangerous game. The reserve is patrolled by the military. And it is for this reason that Rosman always hunts alone, despite the inherent risks. To him, the more people trod into the jungle, the more likely they are to get caught. Besides, it was not as if he needed help. He was good at what he does. Very good.

He once shot a leopard that was charging straight at him directly between the eyes, and he did so without flinching. He has managed to kill an angry male gaur, no easy feat, with a hand-pistol. Rosman attributed this to his calm and composure when faced with these beasts. His customers relied on him to deliver. And they paid handsomely. One tiger pelt and carcass was worth hundreds of thousands of ringgit to the right buyer. Rosman rarely kept trophies of his kills; usually a claw, a tooth, a patch of skin. No, no. Those are evidence. Evidence gets you caught.

His buyers find him through agents, who always keep him anonymous. So far, these agents have been really good at not getting caught. Rosman did not worry. They only know him by name. All payments he received were by mail drops, or anonymous middlemen. He had put many layers of insulation between himself and the agents and buyers. For the most part, the agents did not care. They got their share of the payment. The buyers get what they asked for.

Rosman went to his shed where he kept his guns and weapons and tools. There were several .22 rifles; a .45 caliber automatic pistol, several large caliber revolvers, machetes, concertina wire of which he used to make snares, and boxes of ammunition. There were also rations, survival kits and other necessities. Often he'd be in the jungle for days on end. He knows how to live off the land, but all the same, he always carries some measure of survival kit: a knife, lighter, pliers, some rations, salt tablets, water purifying tablets etc.

He set to work, checking his equipment, choosing what rifle would he be carrying. He settled for on of the .22s, and decided to bring the .45, a machete and several loops of concertina wire and pegs to set up traps. This time the target was a tiger. And tigers are one of the most difficult animals to hunt, especially alone. They are cunning animals; often behind you when you think they're in front. Sometimes you could feel the big cat watching you. But Rosman has killed one before; and he was very certain he could kill one again. The money was too good.

As he cleaned and oiled his equipment in his shed, a small boy walked in. It was his son, seven year old Rosmi.

"Daddy, you're going into the jungle again?" the little boy asked, his eyes fixated on the oiled steel of the rifle Rosman was handling.

Rosman smiled, always charmed by his sons innocence. He loved the boy with all his heart. "Yes Mimi," he said. "Daddy is going into the jungle to find a big cat."

"Meow?" Rosmi said, and did his best cat impression. Rosman laughed and shook his head. He put down the rifle (as far away from Rosmi as he can) and playfully lunged after his son.

"Groowwll!!!" Rosman said whilst tickling the boy’s belly. Rosmi giggled. The father and son fooled around for a while outside the shed until Rosman's wife, Waheeda, called them inside for dinner. Over dinner Rosman told Waheeda that he was going out hunting tomorrow, and would not be back for a few days.

"If anyone asks," Rosman said over a plate of rice with fish curry and steamed fern shoots. "I'm at Kuala Lumpur, meeting up with a friend."

Waheeda, an obedient and quiet woman, just nodded her compliance. Rosmi ate energetically opposite Rosman. He smiled at his father, showing a large gap between his two front teeth.

That night, as always before a hunt, Rosman slept early. Tomorrow was the beginning of long days ahead.

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He was already out before the crack of dawn, at about 0400hrs. Before he left, he had kissed his beloved son gently on the forehead. He will miss the boy, even if he was only going for a few days. But he needed to be focused for his task ahead. He took his 4WD vehicle and followed a rough trail that ended at the foot of a hill. He parked his car beneath a shady tree and disguised it with fronds and foliage. From there, he trekked for roughly four hours. He carried with him one rifle, one handgun, a machete, equipment to set traps, and supplies in a bag-pack.

Now, at just about 0800 in the morning, he found himself deep within the jungle, where it was already getting humid. His brow was slick with sweat. He took a swig of water from the canteen hanging by his belt. His eyes, keen at 45, were always on the lookout for any sign of wildlife. So far, nothing major. He had crossed paths with a civet earlier, and some wild boar (of which he steered clear of; wild boar were extremely dangerous, especially if the herd had piglets), but nothing else.

The jungle was abuzz with noise, from every angle. He could hear the incessant buzzing of millions of birds and insects, the crackling of leaves and twigs made by unseen feet on the forest floor, and distantly, the gurgling of a small stream. He searched for signs of prey animal: deer, pigs, and tapirs. Prey animals were indicators of their predators. So far he had seen none.

He took a short rest and decided to walk deeper into the jungle. His cellphone had lost its signal hours ago. He was relying solely on his experience and instinct, and an old trusty compass. He was confident he would get his tiger within this three-day limit he set himself. He only needed to pay attention to the details.

Rosman walked deeper and deeper into the jungle. He came across a stream, and startled a lone monkey having a drink. The monkey bared its teeth at him, but he paid not much attention to it.

"I'll leave you for the Orang Asli," he said. Sometimes he would come across some of the Orang Asli. They mostly minded their own business.

Rosman decided to stop by the stream and have a quick lunch. He chanced a cigarette, seeing as he has not yet seen a sign of any significant wildlife so far. Smoke usually attracted unwanted animals. But it also repelled insects. It was a calculated risk, but he was feeling edgy and needed the smoke.

A lot of people think that the moment you step into the rainforest, you'd bump into all sorts of wildlife all the time. The converse was true; although rainforests are densely populated by all sorts of creatures, you'd only ever see them if you knew where to look. And in the daytime, most animals chose to remain out of view. So Rosman took his time a bit and enjoyed his cigarette. It was past noon. He relaxed for a few more minutes and began trekking again.

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"Hello, what have we here?" he said to himself an hour later, as he peered to the ground below him. There, on the damp jungle soil, was a small imprint made by a five-toed creature. It looked remarkably like a cats, but Rosman knew better. It was a pugmark, made by a baby leopard... or tiger, the big cat he came looking for. The pugmark was about 3cm wide. So it must be from a very young cub. Squatting, Rosman glanced at his surroundings.

His mind was on extra alert now. He was not yet sure what kind of big cat cub had made the pugmark; but where there are cubs, there will be the parent... or parents. So he was extra-vigilant now. He paid close attention the sounds and the smells around him. His eyes were tuning in to the slightest movement. Big cats are remarkably adapted at concealing themselves. And they almost always attacked prey from behind.

The jungle was still abuzz with noise; birds, insects, monkeys. That was a sign there were no predators around. Rosman followed the pugmarks, and realized it followed a game-trail. Reading signs a normal person would be unaware of, Rosman quickly established that a herd of prey animal, probably deer and wild boar, regularly passed this way. He ascertained this through subtle abrasions on tree-trunks made by boar tusks, dried stool, and faint cloven hoof-marks. Searching more thoroughly, he found what he was looking for: an adult big cat pugmark.

This one looked exactly the same as the little pugmark, except it was bigger. Much bigger. It must have been 20cm across. Only one big cat in Malaysian rainforests would make pug-marks that big, and it wasn't the leopard.

"Good old Pak Belang," Rosman said, and smirked. He couldn't believe his luck. He expected to take longer to encounter signs of his quarry. "Or rather, Mak Belang," he said, noting the close proximity of the cubs marks. He walked along the game-trail, judging its width and length, and he tried to triangulate where the predator would stalk its prey. Rosman paid attention to these things because, as good and cool a marksman he is, he also knew that traps are hugely effective, especially when set up along a game-trail such as this.

He would set up three traps, and he would have to do so before nightfall. He would use the concertina wire to make a simple snare. The snare would loop around the limb of the animal, and using concertina wire would effective disable it. Wounded animals are very dangerous, but Rosman knew that the concertina wire would take at least half the fight from a snared animal. And it would make the kill easier. If he could catch one in a snare, he’d only have to wait a few hours until the animal got tired of struggling. Then he’d walk in to deliver the coup de grace.

Rosman set up his traps. He also rubbed mud and soil on his bare skin to disguise his foreign smell. He hacked of bits of fronds and branches and made himself a makeshift ‘hut’. He set up his spot so everything was in easy reach. It was almost like a military sniper. He was now well camouflaged, and if luck goes his way, he thought he’d get his prey very soon. All he had to do now was wait.

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When nightfall came, the rainforest seemed to double in activity. The noises seemed louder. From a short distance, Rosman could hear the trumpeting of elephants. Right now, in front of him, lumbered a herd of gaur, the alpha animal massive, easily one tonne in weight. On any other day Rosman would not have hesitated to bring home one of these majestic wild oxen.

But not today.

“Pukul berapa Datuk Harimau…?” he mused in his hiding place.

His rifle was cocked, ready to fire at any time. But a couple of hours passed and no sign of the big cat. When the herd of gaur passed by, Rosman was worried that the animals would set off one of his snares. Fortunately that had not happened. But still. No sign of the striped one.

Rosman nibbled on a biscuit. It was very frightening at night in the rainforest. Often you could hear the animals, but not see them. The game trail was lit only by moonlight. A python slivered by. Unidentified rodents scurried. And then suddenly the jungle fell silent. Rosman immediately went on full attention. The silence had fallen abruptly. And at the same time, there was the tell-tale stench of a predator; a sour, rotten smell. The smell of rancid meat. Rosman eyed the game trail.

It was a leopard.

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The leopard walked, its haunches taut, the spotted pelt glistening beneath the moonlight. Rosman noticed that the cat’s footfalls were as quiet as a feather, and in its jaws was a half-eaten carcass of a turtle. It was a beautiful specimen, and would make a fine trophy. But Rosman ignored it, and let it pass by. To make a kill here would be to compromise his spot.

The leopard passed through, disappearing at the other end of the game-trail. At the very moment it could no longer be seen or smelled, the jungle became alive with noise again. Rosman waited patiently. A pangolin crawled inches beside him, unaware, or rather, ignorant, of his presence.

Rosman felt tired. He had been trekking all day. And so far there has been so signs of a tiger except for the pugmarks. He thought he could afford to rest his eyes for a few minutes. He checked his camouflage, shifted to a more comfortable position, and rested his cheek on the butt-stock of his rifle. He slept.

He did not how many minutes have passed; the night was still cool and dark. The moon was still high in the sky. But he knew he had woken up to the haunting roar of a tiger. His senses jerked to awareness.

The roars sounded distant, but it could also just be due to the layers of insulation the jungle provided. The big cat could be anywhere at all. He readied his rifle, and also his handgun. His eyes darted everywhere, looking for any indication that the tiger was nearby. He waited a few minutes, and the roars subsided.

Rosman sighed, and that eased the tension. He decided to call it a night, and got up to look for a safer place to rest.

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The next morning Rosman woke up fresh and eager. He made breakfast; a ration, with a cup of coffee he heated using a Bunsen burner. As the caffeine and carbohydrates made its way through his blood, he traversed back to the game trail. Rosman checked his traps. All of them were still intact. But he also made a welcome discovery: fresh pugmarks. Large ones, followed by a set of tiny ones. That meant that sometime during the night, the tiger – no, tigress – had passed by here with her cub, and had missed the trap by mere feet. “

Son of a bitch,” Rosman muttered. “You were this close.”

Rosman shook his head and laughed. The sound of his voice was very foreign in this part of the land. Gibbons howled above his head, and a curious hornbill perched on a nearby branch, observing him. Rosman paid no attention to these ‘peripheral animals’. Satisfied with his traps, Rosman decided to further investigate the game trail.

There were signs of various animals along it; footprints, claw marks, stool. At one point he stopped in his tracks, startled by a cobra that reared up in front of him. He waited until the cobra slithered away, and proceeded on his own trek. As he walked with his rifle slung across his shoulder, he noticed a mewling sound coming from some bushes.

Curious, he went to see what was making the noise. It could be anything: a mongoose, or even a frog. But he was hoping it would be the tiger cub. He parted some fronds and branches. He smiled at what he discovered. Hidden beneath a naturally formed canopy of fallen branches and fronds, was a small tiger cub; it was barely the size of a fully-grown housecat. The cub had blue eyes, and the fur was not as orange. Even the stripes were not very prominent. It looked comically like a stuffed toy: fluffy, with an oversized head and paws, and very cute. It hissed angrily at Rosman, and when he reached down to touch it, it swiped a paw at his hand.

Rosman was amused. He stared at the little cub for a moment. It was very young. It probably came from a litter of three; the other two had probably died earlier, through natural causes or predation. Anyway, the fact that this one was hear proved that it was the strongest amongst its siblings. Rosman was also aware that with a cub this young, the mother would not be too far away.

“What should I do with you?” Rosman said whilst prodding a stick at the cub, which was still hissing and batting with its paws. Then Rosman nodded. “I know what. Come along now.”

He picked up the cub by the scruff of the neck and it immediately turned quiet. It was a natural phenomenon amongst all cats. Rosman carried the cub as hurriedly as he could. He had a plan, and his plan required live bait.

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The cub mewled, the sound long winded and wailing. A cry. The expression on the cubs face was of agony, the jewel-lie blue eyes strained. The right hind leg was hanging in the air, suspended by a length of wire tied so tight that it cut into the flesh; it was already bleeding. The cub did not comprehend all this. The more it tried to scurry away and pull from the wire looped around the leg, the deeper the wire cut.

Rosman lay on his belly about sixty meters away, already in camouflage with his rifle set up. He kept his breathing calm. He felt no sympathy for the little tiger cub. He wanted its mother. Earlier, he had taken the cub and looped a length of wire around one of its hind legs. This wire he pulled tightly that the cub yelped in pain. Then he suspended the wire on a shrub, and hoped that the cub’s cries of pain would entice the mother quickly. Once the mother tiger was here, he’d shoot it, butcher it and take the necessary parts. The cub he would kill.

Hours passed and still the mother was nowhere to be seen. Rosman thought maybe the cub had been abandoned, or the mother had been killed by a prey animal. Rosman had seen it happen once before, to a leopard. The leopard had been gored to death by a gaur. But Rosman persisted and waited a few more hours.

The cubs mewling grew weaker and it finally stopped. There was still no sign of the mother tiger. Rosman became tired and irritated. It was supposed to be an easy thing, once you got the cub.

He shifted out of his hiding place and walked to where the cub lay. The little animal was lying on its side, breathing shallowly. It cast one look at Rosman and mewled. Rosman decided to end its misery. He took out his large machete and with one swift stroke he cut the tiger cub in two, right in the middle of the body. It was nearing dusk. Rosman decided he wanted to rest.

That night the roars started. As a precaution, Rosman had set up his camp a bit further from the game trail than the previous night. The roars were haunting, and they seemed to be getting closer. Each time the roars floated through the air, the jungle became silent, as if in fear.

For the first time in his years of hunting, Rosman felt a bit frightened.

This in turn made him feel annoyed. There was this nagging feeling that he was being watched. Sure, he’s felt this way before on previous hunts, but never this strong. And he was also feeling guilty for killing the tiger cub in cold blood earlier. He has never felt guilt before. Not even a few years ago, when he had shot a baby elephant at close range after killing the mother and taking its tusks.

But the fear made his senses extra acute. He could have sworn he could see every leaf on a tree, every movement on the jungle floor no matter how minute, heard every sound no matter how soft. Most of all, Rosman tried to take in every scent; he knew that a predator has a telltale stench of rotten meat. He was on the lookout for such a sign.

He tried to sleep but he could not. Disturbed, he quietly crouch-walked back to the carcass of the tiger cub, now already swarming with insects. He dug a shallow hole with his machete, and chucked the two halves of the cub’s body inside. He then hastily covered it with loose soil and dried leaves. Burying the little cub made him feel slightly relieved. For one, he no longer felt as if there was a pair of eyes watching him intently.

The night became cooler and Rosman hid within the buttress roots of a large tree, not far from his traps. He was hoping the mother tiger would pass by tonight and get ensnared. Within a few minutes, Rosman fell asleep.

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He woke up just after dawn. The jungle was noisy as usual, and he heard the squawks of birds and the ever-present orchestra of a million insects. He stretched his limbs and squeezed the gum out of his eyes. Yawning, he stood up and stopped. A chill ran down his spine.

In front of him was a pile of stool; it stank. Rosman squatted down, and using a stick, he prodded the stool, breaking it up. It was still moist, and when he broke it up he could see traces of bone and animal hair within it. He gulped, suddenly feeling very frightened. The moistness of the stool indicated it was fresh; the bits of bone and the reeking stench told him it was the stool of a predator. Something had visited him not more than a couple of hours ago and left a surprise.

Rosman surveyed the ground around him. There were pugmarks. Large pugmarks, about 8 inches across. And the pugmarks were pointed his way. The big cat had visited him during the night while he slept. It had looked at him and left him a stinking pile of shit. Rosman shivered. It could have been any other tiger, of course. But he was convinced it was the mother of the cub he had killed in cold blood. Why had the big cat just ‘visited’ him?

Nervous, Rosman opened his water canteen, but to his dismay, he realized he had run out. He would have to go to the stream nearby to refill his canteen. Which meant following the game trail. He took deep breaths, his mind a mess. He would be heading back to civilization tomorrow, and he hoped he would have gotten his kill earlier. But kill or not, tomorrow he would go back. His client would need to be told to wait.

Rosman walked along the game trail, checking his traps along the way. None of them had been disturbed. A large python crossed his path, but the snake ignored him and proceeded to climb up a tree. Rosman made his way to the stream. He placed his canteen inside the crystal clear and cold water, filling up. Then he put the canteen aside and bent over to wash his face. The cold water was very refreshing. He washed his face several times, and wet his hair and his neck.

It was then that the smell of rotten meat reached his nostrils, and he heard a low, deep purring sound. The purring turned into a growl. Rosman slowly looked up from his bent over position.

The tiger was across the stream. It was the largest tiger he had ever seen. Unconsciously, Rosman’s hunter’s mind was measuring the animal up; head to tail, the tiger in front of him must be about twelve feet long, easily 200 kilograms. Its pelt was a deep gold color, accented with strips of dark maroon and tufts of white. The eyes were large and yellow, bright and intimidating. The tiger opened its mouth, baring the fierce looking fangs and teeth.

Rosman froze for a moment. He slowly reached his arm around his back to grab the rifle… only to realize it wasn’t there. He kept his body still but mind was panicking. He must have left his rifle where he slept last night, along with his other weapons. He started to tremble. He calculated the distance from the stream to where his weapons lay. He knew he would never outrun the tiger, but by dodging here and there, he could try.

Still crouching, he slowly backed away. The tiger stared at him, proud on all fours. Its growling became louder, but it just stood there. Confident that he had made enough distance to break into a sprint, Rosman began to turn around, slowly.

Then the tiger roared; the sound, this close, was terrifying, blood chilling.

Rosman spun his head and saw the tiger was in a crouching position; that meant only one thing. The tiger bounded. Rosman broke into a run. The tiger roared again.

Rosman ran as fast as he could. He dodged fallen branches and holes, puddles and tree roots. Behind him he heard the tiger pacing, its paws crunching loudly on the jungle floor. Rosman did not bother turning around. He ran, now along the game trail. He heard the deep bassy growls of the big cat behind him. At any minute now he expected to be pinned down from behind, and have his neck broken by powerful jaws.

But something else happened instead. He was running, his lungs burning, when suddenly he felt a searing pain in his left ankle and he tripped. He hit the ground hard and felt his left ankle lifted off the ground. The pain went all the way to the bone. He screamed in pain but he knew what had just happened. He looked anyway.

His left foot was hanging above the ground. Wrapped around the ankle was a snare, made of concertina wire, his very own trap, and the blades cut into the flesh, deeply.

He knew the more he struggled and pulled, the tighter the snare would become. He knew his only chance to release him-self from the snare was to be calm and try to reach for his ankle. And yet to his dismay, he also knew he had set up the trap so that it was extremely difficult to reach for the snare. The pain was so great Rosman forgot about being chased by the tiger until the decaying odor approached him.

He looked to see the big cat was now walking slowly towards him. It stopped about a few feet away from him. The tiger eyes him curiously. Rosman was filled with pain and fear. He tried to scream to frighten the tiger away.

“GO AWAY!” Rosman shouted. “GO! GO! ARRGHH!!!”

But the tiger just stared at him. It approached closer to him and sniffed his body. Rosman tucked his limbs as close to his body as possible. The tiger approached his face, near to his ear. It sniffed in deeply. Then it roared, directly at his ear. It was deafening. Rosman wet and soiled his pants out of fear. This hunt was turning awry in the worst way possible.

The tiger circled his body; and then he saw it was a female; a tigress. He had no doubt this was the mother of the cub he had stolen and killed. It couldn’t be anything else.

The tigress circled him and sniffed every inch of Rosman’s body. Rosman tried to shoo it away but the tigress just ignored him. Then it approached his arm and suddenly lunged at it, biting. First the tigress just grabbed at the arm; the move was so quick Rosman did not have time to pull his arm away; and then the tigress bit down. The crunch of bones was audible and Rosman screamed in pain. The tigress let go and went to the other side of Rosman’s body. This time Rosman swung his good arm wildly, trying not to let the tigress grab hold of it. But it did anyway, just above the wrist. Again it bit down hard, crushing the bones.

Rosman screamed again, and the sounds did not even make the tigress flinch. Rosman thought surely the tigress would kill him now. Instead it left him, abruptly. Rosman felt an uneasy mixture of pain, relief and fear. He was crying now, certain that doom awaited him. The crunching of dried leaves indicated the tigress was back. Rosman, lying on the jungle floor, both arms mangled and non-functioning with his left ankle hanging in a snare, looked at it. The tigress held something in its massive jaws. It dropped the items beside him.

It was the remains of the cub; the upper half, where the head and shoulders were. The carcass was already half eaten by the various scavengers of the jungle. Then the tiger crouched down beside Rosman and kept looking back and forth from the carcass and his face. Rosman burst into fresh tears. His arms lay limp on his side, bleeding.

“Forgive me!!!” he yelled at the animal. “Forgive me! God, forgive me!!”

The tigress was quiet, just purring along. It stood up on its legs. Rosman thought that the time had come for the tigress to kill him. He was now just awaiting death, in the jaws of a beast. Somehow it occurred to him at just how appropriate that is. Predator has become prey. Prey has turned predator. The tigress approached him again and Rosman said prayers.

But suddenly, the tiger leapt over his body and disappeared into the jungle. For a moment Rosman was stunned into surprise. What just happened? Why had the tigress left? Then he felt maybe he could use this opportunity to try and free himself from the snare, even if one right foot was all he had. He wanted to get out of this area, or at least crawl back to where his weapons lay, or he would die trying.

For hours he tried to wriggle out of the snare. But the wound was only getting deeper. Insects began to surround his ankle and arms, which would surely turn septic in this condition. It was hot, damp and humid. If the wounds were left, they would start to smell and that in turn would attract all manners of animals. So Rosman tried his hardest to release himself. This went on until the night.

The jungle was very quiet this time. Rosman lay still, exhausted and in pain. He thought pretty soon he would turn delirious from the pain and extremes of hot and cold. And though he was plagued by nightmares, he managed to fall asleep for hours.

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The rays of sunlight piercing through the canopy onto the jungle floor woke him up. His eyes hurt with with the salt of dried tears. He stank of urine, sweat and faeces. He felt very thirsty. Rosman wished so much that he had never gone on this trip, that he had never taken this customers request, and most of all, that he had never killed the tiger cub. He wished very much he was at home, making love to his wife, or playing with his beloved son, Rosmi. Rosman began crying again at the thought of his son.

Rosman was still in tears a few hours later. The air around him was starting to turn dank and humid. He figured it was nearing noon. Then the jungle fell silent. Rosman stopped his tears and twisted and turned to see where the predator would be coming from. Then, from above his head, he heard the foot-steps, and of course, the rotten smell wafted through the air.

But from his position, he could turn to see the tigress approaching. He sighed. The tigress had returned to kill him. He was resigned to the fact. He heard and felt something being dropped near his head.

Flies buzzed around whatever it was. He twisted his head to see. Struggling, he finally managed to turn his head enough to see what it was that had been dropped near his head.

First he saw a mess of intestines and ragged strands of bloody meat. What was this? Had the tigress killed an animal and given it to him? Twisting some more, he focused on the carcass above him. When he saw what it was, his eyes widened, and he choked. Gathering whatever strength remained in him, he screamed. He screamed so hard his throat burned. Saliva ran out of his mouth.

Above him was the mangled torso of his son, Rosmi. The body had been severed at the mid-section, just below the rib-cage. Rosman had seen deep claw and bite-marks on his sons chest, and he had seen how Rosmi had been killed; Rosmi’s head was almost severed; a crushing bite had been delivered to the base of the skull. His lifeless eyes stared blankly, glazed over. Rosmi’s body was bloody; one arm had been chewed through.

Rosman had seen all that in the space of a few seconds. Already he felt his mind was insane. He screamed and cried. He yelled and shouted. He tried to writhe and struggle but he had no energy. His screams echoed through the jungle.

There were no insects buzzing. No birds were squawking. All the animals had gone silent.

The tigress stood just beside Rosman, watching him scream and lose his mind over the sight of his dead son. It was not going to kill the man. It was just going to let the man die.

The tigress took in a deep breath and roared. Rosman’s screams died down, and the roar of the tiger emanated throughout the jungle. This was its territory.

Violators were severely punished.

- end -
- Happy Year Of The Tiger-

The Night of The Rat

2009-10-16T21:23:00.000-07:00

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It was getting dark. The time has arrived for it to go out and start looking for whatever scraps of food it could find. Maybe a mate or two. It awoke from its short sleep, its tiny heart beating so fast it was humming. With its tiny clawed 'hands', it wiped its face, a curious gesture that was disturbing human-like.

It raised its head, smelling the dank air between the walls. But within this stagnant space, a plethora of other smells and sensations mingled. The noises coming from out of the walls were exciting, full of promise. The smells were wonderful. It began to feel alive. This was its time.

It scurried along the pipes embedded in the drywall, which served as its streets and alleys. It bumped into its neighbors, acknowledging each other, but it had other, more important business to do. Its stomach was empty, and it really wanted to get something nice to eat tonight. The night has come. It was time to forage. And in this building, the choices were endless.

It climbed down almost vertically down a rusty waterpipe; just below a small hole opened. It had gnawed the hole open weeks ago when it discovered that behind the wall was another kitchen, one of many in the building in which it lived. There were other holes, of course, in other kitchens and other rooms. But this one was its favorite.

It peeked its head out of the hole. It had to be careful. If any humans saw it, they'd usually try to chase it away, or kill it with whatever makeshift weapon they could grab their hands on. They also had traps. It had watched one of its own kind get trapped once; the humans had subsequently set its 'friend' on fire and watched.

But tonight, the coast was clear. It darted out of the hole, its tiny feet moving rapidly, dragging the little furry body and scaly tail behind. It stopped beneath a table, and stood up on its hind legs. It smelled the air. Food. Skillfully, it began to climb the table leg. It wasn't very difficult. Its claws made every grip, every footing secure. Eventually it reached the top of the table. On it were several plates of food. Fried fish. Rice in a bowl. Something that looked like curry. Vegetables. It was all good, all great. It began to help itself, taking bits of everything, stuffing the food into the pouches of its mouth.

It was suddenly startled by a loud slapping noise. It turned its head away towards the kitchen door and saw a human being slumped on the floor. It was a human female, her long hair all messed up. The human female wasn't covered in any clothing (not that it knew what clothing was). It saw that the human female was holding her hand to her face, and she had water coming out of her eyes. It watched. The human female was making strange whimpering noises. Suddenly a human male walked into view. The male, too, was as naked as a.. why, as a rat. The male's hands were bunched into fists.

It decided to climb down the table lest it be spotted and chased out, or worse, killed. But it was a curious animal, and it crawled towards the two human beings outside the kitchen doorway. It hid just near the entrance. It watched the two humans. The female human was still whimpering. Suddenly the human male kicked the female in the stomach. It saw the female spew out chunky brown colored liquid from the mouth. It smelled like food to it.

The human male was making sounds too. But it did not understand, of course. As the human male made the sounds, the female was shaking her head. Again it did not comprehend all these human interaction. It just watched, bunched on its hind legs. The human male walked closer and sat on the females stomach. It saw the human male begin to hit the females face with the hands. The female began to bleed from the mouth and nose. The females mouth bubbled.

Suddenly the human male got up and walked towards the kitchen. Towards it! But the human did not see it and simply passed by. It saw the human male take a shiny object from the kitchen drawer. It knew what the object was. One of its kind had lost a tail to that object. It was sharp.

The human male passed it by again, and it saw that the human female was shaking its head furiously. The female was still lying on the floor. The human male begin to make loud noises again. Once more he sat on the females stomach. The human male slapped the female. Then it saw the human male grab the female by the the hair, and take the shiny object and pierce the females neck with it. The human male then begin to move the shiny object in and out of the females' neck vigorously. Suddenly the female's head was off, and the male held it for a moment in his free hand. There was a lot of thick, viscous red liquid flowing out of the female human.

It heard the male grunt and make noises. The human male then chucked the females' head to the side, where it rolled towards the kitchen doorway, stopping just a few feet away from where it was hiding. It looked the female humans head; it was lifeless now, silent. It saw the human male get up from the headless body and leave the room. It saw the male going into another room and closing the door.

It was silent for a few minutes. When it was sure that there would no more interference and danger, it crawled gingerly out of its hiding spot. It sniffed the human head, then scurried away to the headless body. It nibbled; then went back to the head to nibble as well. Finally it decided that the body tasted better.

It did not know or understand about humans, or human behavior. It did not comprehend what it had just seen, nor did it feel the gravity of the situation. It was indifferent. Even if it did, perhaps it would choose to live as a rat anyway.

It was a simpler life. All it had to do was sleep, eat and mate. And on lucky nights such as this, it was rewarded with fresh meat.

-------------

(not the best, i know. but i needed to write to stay sharp.)

The Haunted House

2009-06-26T06:19:00.000-07:00

----------

I haven't set foot in this house for many, many months.

As I inserted the key and turned the lock, I hesitated. I placed my hand on the knurled stainless steel door-knob and took a deep breath. What would it be like to return to a place so ingrained with memory and sadness? I could almost hear the echo of tears long gone, bouncing off the smooth painted walls.

The house is an apartment, somewhere off Jalan Ampang in Kuala Lumpur. It has never been the grandest or most prestigious place to live in, but it was once a home. Sometime ago it played host to the lives of people, who slept beneath the ceiling and walked on the parquet floor. That was sometime ago. Now it is an empty chamber.

I turned the door-knob and the first thing that struck me was the thick, dusty air. The windows and sliding doors have not been opened for months, and it was amazing how quickly debris accumulated. There was a fine layer of dust on the normally spotless floor. The furniture, untouched, lay covered beneath white sheets that now looked gray from the dust. It looked drab, gloomy... deathly, even.

I closed the door behind me and glanced at the floor. There were no signs of disturbances save for the tell-tale scurry of perhaps a mouse or cockroaches. I shuddered a little. I hated cockroaches.

Pale early morning sunlight filtered through the drawn shades, and as I pulled them open I had to cover my mouth and nose; it puffed up a dry cloud that was slightly choking. But the sunlight now came in strong and bright, and it gave a little bit of a cheer to the place, pushing away the initial gloominess. I paused a moment, and scanned my eyes across.

It looked like the house was ready for a re-painting; all the chairs and sofas and tables were covered with sheets, and there were no pictures on the walls. Those had been taken down months ago, when the inhabitant had unfortunately passed away. They now rested in a box in the defunct bedroom.

I walked around, leaving footprints on the floor. From the living room, I walked to the dining area. Somewhere in my mind I saw a picture of people having meals together there, laughing and talking over, say, a pizza or rice and condiments. I stood at the edge of the covered dining table and from there I saw two bedrooms, a study room and the kitchen.

I breathed shallowly, partly because of the dust, but also because the place was overwhelming me. The power of memory was slowly taking its hold upon my mind. With it came vivid recollections of a past that I, a certain times, long for, but know for certain will never live again. I walked slowly, deliberately, and made my way to the bedroom.

Like the living room, everything was covered in sheets. But I could still make out the outlines of the dresser, and of the pillows on the double bed. Again, my head blooms with images of a face long gone but still alive in my memories. A box, roughly 2 feet square, sat near the edge of the bed. I made my way to it and knelt down. The box was not sealed. I opened it and took out a bunch of framed photographs and a photo album.

I looked at the pictures and thumbed through the album. Curiously, at that moment, I felt that I was no longer alone in that house. I felt as if someone was there with me. It was silent; under different circumstances, perhaps that would have been eery, but strangely enough, the silence was comfortable. I packed the pictures back into the box.

I exited the bedroom and strolled around inside the house. My senses were beginning to overload. It seemed that everywhere I looked, I saw ghosts. And everything I touched pulled me back to the past. The memories were racing at the speed of light in front of my eyes, and it felt like my heart was being crushed inside me. I sighed, and a sudden upwelling of emotion threatened to make me weep. But I kept it in check, and held it in. I promised myself that I would not cry. Because I knew that it would be meaningless. Tears will not bring back the dead.

I will still see the ghosts, and not just in this now empty house. And no; the ghosts are not figures shrouded in white and moaning, nor are they apparitions that walk through walls.

No.

Instead, the ghosts are of a beautiful woman of whom I loved and left, only to realize I needed her. The ghosts are that of a time long gone, a past I had hoped to reconcile with this woman. But God loved her more, and Fate decreed that I would never have the chance to be with her again. And so I was destined to live with the ghosts of my past.

This house is haunted, you see. Not by restless souls. But it is haunted by a love that was unfulfilled. A love that, perhaps, did not have the chance to blossom. To live.

I made my way out of the empty apartment and closed the door; and just for a split-second, I thought I saw a slender, beautiful woman dressed in a white kebaya, with long, straight hair and the brightest eyes ever. And I knew it was only my imagination, but for that split second, I thought I saw her smile at me and say,

"Goodbye Wise--"

... but I closed the door before she could finish.

----------

this is very short and not very rich story-wise. i'm just having fun, and i need to keep writing to stay sharp.
TWAAY readers, hope you liked it. before you cry foul, read the story properly; it's not literally 'ghosts'.

The Death of Helmi The Fat Boy

2009-06-11T06:31:00.000-07:00

------

Meet Helmi. Fifteen years old. Fat. Pimply. Whiny voice. Constantly with a snack in hand. But also intelligent and hard working; he regularly scores straight A's in examinations. Also, depending on how one sees it, either a 'good, respectful and helpful boy', or 'brown-nosed teachers pet'. Helmi lives in Kampung Bukit Selama, and goes to school at SMK Kampung Bukit Selama. His parents are obviously proud of him. The village folk and his teachers constantly shower him with praise, although perhaps it would be safe to assume that they also secretly think the boy is in desperate need of a diet. At fifteen years old, he is approximately the size of an oil drum, and probably weighs as much too.

Despite his obesity though, Helmi is curiously popular with the girls at his school. Keep in mind this was a small kampung school however, but still, the girls at his school always took amiably to him. He was, after all, polite, soft-spoken (despite the whiny voice) and was never mean or rude or insulting to them. Plus, he was also very helpful in schoolwork.

And this was why Affandi, Zikri and Rauf hated him so much.

Affandi, Zikri and Rauf were all sixteen years old; a year older than Helmi. They roamed the dusty kampung roads and came to school on hand-me down motorbikes, tuned in such a way that they sounded like ten-foot long mosquitoes whenever the engines were revved. All three of them were excellent at sports; Affandi was the star of their school's football team, whilst Zikri and Rauf were excellent takraw players. They were even handsome in that high-school boy way. Each of them had their fair share of admirers. But whilst Helmi the fat boy was adored by the village folk and the teachers, these three lads were not. For one, despite their athletic abilities, they did not do well in class. They were loud, disruptive and often answered back to their elders.

It could be said then, that Helmi and the three boys were the anti-theses of each other. Ironically Helmi has no idea that the three motorbike-riding boys hated him so. To Helmi, and indeed, to everyone else, he was doing nothing wrong. But to Affandi, Zikri and Rauf, Helmi was an insult to their existence. How could a fat, pimply tub of guts have so many female friends and so many sick adults poring over him?

It was incomprehensible to the three of them. In their minds, they should be the ones people looked up to. They were 'cool' and rebellious. Is that not what all teenage girls look for? 'The bad boy'? Then why does Helmi attract so many friends of the opposite sex?

The three boys almost made it a daily mission to humiliate or cause anguish to Helmi.

Once, Affandi kicked Helmi's feet from under him, causing him to tumble and fall. Affandi had begun laughing even before the fat kid fell down, and Affandi almost imagined that the earth would shake when he did. But then a group of girls came to help the fat kid up and the sight of it disgusted him; worse, one of the girls actually told him off! Affandi had walked away from there feeling angry.

Zikri and Rauf on the other hand once spat into a bowl of mee kari that Helmi was having during recess one time. Unfortunately that had happened in plain view of their grumpy disciplinary teacher and each of them got caned as a result; and when the teacher called their parents, they got caned by their dads as well, and their mothers had cried in shame.

The three of them were almost always trying to find a way to isolate that fat shit and beat him up to within an inch of his life. But no; despite being visible from the moon, Helmi has a knack for avoiding them. Helmi always walks with friends (he too, has friends; most of them girls), and generally avoids walking alone. That fat kid likes to stay close to people. He was smart after all; he knew that although he was bigger than the three boys, they could always gang up on him and make him feel pain. So Helmi made it a point to not give the boys that opportunity.

For Helmi's part, he had never understood why the three boys hate him so much. Was it because he was fat? Because girls liked his company? Because he did well at school? And although those were all true, the irony again is that Helmi never once saw it that way. So rather than dwell on a pointless question, Helmi just made sure he minimized all contact with the three boys who were his opposite in both physique and intelligence.

Unknown to Helmi though, the three of them had found the breakthrough they were looking for. And it would ultimately spell his doom.

-----------------

Helmi, being the good boy that he is, partook in extra-curricular activities at school, which were usually held during evenings after classes. So far as he knew, the three boys who were constantly trying to get him never came to extra-curricular sessions, so this was the only time that Helmi let his guard down a little. So far, nothing unfortunate has happened. He would stay back at school straight-away in the afternoon, and then he would walk back alone, taking his time, knowing with absolute conviction that Fandi, Zikri and Rauf were not going to be there to beat him up or pull down his pants.

The walk from school to home usually took him about 25 minutes; twenty-five minutes of walking the dusty kampung road. Kampung Bukit Selama was situated in a valley, and a small river ran through the middle of it. In certain parts of the kampung, like behind the school, the woods were almost untouched, and the riverbanks were high and sloping. One day a year ago, Helmi discovered a path that ran through the woods behind the school. The path was parallel to the river, and much to Helmi's surprise, it actually led to the kampung on the other side of the woods, effectively shaving ten minutes off his walk. One must understand that Helmi resented walking because he tired easily, and no bicycle could support his frame. So ten minutes was a huge saving to him, even if it meant walking on a path littered with dry leaves and beneath tall trees, with the sound of buzzing insects and the river beside him. Often a snake would cross his path.

And, much to Helmi's delight, the secret path also meant he could avoid encountering the bullies if need be. It was his path. He was never going to show it to anyone. Helmi took that path through the woods everytime he had the opportunity to.

So it was today; it was near 5pm, and he had just finished a meeting with the History Club. As the other students dispersed, Helmi said goodbyes and packed his bag. He looked around to find someone whom he could walk home with, but all the other students were going in the opposite direction than he wanted. Nevermind, he thought, I'll just take my short cut. He gathered his stuff and walked to the back of the school. There was a link-fence; he followed it until he found rusty, opened gate. He passed through the gate and went ahead, finally coming to the woods and his path. As usual he made sure he watched his step when he walked the path; nasty creepy crawlies were abound here. But other than that, the path was pretty much alright. He could already here the river, about 20 meters below him, coursing its way on his left. It was a pleasant sound. Cicadas and crickets buzzed in the air.

Pretty soon, he got lost in his world and thoughts. He did not pay attention the other sounds, like the sound of three pairs of feet not far behind him.

--------------------

Zikri, Fandi and Rauf had been waiting long for this chance. They had stayed back at school, a rare thing for them to do, especially for this moment. While the fat boy had his club meetings, the three of them were waiting in an empty classroom, telling each other sadistic tales of what they were going to do once they got their hands on the fat kid.

One week ago, Rauf had been held at the principal's office for failing to submit his homework for the eleventh time in a row. He got caned on the hands, and a hard scolding from the hateful principal, and was forced to help the school groundskeeper with chores throughout the day. As a result of that, he had to go home late. But, as luck would turn out, being held back late proved to be beneficial. As Rauf had been cleaning the empty school walkways, he saw a familiar figure walk towards the back of the school. Curious, he quietly followed Helmi and saw him go through the rusty gate in the fence and disappear into the woods. Rauf had waited a moment, and after about ten minutes, followed the way Helmi had gone. He had smiled when he discovered the path, and had instantly realized this was his and his friends chance to teach that lard bucket a lesson. Along that path, in the woods, no one could come and help him.

Rauf had left school that day and immediately told Fandi and Zikri. They waited one week to see if the fat boy was going to take that path again. And when they saw that that indeed was the case, they rubbed their hands in glee.

Here comes the pain fat boy, the three of them thought.

-------------------

Helmi felt uneasy. It was the humidity. It was a hot day, and walking in the woods, the air was thick and suffocating. But there was something else. Something was not right. He listened, and as usual, he could hear the river, the insects, the falling leaves... and the snap of twigs being trodden on. He suddenly felt that he was being watched.

Which was exactly what was going on; about fifty meters behind him, Fandi, Zikri and Rauf were stalking him. They tried to keep their footfalls light, but it was impossible to be silent. But they almost did not care; they were closing in on the fat boy. The gap between them was getting narrower and narrower. Fandi was clenching his fists. Rauf too. Zikri felt out of breath. They quickened their pace.

The crunching of dead leaves and dried wood behind him caused Helmi to turn around. He yelled in surprise as he saw the three boys behind him, and they rushed him. Fandi tackled Helmi in the mid-section and Rauf and Zikri pushed down on his shoulders. He crashed to the earth with a dull thud. He looked up and saw three grinning faces above him. Then a fist, he wasn't sure whose, struck him square in the middle of the face. Helmi felt his lips split and warm blood seep into his mouth. He tried to scream but then one of the boys kicked him in his huge stomach, sending the wind out of him. Helmi rolled onto his stomach.

Fandi, Rauf and Zikri were laughing at the sight of the fat boy curled on the earth. They took turns kicking Helmi's thighs and legs and arms. Each time the fat boy tried to get up, they'd kick and punch him back down. They were at a frenzy. Zikri landed a kick that struck Helmi's ribs, and the three of them actually heard the cracking of bones. Helmi's clothes were torn. Fandi took a handful of rough, dry leaves and rubbed it into Helmi's eyes. Rauf pounded on the fat boys body with his fists.

As the boys went crazy on him, Helmi could only try to scream, but he knew nobody would come. His fears took hold of him and he began to weep. But this only seemed to raise the boys' aggression. Helmi felt each blow as it struck him. His ribs were searing in pain; his body felt was in agony. He feebly tried to say stop but to no avail. His mind was dazed not only by fear, but also by incomprehension; how could they do this to him?

The boys' blows slowed down. Helmi thought they were going to stop. But then he heard Fandi say, "Get him up!"

The two other boys grabbed him by his arms and heaved him up to his feet.

"Oof, you're a heavy bastard," said Rauf.

"What are you, an elephant?" said Zikri, and the three of them laughed crazily. Helmi raised his head. His lips were bleeding and almost all is front teeth were missing. He could only see out of one eye; the other was swollen shut.

"Feel good fat boy?" said Affandi in front of him. The other two snickered.

"You got this coming to you," said Affandi and he kneed Helmi's testicles. Helmi's eyes bulged out and he gasped in pain. Rauf and Zikri let go of his arms, laughing. Helmi's hands went to his crotch and he stood uneasily, swaying with fatigue. They were standing near the top of the riverbank, halfway through the pathway in the woods.

"Fuck you," Affandi said. He hawked and spat a large glob of phlegm on Helmi's face, and then he shoved him mightily in the chest. Helmi teetered and tottered, then suddenly lost his balance and fell backwards, rolling hard down the sloping riverbank. The last thing he saw was the three boys laughing and then the world literally rolling by; suddenly he felt one last snap of pain in his head and neck and then there was nothing. Blackness.

-------------------

Fandi, Rauf and Zikri were still laughing as they heard Helmi crash through the undergrowth on the slopes of the riverbank. When they heard the noises stop, they made their way down, following the broken branches and bent foliage that indicated Helmi's descent. They were joking and laughing, and they were planning on dragging the fat boy's sorry ass back up and giving him another beating. But when they found Helmi, their smiles and laughter evaporated into thin air.

There, at the bottom of the slope, just a foot or two shy of the river itself, was Helmi. His body was covered in bloody, torn clothes; but what had wiped the crazy smiles of the faces of the three boys was the fact that Helmi's skull was split open near the top and his neck was bent at an awkward angle. Blood was pooling below his head; his eyes stared emptily back at them, expressionless, devoid of life.

The three boys were silent. And suddenly, it got eerily quiet. Even the insects had stopped buzzing. The only sounds were their breathing and the river. Finally Zikri spoke. He had an ashen look on his face.

"We killed him."

Fandi and Rauf turned to him; their faces were equally shocked and pale. Zikri spoke again.

"We killed him."

"No," Fandi said, shaking his head. He looked at Helmi's body. "No, he's alive." He was in denial.

Zikri pointed at Helmi's head, split like a coconut shell. "Alive? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Fandi shook his head again and took a step backwards. "No."

Rauf, who had began trembling, looked to both of them. "What are we going to do?"

"I don't know," Fandi and Zikri answered in unison.

"We have to tell the cops," Rauf said.

"What? NO!" Fandi shouted and lunged for him. Fandi grabbed Rauf by the collar and shook him. "WE ARE NOT GOING TO THE COPS!"

Rauf nodded, but he looked frightened. All of them looked the same.

The three boys paced in circles; they were on the verge of panicking and were beginning to argue. Finally they decided that each of them would swear to keep this a secret; they were to walk away and never talk about it again. They would forget this ever happened. They would forget that Helmi the fat boy ever existed. The three of them stood a few feet away from Helmi's body and stared at it solemnly. Already flies were beginning to alight on him.

"Should we bury him?" Rauf asked.

"I don't want to," Fandi said. Zikri agreed. "Let's just get the fuck out of here."

They made their way back up the slope, and all three of them kept looking back, as if secretly wishing to see any sign of life or movement from the fat boy. Finally they reached the top and ran along the path till they reached the exit. They found themselves on the edge of their kampung. There were few people around. They looked at each other, silently. They did not say anything, and they made their way back to their own houses.

--------------

All three of them slept badly that night. All three of them had nightmares about Helmi rising from death and killing them. Haunting them. All three of them woke up the next day visibly tired and shaken. At school, they were quiet. So quiet that the teachers were surprised, although they did not mind one bit. When recess time came, they met up at a quiet spot behind the school.

"Got a ciggie?" Zikri asked. Rauf and Fandi shook their heads. They sat in a circle. Their mouths felt dry.

"Do you thin-" Rauf started and Fandi shoved his head.

"DON'T!"

Rauf sulked. For the first time in a long while, none of them had anything interesting to say. The specter of Helmi hung above their heads like a guillotine. Zikri noticed Fandi was staring absently into space; surely he must be feeling the most guilt, as he was the one who had shoved Helmi down that slope, killing him. But all three of them had a part to play in the fat boys death. If anyone ever found out, all three of them would be facing time.

"I want to be alone," Fandi said, finally. He got up and left. Soon Rauf said he wanted to be alone as well. As it turns out, the three of them stayed out of each other’s way the entire day.

----------------------

The next day was a historic day for the three of them. For the first time in a long while, they refused to see each other, even at school. They could barely look at each other’s faces; especially Fandi. Fandi was feeling the most guilt amongst the three of them; he was the one who pushed Helmi down. Zikri and Rauf avoided each other and him, and they were quiet and brooding the entire day. Even when the school bell rang to mark the end of school, they kept to their separate ways, barely acknowledging each other.

Zikri spent the rest of the day cooped up in his room, sleeping until his father scolded him. Then he would sleep again.

Rauf went home and then went back out. He roamed the kampung roads absently, kicking the dust beneath his battered shoes.

Fandi though, did not go home straight away that day. Instead, when school closed for the day, he snuck back to the back and walked up that fateful pathway beneath the woods again. He found the spot where they had beaten Helmi up; there were broken branches, but the ground was already covered with freshly fallen leaves. He made his way down the slope, noting the disturbed foliage. It was hot and humid beneath the trees. When he found Helmi's body, he stopped. He sat himself down in front of it.

Helmi's body was covered with flies, and they buzzed in a thick black cloud above his corpse. Squinting his eyes for a closer look, Fandi could see small white splotches on his skin that were actually clusters of flies eggs. A rat nibbled at his exposed hand, paying no attention to Fandi sitting closeby. Fandi threw a rock and it scurried away. The blood that had pooled out of his split skull had turned an inky black, and it looked thick like molasses. Helmi's eyes, still open, were glazed. A fly crawled on the surface of his left-eye, grotesquely. There was a faint stench in the air.

Fandi stared at the corpse of the fat boy. Helmi's lifeless eyes seemed to be staring at him. Fandi found himself looking back into those empty windows and he broke into tears.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I didn't mean for it to go this far."

He hung his head between his legs and wiped his eyes. He looked at Helmi's corpse again. It seemed to stare accusingly at him.

"Forgive me!" Fandi bawled. "Forgive me..."

Fandi crawled towards the corpse, disturbing the swarm of flies. Up close, he noticed that there were already maggots crawling on Helmi's hand. Fandi brushed them away and grabbed Helmi's cold dead fingers and squeezed as if giving him a handshake.

"Forgive me Helmi," Fandi sobbed.

Fandi spent the next few hours just sitting next to the corpse. The flies began to light on him as well, but he let them. He was still crying, and disturbingly, he began to stroke Helmi's hand.

"Everything will be fine now," Fandi said. "You will not need to be afraid of us anymore..."

-----------------------

Helmi's disappearance was immediately noted. His worried parents reported it to the police, and the authorities began to look for him. Ironically, they started slow, and they had yet begun to question his schoolmates. Nonetheless, a search was carried out, but the police were focusing on Helmi's known haunts and places. Not one member of the kampung nor the police gave a thought to that path behind the school... maybe because nobody knew, or everyone had forgotten it was there.

The following day marked the second day that Zikri, Rauf and Fandi avoided each other. And again they spent the rest of the day doing their own things. They were all trying to cope with what they had done. Zikri shut out his troubles with sleep; Rauf forced his mind to relive the incident, maybe in an effort to desensitize himself to it. And Fandi went back to Helmi's corpse.

Fandi found Helmi in much the same state that he had been, with the exception of a stronger putrid stench and more maggots covering his body. There were maggots already eating away at his ears and nose and lips.

"Hello Helmi," Fandi said and set down his bag. He rummaged through it and took out a small plastic bag of currypuffs. "I brought you currypuffs."

Fandi ate one and 'gave' one to Helmi. At first he placed the currypuff on his rigid lips; for a few minutes he pretended that he was sharing some currypuffs with Helmi. But then he moved closer to the corpse and used his hands to open the mouth, and then he shoved the currypuff down, mashing it against Helmi's teeth which were already feeling loose. The stench was even stronger this close.

"There. Isn't it delicious? I bought them from the makcik down the road from our school," Fandi said. Fandi then spent the next few hours alternating between talking about school and crying. He told the corpse how today he did not see the other two boys, and how he felt that time was passing by so quickly. When it was evening and the light was getting darker, Fandi said goodbye to the corpse and kissed it on the forehead.

Fandi came again the following day, and this time there was a visible change in Helmi. His limbs were bent at an odd angle, and the skin was turning grey in patches. The maggots were now in the hundreds if not thousands, and still there were all manners of bugs swarming the corpse. The stench was off the scale. Fandi vomited this time. In the sweltering heat, perhaps it was too much. But still, he sat himself down next to the corpse and stroked Helmi's bloated fingers. Again, he bought some food and forced it down Helmi's mouth. The currypuff from the previous day was still there, but it was crawling with maggots that had made their way into his oral cavity. And again, Fandi finally left as evening drew near, saying goodbye to the corpse.

The next day Fandi smelled the corpse even when he was on top of the slope. And when he made his way down, he saw that the corpse had turned almost entirely grey and was bloated. Helmi's clothes were torn apart and his tongue stuck out of his open jaw. His eyes had sunken a little into the sockets. Again Fandi vomited, but still he stayed. This time he brought a pack of nasi lemak. He shoved it down Helmi's stuffed mouth, and the tongue suddenly burst with a hiss and a release of gas that smelled rotten and yellow. Fandi vomited again, this time on top of the corpse.

Eventually this became a routine for Fandi. As he grew more and more alienated from Zikri and Rauf, he spent more time with the corpse. Zikri and Rauf were becoming distant and introverted, sticking to themselves. Fandi took no notice of them. He kept visiting the rotting corpse of Helmi the fat boy, bringing food and telling the corpse stories and singing to it and crying to it. He became used to the strong stench, the clouds of flies, the squirming maggots and insects. Helmi's bloated corpse finally burst at the seams, releasing a cloud of foul smelling gas. When Fandi touched his sallow skin, it made an indentation. The flesh was going soft and it smelled sour and rancid.

On the eight day of his 'visits', Fandi did not bring any food. Rather, he came to talk to the corpse.

"Helmi..." he called out to it as he sat himself down, cross-legged. "I just wanted to apologize again to you, for everything that happened..."

The corpse's eyes had by now sunken in, leaving empty sockets seeping a yellowish fluid. The maggots, thousands of them, squirmed and writhed, making the body appear as if it is moving. Fandi stared into the empty eye sockets. He moved towards the corpse and kneeled beside it. He placed a hand on the belly that had once been so big; but it was now almost flat and soft; Fandi was vaguely reminded of a well-used mattress. He stroked the skin and it peeled away, revealing small maggots that had been feasting beneath.

Fandi broke into tears again. He sobbed hoarsely. "I'm sorry!! I'm sorry!!"

He laid his head on Helmi's now exposed ribcage. Flies buzzed around him. "What do you want me to do for you to forgive me?" Fandi asked no one in particular. The corpses face was now barely recognizable; the cheeks were sunken and the jaw hung at an awkward angle. Traces of food fell from the mouth. A fat maggot was crawling on the peeled back lips.

Fandi stared at the face of the boy he had once hated and vowed to 'get' at. Well, he had 'got' the fat boy, but it was barely a victory, so it seemed. Fandi fixated his eyes on the body. He scanned it from head to toe. He pushed the stomach with his hand and the flesh simply gave in; it was already mushy in consistency, no longer firm. Whitish yellow slime seeped from the torn skin. Fandi then grabbed the stomach and the flesh compacted in his fist; it oozed from between his fingers. He tore that lump of rotten meat away from the body and held it to his face. Crying, he looked at the face that had once belonged to a soul named Helmi.

"You will live in me," Fandi said to the corpse. At this point one would probably have guessed that Fandi had gone insane, and one would not be wrong. "You will live in me," Fandi said again.

He ate the piece of flesh. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed; but that was not required. The flesh was gooey and mushy, like the flesh of a very ripe mango or durian. Fandi gagged, but forced himself to swallow it. Then he tore another piece of rotting flesh and ate it. Then another. Then he vomited onto the corpse again, but he was determined not to stop. He began using both hands, tearing at the soft, decomposing meat and forcing it down his throat. Putrid flesh ran down his lips, staining his chin and chest. Fandi no longer cared that there were maggots and all sorts of bugs on the flesh. He went into a sort of frenzy, using his hands to tear away at the flesh of the corpse.

"You will live in me! You will live in me!" he cried as he ate. He lifted Helmi's rotted face and bit into the cheeks, swallowing the meat. Fandi pulled apart the already cracked skull and picked up pieces of rotted brain. All the time he cried "You will live in me!” He scraped away at the ribcage and scooped out the soupy insides with his hands. At one point he shoved his face into the body, licking at the juices that had accumulated at the bottom.

Finally he stopped. Fandi threw his head back and uttered a loud, wailing cry. He was covered in putrid flesh, blood and God knows what else. He stared at the corpse of Helmi, a corpse now torn and mangled. Consumed.

Fandi stood up. He looked at his hands and screamed. Then he passed out.

----------------------

Fandi was reported missing the day after he failed to come back home; the day he ate the corpse of Helmi the fat boy. The kampung folk and police were baffled. First it was Helmi, now this Affandi boy? Was there a connection? They began to investigate, and they found out about Fandi's relationship with Zikri and Rauf.

But four days later, Zikri committed suicide by hanging himself from a tree behind his house. He did it during the night, using a length of rope as a noose. He left no note behind. Rauf ran away from home soon after. He stole RM200 from his mother's purse, and left a note saying he was sorry. Police began to suspect foul play. They began a hunt for Rauf, whom they suspected (rightfully so) held crucial information that connected the disappearances of Helmi and Affandi, and the sudden suicide of Zikri. The kampung was shocked. These cases even made national news.

And then, one week later and about two weeks after the death of Helmi the Fat Boy, a group of curious school kids stumbled upon the path that Helmi had used so often, the path that had ultimately led to his demise and the foul luck of three other boys. The school kids, 5 fourteen-year-old boys, followed the path and noticed a foul smell coming from the bottom of the slopes. Intrigued, they followed the stench and came upon the small river, and there they found two bodies: one was already dried, but the other was that of a thin young man that was bloated and blackened, covered with flies and maggots.

The school kids ran as fast as they could and told their parents. The police were alerted, and soon the case of the disappearance of Helmi and Affandi was solved.

---------

Detachment

2009-05-18T11:37:00.000-07:00

warning: contains graphic scenes

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Kuala Lumpur
0634

I am a man with not much to do. I am not old; in fact I like to think I am in the prime of my life. I am thirty-five years old, handsome and wealthy. I know this for a fact; I dress well and all the pretty young things in Kuala Lumpur look my way whenever I pass them by. When my parents died years ago I inherited my fathers wealth and have been sitting comfortably on it ever since. I've never worked a minute of my life. I don't need to.

Which means that I have a lot of free time on my hands. And I like having lots of free time. Often I go out to play golf with some acquaintances. Other days, I'll hit the nightspots in the city and maybe bring a girl back home; two or three if they were really drunk. I don't care what they are: Chinese, Indian, Malay. I do make a point to be careful though; hence, if you take a look in the drawer beside my nine-thousand-ringgit bed, you'll find boxes of condoms and even contraceptive pills, which I got illegally. Sometimes I slip a pill or two in their food the next day, even when I was sure I put a hood on the previous night.

Sex isn't something I pursue often. Don't get me wrong; I like it, and as I speak, there's a gorgeous, naked Pan-Asian girl lying in my bed (she gave me a good time last night), but it doesn't give me as much pleasure as it should. I don't know. Maybe because I always have it easy. As I said, I'm a very good looking man, and I'm charming to the girls I take home.

I dress well, too. If you look inside the walk-in wardrobe of my penthouse you'll see rows and rows of immaculate suits, designer shirts and jeans and slacks, and a stack of shoes. My apparel must be worth hundreds of thousands. I particularly like putting on a designer sport-coat with a white t-shirt and a faded pair of jeans with polished black loafers. I have found that it works when picking up girls; I guess there must be something attractive about appearing casual but sophisticated.

But I digress; like I said, sex isn't as fun as it should be to me. I need a challenge. I need something that would goad and coax my sedentary mind. After years of doing nothing but leech of a hefty trust fund, I need outlets to satisfy my curiosity and urge to live life. I don't have friends. After my parents died I realized I don't need any. I'll get by fine just by myself. I think that friends are only there when you have something to offer them, or if you seem that you could be of benefit. So I discarded my friends a long time ago. I also don't believe in relationships for the same reasons. After all, with my looks and money, why stick with the same woman for years and years when I could have a fresh new one anytime I want?

People are overrated. I'm fine by myself. Always have been. But like I said, that also means that I'm pretty much bored all the time. I suppose I could go speeding down the highway in my convertible Ferrari. Or maybe I could jet off on my private jet to Langkawi and sail on my yacht. Those are things I do from time to time. But whenever I do it, I feel detached and soulless, like I was meant for something else.

I guess when you have everything in the world, nothing really feels that special anymore. Oh well.

I was watching an episode of CSI last night. The forensics team solved a murder where the victim had been decapitated and dismembered, and the body disposed of in a plastic bag in a dumpster. I watched that episode with fascination. I've always been intrigued by the crime of murder, and with death in general. I guess, ever since my parents died, death has always been a shadow over me. I remember that I didn't cry when I was told my parents were killed in a road accident. Maybe I just didn't care. Like I said, people are overrated.

But the subject of death, as I mentioned, has always been a morbid curiosity of mine. I like to surf the internet, looking for pictures of dead bodies and stuff. Its surprising what you can find. I remember watching the video of the execution of a soldier in the Middle-East; I watched it over and over again, often pausing at particular moments, like when the executioner first pierces the man's neck with the knife, and the moment he oscillates the knife to cut through the bone and siner and muscle of the American; I would rewind the video to listen to the screaming, when it would abruptly end as the knife cut through the windpipe.

The episode of CSI I watched, and my recollections of that execution video convinced me of one thing: we humans are nothing more than bags of meat and blood, just waiting to be torn apart. Either that's by nature or some artificial intervention, well, that's to be seen.

How could another human kill someone? And I don't mean the question in a terrified and shocked way; I mean it as an honest question: how could you kill someone? Murder must be a thrill to pull off; you know, the thrill of hunting a human being, the satisfaction and gratification of success, followed by the fear and worry of getting caught; and if you don't get caught, the sense of achievement. It must be exciting!

It made me think.

Hmmm.

Could I kill someone if I wanted to? What do I need to pull it off?

Hmm. What would be my motive? I have none, I think. Money? I have tons of it. I don't have a steady girlfriend, so I can't be a scorned lover. Besides, if I did have a girlfriend, it was highly unlikely that she would cheat on me, a handsome and wealthy young man. Spite? Hate? No, I don't hate anyone, nor am I spiteful. And one of the benefits of having no friends is that you also have no enemies.

So I guess I don't need a motive.

But who would I kill?

Children are easy. A naive, simple minded child could easily be enticed to accept a treat from me. Then I guess I could kidnap the little squirt and kill him somewhere else. But the downside with kids is that, when one of them goes missing, they tend to generate too much attention. And logically, the more attention, the likelier it is that I get caught. I wouldn't like that. What about old people then? They're almost dead anyway. I could be doing them a favor by speeding their journey to the afterlife. But then again old people would be boring to kill; they wouldn't put up a fight. That wouldn't be fun. And I'd also cross-out young men, as they're likely to fight back and overpower me. So that leaves young women then; in fact, I think young women would be the easiest people for me to kill. After all, what lass would resist my obvious attractions?

That's settled then.

But how would I go around doing it?

I'm good at picking up girls; in fact, that's probably the only skill I possess. It's not that hard anyway. All I need to do is show up at, you know, maybe Zouk or wherever in my Ferrari. And then I'd start buying drinks and chat them up. Promise them a good time. Give me one hour. I think by the end of the night, I could have a pretty young thing home with me. Obviously I'd need to sex her up first to make her feel easy. That's what drinks and sex are for then.

Okay, I got that figured out. When should I kill her? I don't want to run the risk of her screaming or making a bolt for the door or something... so the most convenient option would be to kill her when she's asleep. Yes! That is the best way to do this. What should I use? Well, I don't have a gun, so shooting is out of the question. Guns are also loud, which I don't like. I have a set of golf clubs; I could bludgeon her skull while she was sleeping. Then again, I don't want to risk damaging my set which is worth thousands. I also have an expensive knife-set, hanging on a magnetic rack, in the kitchen. But wouldn't that taint my knives? What if I don't clean them properly and then I use it on my food and the food gets contaminated?

I have these thoughts as I stand at my penthouse window in the early morning, looking at Kuala Lumpur come to life. In my bed lies the Pan-Asian girl. I forgot her name; it was Marissa or Maria or something. I walk back to my bedroom and watch her smooth naked body. Her breasts slowly rises and falls as she breathes. I am a bit aroused. I sit on the bed beside her and caress her neck. Her skin is very smooth, and she looks very comfortable as she sleeps on my nine-thousand-dollar bed. Well, she should. The bed was hand-made by expert craftsmen. The wooden frame is rich and precisely cut.

Craftsmen. Bed. Wooden. Craftsmen... Bed... Wooden....

An idea is brought to life inside my head. Eureka!

I leave the bedroom and rummage through a storage room. I am looking for a few things.. there they are! Like I said before, I have plenty of spare time, and I think a year ago I suddenly wanted to take carpenting as a hobby and bought a cordless nail gun and a small cordless chainsaw as well as a cordless drill. But before the hobby took off, my interest waned (I found it boring even before I started) so the tools were left to collect dust in their boxes in my storage room. I open the boxes and check the charges. The batteries on the power tools were fine. I carry all three of them to the bedroom. They are quite heavy. I place them gently on the floor beside the bed and sit myself.

Marissa-or-Maria is beautiful, I have to give her that. I caress her neck again and her body. She smiles in her sleep. I smile myself. I almost want to apologize, but what for? People are overrated. I turn my attention back to my tools... and pick up the drill. There is already a tip on it.

I place the tip gently on her forehead; she must have felt the pressure of the small point. She opens her eyes, and thats when I press the switch. The drills whirrs to life and I press down with not much pressure. The tip buries itself into Marissa-or-Maria's forehead; flecks of skin and bone spatter me in the face. Her eyes bulge open but she does not scream; instead her jaws lock up and I see her hands grip the sheets. Her body writhes. I take my finger off the switch and place the drill on the floor.

The girl wasn't moving at all; but I don't know if she is dead or not. Blood squirts out in a small, high pressure jet from the hole between her eyes.

I look at her, feeling an odd sense of detachment.

Was that it? I killed her? That was murder?

Hmh.

Doesn't seem like much. So I pick up the nail gun, open her mouth and shoot, oh I don't know, maybe a dozen nails into the back of her throat. Her head jolts with every nail I fire, but I guess she must be dead as there's no other reaction from her at all.

I frown. This isn't as exciting as I thought it would be. In fact, for me, this is just like sex.

Sigh. Well, I might as well go all the way then. I turn on the small cordless chainsaw and swipe it across her throat; the blade cut through her neck so easily, it was almost comical. Her head rolls down the side and drops to the floor with a dull thud. Blood splatters my feet and is gushing out from her stump of a neck.

I sigh inwardly as I just realized that this will make a huge mess in my RM2 million penthouse.

Oh well. Let's get on with this.

Using the chainsaw, I cut off her limbs at every joint. Skin and muscle offer very little resistance the powered tool. The bedsheet is now pooling with blood, soaking red. Lazily, I push the blade of the chainsaw through her stomach, causing her guts to splatter all around me.

Dammit this is a mess. I did not think about this aspect.

Now Marissa-or-Maria is lying in, oh, maybe about sixteen or twenty pieces on my bed. I switch off the chainsaw and throw it aside. I stand beside the bed, looking at the mess I made. What now? What should I do with the bits and pieces? Burn them? Throw them away?

Sigh. That seems like so much work! And the killing wasn't even as fun or exlihirating as I thought it was going to be!

I guess that means life has nothing to offer me anymore, not if taking it away from someone else is this boring.

I am covered in blood. I almost slip in a puddle of the stuff as I walk out the bedroom. I make myself a cup of coffee and sit down on the sofa, and I grumble to myself as I realize I just left a bloody trail of footprints on the floor.. and now my sofa is stained as well. Furthermore, I'd have to dispose of the body!

Murder isn't worth all this work, I think. I began feeling a bit annoyed with myself. I hate doing chores. And killing the girl just left me with a bunch of chores to do: clean the bed, floor, sofa, not to mention think of a way to dispose of her remains.

This is irritating me. I pick up the phone and call the police. A woman answers and I tell her I want to report a murder. At first she almost doesn't believe me. But then I tell her again that someone has been killed and I give my address (shouldn't she already know this? Don't the cops have a system or something?).

The lady on the phone tells me to stay where I was and that some policemen would be coming over. I say okay and hang up. I go up to unlock the door, drink my coffee and wait for the cops. About fifteen minutes later there is knock on my door. I tell them to come in. I don't want to get up.

There were 3 police officers and also the security guard to my condominium complex. They were about to say something when they saw me sitting on the sofa, drinking coffee and covered in blood. I see one of the police officers look at the trail of bloody footprints I left. The policemen suddenly raise their pistols and point it at me.

I raise my cup of coffee to them and motion towards the bedroom.

"She's in there," I say to the frankly bewildered men in uniform standing in the doorway. "It's a bit of mess though, so watch where you step."

"DON'T MOVE!", shouts one of the policemen; he had a thick moustache and small, bright eyes. But he looks scared.

I take another sip of coffee.

"Move?" I say. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm too tired. I'm telling you boys, murder isn't as thrilling as the TV shows crack it up to be. It's messy and a waste of energy. Worst of all? It's boring."

------------

All That Alcohol Will Kill You

2009-01-31T04:05:00.000-08:00

------

Tony was a drunk. Actually, he is a drunk. Every night without fail his face will show up at this nondescript bar in Klang. Every night. Good for him then that he does not drive or ride a bike. He just lives a few blocks away at a cheap flat, which he shared with two other, almost-as- low him housemates.

Together they somehow managed to pay the bills and rent every month, but not always on time. Tony worked at a factory near Port Klang, doing manual labor for not much cash. He did not smoke or sleep around with hookers. His vice is drink. Lots of it.

Actually Tony is not even his real name, though the bartender and fellow bar patrons know him by it. His real name is Roslan Chua Abdullah. He was the product of a mixed marriage, his father Chinese. So he had inherited the looks, and used it to his advantage to buy alcohol.

Tony started drinking at age 15, under the influence of his not-so-bright seniors in school. At first it was just shandy; but that led to his curiosity for beer, then spirits… and the rest, in Tony’s case, is a woozy history of late night outs and vomit on the stairs. His parents never knew that he drank; and when they had perished in a road accident years ago, Tony just used that as an excuse to drink some more.

“My parents died, I'm drowning out my sorrow”, he would say to anyone who seemed to have a look of concern the moment he has a sixth beer in a row.

It did not take long for him to be friends with the bottle; and soon enough he fell in love with hard liquor, in various flavors and forms.

“Lucky you know you don’t drive car aaa, if not you become like last time that TV commercial, “Jeff, Jeff, I killed my brader, hahaha”, his bar stool buddies would jest. Tony would smirk and just keep on downing the elixir of liver damage.

With all that drinking he also made frequent trips to the restroom. When he was conscious enough he would amuse himself while peeing, reading bathroom graffiti or having a laugh at crudely drawn pictures of cocks and naked ladies. Then he would just go back to drinking.

On any given night Tony probably drinks 4 beers, maybe a whisky, and then a few shots of vodka. But he did not have money to afford the more expensive drinks, and often settled for cheap knock-off liquors that were probably 70% alcohol.

Perhaps the best thing one could say about his drinking habit is that he was not the kind of drunk who’d go off talking to himself or harass people. He was a quiet drunk, a rare breed, who would just walk out of the bar in a clumsy and staggered walk when his money ran out. But often he’d ask for a small bottle of whatever liquor he could afford, for ‘good luck’.

That was Tony.

He supposed he would die of liver damage, and that was a thought that depressed him, along with the fact that he was 40 years old, had a crap job and had never known the pleasures of a woman. To drown his sorrows, he drank some more. It defeats the purpose, but to Tony, he thinks that since you’re already there, why not go all the way.

He was a simple man, really. Eat, Work, Sleep, Drink, and Drink some more. He does not bother or trouble anybody with his drinks anyway. When he sits at the bar, he sits alone. The bartender seems to ignore him most of the time, except when he’s asking for a drink. It’s always been that way. For the record, Tony does not like talking to people much anyway.

So it was annoying one night when as he sat at the bar, nursing his third bottle of beer, a man came and sat beside him, so close their shoulders touched. Tony turned his head with an expression that said ‘do you mind’ on his face. He found the man staring straight back at him.

“What do you want?” Tony said. He could smell the alcohol on his own breath. The man stared at him. What’s wrong with his eyes? Tony thought. They look like they’re wonky. I’ve only had three beers. Indeed the stranger’s eyes were unusual. The colors are all wrong, Tony thought. His whites are black and his blacks are… red? Must be the light in this place. Tony looked back at the stranger, who was dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans. He wore spectacles and had long, messy hair that fell on his face. Tony noticed the letters ‘EVI’ on the stalks of his spectacles, but could not make out the rest of the word as the man’s long hair obscured him.

“I said what do you want? Quit staring unless you wanna buy me a drink”, Tony said and went back to his beer.

“Oh but I am buying you a drink” the man said; his voice was husky and rasping. Tony turned to him. “Because you look like a man who can take a drink. And I am a generous man with too much money in my pocket tonight. And I don’t like this place; it’s too dodgy. So I wanna spend this cash before someone mugs me”

The stranger suddenly produced a stack of RM100 bills in each hand. As drunk as he was, Tony still had some awareness in him. Maybe everyone would be wary when a stranger with handfuls of money suddenly wanted to buy you drinks. Tony raised an eyebrow at the guy.

“I'm not a faggot if that’s what you’re looking for”, Tony said. He was well aware of rich gays who prowled bars looking for someone drunk or greedy enough.

The stranger laughed, a high, snarling laugh. And was that smoke coming out of his mouth? Maybe he had a cigarette. Except he didn’t.

“Of course you’re not”, he said. “I just want you to drink: here, have this money”

The man shoved the notes in Tony’s hand. Tony glanced at them and did a rough calculation. There had to, what, RM2000? RM3000? What in the world is with this guy? Tony stared at the man, who now stood a bit further from him. The man had a strange posture, his shoulders slumped and hunched forward, but he was tall. And Tony cannot help but notice his eyes. His red eyes.

“Who are you? What’s all this?” Tony said, a bit bewildered. Then suddenly he belched, and the stranger tilted his head sideways and laughed again. In a swift step, the stranger was next to him again and put an arm around his shoulders.

“I am just someone who knows what you want; now drink, be merry; and know this, from now on, you’ll never run out of money again”, the man said, whispering. Tony noticed the man radiated a heat; in fact he could feel his arm around his shoulder was sort of giving of a heat, like he had a high fever. Just as Tony wanted to push the arm away, the stranger pulled it back.

“Just drink. A word of warning though; too much alcohol will kill you”, the man said. Tony stared at him, then scoffs. Well, rezeki jangan di tolak, right? He raises his hand and calls for the bartender. The bartender comes to his seat and asks if he wants another cold one.

“Yeah. Actually pour me a shot of Jack Daniels, this guy here is buying apparently”

The bartender began pours Tony a drink. “What guy?”

“That guy… here…” but then Tony notices the man had gone. But he still had that load of money in his hands. Baffled, he turns back to the bartender and hands him the money for the drink. “Never mind”.

He ended up spending about RM1000 in drinks that night; the most he’s ever spent on. He was so drunk he passed out on the street outside the bar and did not make it home. He woke up a few hours later when he upchucked about a bucket of vomit on the sidewalk. But a magical thing happened when he finally got home: he had money. Lots of it. He simply opened his closet and money came tumbling out. Tony was overjoyed. What in the world happened last night? He thought. But screw it, I'm rich!

Now, maybe a normal person would have turned the money to the police because of it’s unexplained origin, or if he was greedy enough he would splurge on himself, and maybe get another lifestyle, one with fast cars and luxury condos. But Tony was not that kind of man. He had long ago forsaken the thought of luxury. So he decided to spend that money the Tony way: with drinks.

From that day forward, Tony spent almost all the time at the bar. Even the bartender was starting to feel odd, but because Tony was paying with real money, he kept quiet. Tony drank all manners of wonderful intoxicating drinks. He would drink until he vomited, then he would get sleep, and get over the hangovers and head back to the bar. He did not show up to work for a week, and when he did show up, he stank of alcohol and was drunk. Unsurprisingly he was fired.
Tony did not care though. Every morning he would wake up to see that his money was still there by the thousands. Holy shit that weirdo at the bar must have sent me all this cash, he thought. But he never thought where that money came from, and he somehow managed to keep it secret from his housemates.

Tony went on a month long drinking binge. When he was sober he thought to himself that he was on a suicide run, and that one day someone will find his bloated body in a street or at home and a post-mortem would determine his cause of death alcohol poisoning. But he did not care. He stopped caring a long time ago. All he wanted to do was drink, and drink he did. He drank like there was no tomorrow.

One night he was so drunk he vomited on the bar, much to the disgust and anger of the bartender and manager. They threw him out, and for the first time Tony made his voice heard. He shouted curses at the bar and bar patrons, and walked drunkenly along the street, his feet unsteady, his body swaying. He vomited again. He checked his pockets and found another RM200 in there.

“I'm getting a drink”, he said out loud, to no one in particular. He found a 24-hour convenience store and bought 5 bottles of cold vodka and a six-pack of beer. The cashier looked frightened of him. The bill came to RM80, but Tony just dumped all RM200 at the cashier and told him to ‘keep the change’. He collected his drinks and began walking down the street again, drinking his bounty one by one.

He turned into an alley, which he often used as a shortcut to get back to his flat. The alley was a narrow one-way street that ran through the middle of the shop lots. He began to sing loudly in the darkness, his words slurred and coarse. Suddenly he vomited again, spraying a stream of light, amber colored liquid through his mouth and nose. It stank of alcohol, sickly sweet. Tony wiped his mouth and nose with his shirt, but then he vomited again.

Argh, all those drinks wasted, he thought. He leaned on a wall, feeling queasy. Suddenly he felt liquid seeping out of his nose, and then his ears. And then all at once, the liquid began to leak from his eyes and ass and penis. He vomited again, spewing out more amber liquid. This time the vomit was accompanied by a huge pain in his stomach, and the vomit burned his throat coming out, a mixture of alcohol and stomach acid and bile.

What’s going on? What’s this? Tony thought as he crashed to the tarmac. His eyes stung and his nose was runny, and he felt like he had the worst case of diarrhea. Fluid flowed in a steady stream from his penis, and he felt it run out of his asshole and other body orifices.

“Gelp”, he said, but the liquid that poured out of his mouth choked his voice. He crawled on the street. “Glrrulp”, he said.

His clothes were now drenched with whatever liquid it was that was literally pouring out of his body. He felt panicked all of a sudden. He crashed his body to the ground, writhing because the fluid not just poured out, but it burned his insides. He tried to scream for help and attention but could not; he was choking on the burning liquid, which, to his horror, he now realized tasted and smelled exactly like very strong vodka. Every time he tried to speak his words were garbled and his mouth would bubble. Suddenly he saw a pair of feet, clad in white shoes, walking towards him.

Finally, help!

The feet stopped near his head, and Tony looked up to see the face of the man he had met at the bar sometime ago. He was still dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, and his eyes were still strangely colored: blacks instead of whites, and the irises a deep red that seemed to glow. This time Tony felt a bolt of fear going through his spine.

The stranger smiled as he looked down upon Tony, revealing pointed teeth. He squatted down to get closer.

“How’s your drink?” he said and threw his head back in laughter. Tony had stopped writhing; he was fatigued, yet still the liquid – no, vodka – poured out of every orifice on his body. He was soaked, and laid in a puddle of the stuff. The stranger stopped laughing. Tony saw that his body was again giving off that heat, and this time he could actually see smoke!

Oh God save me, Tony thought.

“Oh now you want salvation from God? Too late. Heheh. Heheh”.

Tony’s eyes widened in fear. Had the man read his thoughts? Who was this person?

“I am Eddtheone”, the man said, answering the frightened Tony. “I told you all that alcohol would kill you. Heheh. Heheh. But you know the best thing about alcohol Tony?”

The man, if he was one, lifted a hand, and to Tony’s horror the hand produced a red fire. The man played with his fingers, and the flames danced and flickered. Tony tried to scream.

“Graalllgggg!!” was all that Tony could produce. The vodka was still seeping and pouring out of his body. The strange man, that ‘Eddtheone’, laughed again.

“The best thing about alcohol is that it burns" he said and touched his flaming hand to Tony’s body. Tony screamed, finally producing a voice as the alcohol around, on and inside him caught fire. He rolled and writhed in agony as the flames scorched his skin; he could feel the fire inside him, burning up all the alcohol. He still managed to see the strange man, that Eddtheone standing over him, but then the stranger seemed to melt into the tarmac, as if he was sinking into quicksand. Tony’s wide, frightened eyes saw him one last moment just before his head disappeared into the ground, the red eyes glowing with fire and a cruel malignant smile carved on his lips. As it turns out, that was the last thing Tony ever saw.

The next morning, a shopkeeper taking out the trash found Tony’s charred body, which was missing a hand. When the police and crime scene investigators came, they found the hand about 50 meters from the spot Tony died; it too was charred black. Someone had used it as a macabre charcoal pencil to write the words ‘everything burns’ on the wall.

---

It's Just The Matter Of Making The Right Choice

2009-01-24T13:48:00.000-08:00

*disclaimer: containts graphic scenes. reader discretion is advised.

---

Kasandra hated office buildings after hours.

For some reason the dull and tedium of an office turns dreadful and malignant the moment the last person leaves the premises and switches off the light. She hated the way everyday mundane objects like desk lamps and stationery holders cast shadows that looked like they had jaws and talons, and how said shadows seemed to follow her around every time the angle of light changes from outside. Kasandra hated that the air vents seem to amplify the sounds of rats and cockroaches or whatever pests reside in the walls of the building.

But more than that, she hated that she had been asked to come here tonight. Okay, maybe not asked, but forced to come here. It was not even where she worked at: she was a freelance writer, selling dodgy romances and pulp horrors to whatever scandalous magazine or publication that needs to fill its pages with heaving breasts and buckets of blood. Instead her husband had asked (forced) her to come by his office, at 11 o'clock in the night.

"Be here at eleven pee-em", he had said when he called her earlier in the evening. "I will be waiting. Do not disappoint me"

How's that for a husband? Kasandra thought, irritated. But she could not deny she was afraid, mostly because she had an idea what this whole cloak and dagger thing was all about. You see, Kasandra married her husband a few years ago. He was 17 years older than she was, and a wealthy entrepreneur with good connections to local politicians and the rich bastards club. But she was younger back then, full of delusions and aspirations to be a trophy wife, and married the fucker mostly for his money.

At the beginning it was exactly what she wanted it to be. She drove expensive cars, wore the latest couture, mingled with the prettiest celebrities. All she had to do in return was pleasure the man about once a week, or follow him to functions. For the most part, he did not really seem to care about her anyway.

But that soon got boring for her young soul. Plus, she had to admit sleeping with a balding man with a hairy back and even hairier ass was less appealing than being able to spend his money.

Her husband, Zakaria, forbade her from working. So she began writing those bits of stories and sold them off to the pulp magazines, making some side income from the macabre fascinations Malaysians seem to have with tales of people rising from the grave and stories of teenagers releasing their inhibitions in the name of love.

But that too, became boring. So she started hanging out outside the house more and more, and that was how she had met Imran. Now Imran then, that was a keeper. Fit as a thoroughbred horse, lean and with the libido of an Arabian prince. Kasandra had taken to him straight away. She supposed that would make her Imran's sugar mommy, but she did not deny she had tender feelings for the young man. In fact she loved him because he was everything her husband was not. They met about twice a week in secret, sometimes four times if she was especially randy, at an apartment bought under Imran's name but with Kasandra's husbands' money.

Maybe that was a mistake, now she thought. Maybe Zakaria had found out about her infidelity through, of all places, the account books and property deals. In fact, she was sure of it.

As much as Kasandra loathed her husband and loved his money, she was also slightly afraid of him. He was after all, a powerful man, with good connections. And annoyingly he was also nice to her family. Part of the reason she had married Zakaria was because her father was his friend and occasional business colleague. At the time Zakaria was a widower, and it was Kasandra's father that had offered her hand in marriage to him.

She supposed she was a bit naive back then, and could have declined. But the lure of a wealthy and easy life was too much for her. But if indeed Zakaria has found out her secret, she was in for a lot of trouble. She was more concerned about her family now: what would they say?

Kasandra walked into the office building where her husband ran his business. It was a 4-story lot in a busy commerce area, which Zakaria had aptly named 'Wisma Zakaria'. The four floors of the building each were dedicated to the branches of his company: engineering, shipping, maintenance supplies and printing. The building was dark; of course it was, it was bloody near 11pm. Who would be here anyway? But as she had approached the building in her car she saw an office at the top floor had lights on. Zakaria's office, of course. His eagle's nest, his pedestal upon where he watched his business grow.

Kasandra climbed the stairs up. She was dressed in a t-shirt and track bottoms, with a denim jacket on top. She was fit for a 36-year-old woman. When she reached the top office she pressed the buzzer to let Zakaria know she had arrived. A voice on the intercom said, "Come in and come straight to the meeting room". The door opened. Kasandra scanned the office, feeling more than a little nervous now. She was sure Zakaria had found out about her shenanigans with Imran. She saw only two lights were on in the office: one emanated from Zakaria's private room, whilst the other was from the meeting room. She made her way there, and knocked on the door before twisting the doorknob. The door made a cringe-inducing creak as it opened, the sound akin to a drowning cat.

The meeting room has a long oval table, with 16 seats around it. The table was a high quality mahogany item, and looked and felt expensive, which it was. But right now there was nobody seated at the table except her husband, who sat at the far end. There were two items in front of him but she could not make out what they were. The fluorescent lights felt harshly bright, stinging her eyes. Kasandra stood in front of the door as it closed, unsure of what to do.

"Lock the door behind you" said Zakaria, in an ominous, deadly tone. "Now take a seat". He motioned to the seat directly in front of him. Kasandra made her way there, and felt a chill run up her spine when she saw that one of the items in front of Zakaria was a black revolver that seemed to scream Death. The other item was a cell phone. Her palms were sweaty and clammy as she sat herself down, her legs slightly trembling. Though it was already too late, she thought then she should not have had an affair with Imran, even if he was lean and great in bed. Zakaria fished out a pack of Marlboro's from his shirt pocket and lit a fag. He offered one to her, but she declined. A smoke was not the most pressing matter on her mind right now.

Zakaria took a long drag on his ciggie, and blew the smoke out in a long thin stream, his eyes staring into space. "Do you know why I called you here?"

"No", she said. Zakaria laughed.

"Oh come on", he said. "Don't insult my intelligence. Of course you know. You're here because of something you did. Now tell me what it is"

Kasandra sighed. "You know about the apartment I bought"

"Yes! Bravo! More precisely, I know about what's going on at the apartment you bought. How do I know? Well, let's just say I'm well connected, with eyes and ears all over the place. After all, I did not make my fortune of which you so lovingly spend by being a tool. Now tell me, what's his name?"

Zakaria stood up, still smoking the cigarette. He put his hands behind his back, like he was a university lecturer asking a rhetorical question.

"Imran", Kasandra said. Her eyes kept looking at the gun on the table. The muzzle seemed to be pointing straight at her. It lay there, cold steel and death.

"Imran", Zakaria said and stroked his chin. "Is he a good fucker?"

"What?"

WHUPP! Zakaria's open palm hit the side of her face. The pain was loud, and Kasandra immediately put a hand to the spot. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

"Is he a good fucker? Does he hit the spot, so to speak?” Zakaria said this softly, which was somehow worse. "Answer me or I'll hit you again"

Kasandra stared at him. She forced herself to answer. "Yes"

"Yes what?"

"Yes he is"

"Is what?"

"......"

The next hit was not a slap, but a fist to her eye. For a moment her world went spinning, and when she regained herself she felt her right eye begin to swell. It was excruciating. She begins to cry, out of pain if not fear or guilt. "Yes, he is a good... fucker", she said. Zakaria smiled, a toothy grin that made him look like an angry monkey. He motioned for her to stand up. She complied, out of her desire to avoid getting hit.

"Now", Zakaria said as he walked to stand beside her. Suddenly he grabbed her from behind, and squeezed her breasts so hard she cried out it pain. Zakaria sniffed at her neck like a dog, and he rammed one hand down Kasandra's pants and molested her. His rough fingers felt like scaly snakes grating their way inside her. She moaned, but not out of pleasure. This was somehow worse that getting punched.

"I suppose Imran is gentler than this, is he? Is he?"

Kasandra could only nod; she was trying to stand the pain. She felt like her breast could burst from the pressure the man was inflicting on her.

"I also guess that he's got a bigger dick than me?” Zakaria asked again and this time bit down on her neck, hard and drew blood. Again Kasandra could not say anything.

"Do you want to scream my sweet? Go ahead. No one will hear you. It's a meeting room, pretty much insulated"

Finally Zakaria let her go and shoved her from behind. She crashed onto the meeting table, feeling a small reprieve from the pain. But she knew he was not done. Zakaria grabbed her shoulders and turned her around. He kissed her mouth savagely and bit on her lip, drawing blood. Kasandra tried to struggle but the man overpowered her. He slapped her twice, left to right, splitting her lips and widening the cut made by his teeth. Kasandra felt powerless... in a way she also felt she deserved this. Zakaria pulled off the track bottoms she wore.

"Bitch", he said, his voice devoid of emotion. Just a flat "Bitch". He punched her in the stomach, and Kasandra felt her breath taken away from her. She sat up and vomited to the side.

"Now you've made a mess, dirty bitch. I'll show you who's a good fucker"

He slapped her face again, hard. The sound it made seemed to echo in the room. Kasandra could taste the warm coppery blood, her blood, in her mouth. She spat, but this angered Zakaria and he punched her in the stomach again. Then she heard a zipper being undone and knew he had taken off his trousers. As she felt Zakaria pulling down her panties and forcing himself on her, Kasandra just stared at the ceiling, half stunned by the physical abuse. She felt him move, but there was no sensation. She just felt numb and used. Zakaria gave it to her rough, chafing her bare buttocks on the wooden surface. After a few minutes he was done. You're the epitome of quickie aren't you, she thought, and that made her smile a little, as ridiculous as that sounds. But Zakaria did not see the smile, maybe because her mouth was bloody and bruised, the lips already swollen. Had he seen the slight upturn of her lips, he'd probably hit her some more.

Kasandra lay still on the table. Her tears fell from the sides of her eyes, but she was not sobbing. She felt humiliated and violated, guilty and angry at the same time. At that moment all she could think of was white noise and static, like a TV that had gone bust. And then more pain as Zakaria pulled her up and slapped her face hard several times. One of her eyes was swollen as she saw nothing but stars in that one; but the other eye still saw clearly, and what she saw in Zakaria's face was nothing. The man seemed stone cold.

"Now put your pants back on. And do it fast", Zakaria ordered her, tossing her pants. She stood up and glanced at her lower body. There were bruises, and she thought she was bleeding from her vagina. But she put on her pants like she was told.

"Sit down", Zakaria said. "You're lucky you know. In the old days they would have stoned you, in public. Everyone would know what a filthy slut you are. A whore. A whore who takes his man's money and funnels it into a little boy toy"

Kasandra sat down, wincing as the pain shot through her body, sending her nerves into overload. Zakaria tossed her a handkerchief and motioned for her to clean herself up a little. She did. At the moment she felt it was no use to fight back and garner more abuse. Zakaria went back to his seat in front of her. He lit another cigarette. With a flick of his chin, he motioned to the gun and the phone on the table.

"See that. Do you?"

Kasandra nodded. Zakaria bent down by his chair and brought up a small notebook computer. He turned it on as he spoke to Kasandra.

"I've decided I'm going to give you a choice. But first let me show you something. I suppose I could have shown you this earlier, but I think if I had, you would have put up too much of a struggle and cause a ruckus. But anyway, look"

He turned the computer to face Kasandra. On the screen was a picture of an office; his office, Kasandra recognized. Then she saw a body lying on the floor... there was a pool of blood around the head. Kasandra squinted hard, then felt her heart jump to her mouth as she recognized the dead body.

"You killed Imran" she said, and now the tears she shed were tears of sadness. She looked at Zakaria, who only shrugged.

"Maybe. But first you have to hear me out. You see, life is about making choices. You weigh the pros and cons of these choices, then you make it. In the end, it's just the matter of making the right choice. I made the choice to eliminate Mr Gooddick here. Which brings me to my proposition"

He slammed the lid of the computer down and set it aside. Using both hands, he pushed the gun and phone towards Kasandra.

"In my right hand is the gun that killed your loverboy. There's five bullets left. The poor bastard came here on the pretense that I would pay him off. Foolish kid. In my right is a cell phone that's never been used"

Kasandra stared at him. She was mourning the loss of Imran; he did not deserve to be dead for her sins. At the same time she began to feel bits of anger, which both comforted her and gave her some strength. Zakaria went on talking.

"I'm going to give you these two items and you will go to my office. The choice you have to make is this: either you shoot yourself in the head with the gun, or you use the phone to call your parent's and confess to them what a naughty little girl you've been. Either way is fine by me. Think of it: either way, your parent's will suffer the fact they have a slutchild, dead or alive. And what would your father think? He's such a good friend of mine. And don't you worry about police either. I have my contacts in PDRM. All I have to say was that I was alerted to a break in at my office, and caught little loverboy there assaulting you, and he shot at you, and I fought with him and shot at him back. Self-defense. Sounds a bit 'meh' but I assure you my friends at PDRM will stand by my story.

So; what shall it be then? Would you choose death before dishonor, or will you rather let your beloved family spend their lives knowing they fostered a slut, a whore as a child. It's your choice. Just the matter of which one is right."

Kasandra stared at him; now she was feeling angry. He was blackmailing her into making a decision that has no good consequence. Her body ached with the bruises and cuts Zakaria inflicted, but the anger was starting to dull it away.

"Now get up"

She complied. He opened the door for her and walked behind her to his own office. All the time he had a gun pointed at her back to make sure she did not do anything funny. When they reached his office she saw Imran's body limp on the floor, a gaping bullet wound at the side of his head. Poor Imran, she thought. Then suddenly Zakaria hit her from behind, and she dropped to her knees. Zakaria tossed the gun and the phone on the desk.

"Now I trust you will make the right choice. But make it quick. I have my own mistress I need to get back to", he said and slammed the door shut. Kasandra slowly stood up. She glanced at the weapon and phone on the table, and at the body of her lover on the floor. Finally she let loose the floodgates and cried her heart out.

----------------

Zakaria shut the door and sat on his secretary's desk. He was banging the secretary as a matter of fact. A tight Chinese girl, fresh from college, so eager to make a mark in the business world. Zakaria leaned on the desk and lit another cigarette. He had never felt so good. In fact, banging up his wife in the meeting room just now had turned him on greatly. Maybe I should try it with Jessica later, he mused. He heard the whimpering sobs of his wife in the office. Now she cries, stupid bitch, he thought. Then after a few minutes the cries faded. There was a long silence. Zakaria glanced at his watch. Was she calling her family? Surely the bitch did not want to put a slug in her head. Or maybe she would after all.

The silence perhaps lasted for ten or fifteen minutes. Zakaria was getting impatient. But just as soon as he was going to check his watch, a loud bang was heard from his office, and then the sound of something heavy dropping to the floor. Whump.

Oh, that solves it then, Zakaria thought. He finished his third cigarette in a row and walked casually to his office. He'd thought he'd gloat first, and maybe have a quick wank to celebrate. He was smiling as he opened the door. But he noticed then that the loverboy's body had been displaced, and there was another bullet wound in the stomach.

Odd, I thought I just shot him in the head? And where's the bitch?

As an answer came two gunshots; one bullet smashed his left kneecap as it entered from behind, causing him to tumble as his leg lost support, while the other bullet pierced his stomach and exited in a spray of blood, tearing a hole in his expensive Ralph Lauren polo shirt. Zakaria stumbled forwards, clutching the wound at his stomach, which immediately began bleeding profusely. The pain was massive, debilitating; his shattered knee felt like there were a thousand rusty nails grinding into his flesh. He twisted his body around, his face a mask of agony. He saw Kasandra standing over him, her face streaked with blood and tears.

"I have two bullets left", she said. She was pointing the gun at him. "And you're right, it's all about making the right choice"

She walked over to him and plucked out the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "I think I'll have that smoke after all", she said and lit one cigarette. She closed the door behind her and leaned on it. Zakaria lay on the floor, his body weak from the blood loss. He looked at Kasandra take one long drag after the other.

"You see, you old piece of shit", she said. "You're too narrow minded. Often in life there are more than just two choices. Sometimes there's thousands. But in this case, all I needed was a third. And I figured it out as I was crying just now, looking at Imran's beautiful face, though half of it is missing. The third choice was simply to turn the tables on you. Why should I listen to you? You're an egotistical fuck, so I figured you'd like to see my dead body if I took the bullet. And hey, guess what, a dead body isn't so heavy after all. See what I did? All I did was lift Imran's tight butt off the floor, shot him in the belly and let him drop. And lo and behold! In comes fucking Zakaria with his pencil dick and love handles to see his spoils of war."

She took another drag on the cigarette. "You're probably thinking I can't get away with this. And you'd be right. I accounted for that in my little ad hoc plan here. I figured I had nothing more to live for anyway. So might as well I take it all the way. Funny how sometimes spontaneity works out right?"

Zakaria stared at her, his vision growing blurry. Then he saw Kasandra walking towards him. Her clothes were bloodstained and she walked with an odd gait, perhaps because her crotch hurt. Then she stood over him, still pointing the gun.

"What are you gonna do?” he asked, though he knew the answer to that question well enough. Suddenly Kasandra stamped her foot hard on his wounded knee, and the pain was so intense his back arched and he bit off half of his tongue; the piece of flesh fell with a soft wet thud on the carpeted floor. She kicked him in the stomach, and stream of blood shot out of the bullet wound. Then Kasandra kneeled by his side and stubbed out the burning cigarette in his left eye. Zakaria tried to scream but couldn't. His jaws were locked up. Kasandra shoved his body, turning him over onto his stomach. He felt his pants being pulled off, and then Zakaria felt the cold steel of the gun's barrel being rammed up his asshole in one violent thrust.

"How's this for getting fucked?” Kasandra said and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled sound and Zakaria felt something run up his body, triggering every pain receptor he had. He gasped, but was clearly still alive. He felt the gun slide out of his anus and felt warm liquid seep out, maybe a mixture of blood and shit. Kasandra turned him over again, and even with his dying eyes Zakaria saw she had a disgusted look on her face.

"Ew", she said as she looked at the barrel of the gun, which was covered with reddish brown muck. Then she kneeled down and stuffed the barrel of the gun inside Zakaria's mouth. He could taste the muck mixed with the cold steel of the gun on his tongue. The barrel was pointing upward, towards his brain.

"For the record, you have a tiny penis and you suck at sex. But where you're going, I guess it doesn't really matter anymore. Thanks for the money by the way. I don't know what's going to happen to me after this. I don't really care. See you in Hell, more likely", Kasandra said. For a brief moment Zakaria's eyes widened, so much so his eyeballs seemed to be popping out of his skull. Kasandra pulled the trigger. Zakaria's body spasmed for a few seconds, then went limp.

Kasandra crashed her butt onto the floor and tossed the gun aside. She glanced at the two dead bodies beside her. Curiously, now she felt indifferent. She lit another cigarette, and reached for the cell phone. She took long, satisfying drags on the ciggie, and finally crushed it on Zakaria's dead body. She pressed the keys on the cellphone, dialing the emergency number. But she hesitated before pressing the green 'send' button. Her mind wandered off for a moment. Suddenly she felt very tired and sleepy. Kasandra yawned and put the phone back on the desk.

That can wait, she thought. What a night. She let her body slide onto the carpeted floor, ignored the corpses, and laid a bruised arm across her forehead. Within a few minutes her eyes grew heavy and she fell into slumber. She was in no hurry. She guessed that after tonight, she'd have all the time in the world. And the world can wait.

--------

The Dogs

2009-01-14T06:05:00.000-08:00

---

Mutiara Damai near the outskirts of Shah Alam is a relatively new residential area, having been developed and brought up about 3 years ago. The first families started moving in about last year, no doubt lured by the relatively affordable prices and the promise of a quiet and pretty neighbourhood. Even a primary and secondary school were built along with the houses; and with that, a communal hall, shophouses and a mosque. It was a complete package.

The developers certainly put in quite an effort to present a tranquil image of the area. The hilly landscape, which in reality was red soil and clay, was quickly 'painted' over with sheets of grass and small, shady trees. Footpaths were built, as well as a fully equipped playground for the kids. The footpaths were adequately lit at night, and in the early days of the area it was not uncommon to see couples (married and unmarried) walk hand in hand during the quiet evenings.

Slowly but surely, like a rash you keep scratching, people began to fill in the houses, and pretty soon a neighborhood was established. The main demographic of the little neighborhood consisted of upper-middle class families of Malay and Chinese descent; there were even a few expatriates who had taken residence. The folks got along very well, and the neighborhood was a friendly and open one.

During late afternoons children of all ages would come out of their houses, energy fueled by the dwindling heat of mid-day, to play all sorts of sports and games. The older children, those old enough to consider themselves young adults, would often take this time of day to go on bashful walks with their first girlfriends and boyfriends. Old folk would stroll the footpaths and take seats on the many benches scattered around Mutiara Damai. Husbands and wives getting home from work often took some time to unwind themselves, playing with their kids or indulging in a spot of badminton or so.

All in all, life seemed much nicer in Mutiara Damai. It seemed like a place where one could settle in with their families, and perhaps stay until the end of time. Peace, tranquility and serenity. It seemed like a cocoon in the ever expanding and suffocated Klang Valley. A place of retreat. A place where parents did not worry about their kids playing in the playground or walking alone to school. A place where everyone was a friend.

Until the dogs came.

At first it was a lone mongrel, with a few yellowing teeth. Then came another. And another. Pretty soon it was an entire pack of strays. The residences ignored them initially, mainly because they thought that the pack of dogs were just passing by and would leave the area, and also because the dogs were, at first, ignorant of them as well, opting instead to stick to the outer streets of Mutiara Damai, rummaging through garbage and hunting whatever small animals they could hunt: rats, lizards, the occasional wak-wak bird and monitor lizard.

So at first there was some sort of truce, albeit an uneasy one, between the people and the dogs. Sometimes the kids, mostly the boys, would throw stones or sticks to harass the pack of mongrels, and often the strays would cower and flee, or just ignore the humans.

Then the residents began to notice the number of strays growing. The pack was flourishing, it seemed. People walking the footpaths began to walk uneasily. The pack then grew bolder, and began to enter houses to rummage through the trash, or steal unattended food.

Soon the pack became hostile, barking at people; especially ones who were walking their own domesticated housedogs. And one day a wandering house-cat by the name of Tango was found dead beside a drain with huge bite marks, mauled to death no doubt by the pack of strays. There was about 12 of them now, a whole family of mongrels.

The resident's association grew concerned for the safety of the people, the children, most of all. They began posting letters and calling the local authorities to report a stray dog problem; these calls were often ignored as unimportant, and when the MBSA did drop by, they found no dogs. Their quarry had sensed the threat, it seemed, and went underground.

Unsatisfied, The Mutiara Damai Residents Association called a meeting, where all the street representatives were to be present to discuss how to handle the stray dog problem. But three days before the meeting, in a cruel twist of irony, 6-year-old Mohamad Iman, whose family owned a comfortable and spacious corner lot house in Mutiara Damai, was attacked by the pack.

The attack was witnessed by the boys' caretaker, an Indonesian maid who later told the police and family that the dogs 'came out of nowhere, and suddenly jumped on the boy'. She estimated that at least five dogs attacked little Mohamad Iman. Further damage was prevented when the maid's calls for help were answered by a group of neighbors who took immediate action. The dogs were driven away by a combined effort of shouting and throwing stones and sticks, and the boy was sent to the hospital.

Mohamad Iman received a broken arm, 248 stitches to his body and he was blinded in one eye as a result of the unprovoked mauling.

"We have to ask MBSA to shoot these monsters!” shouted Mr. Jaafar at the meeting three days later, where the atmosphere was filled with the tragedy of the attack.

"What I fail to understand is why action was not taken sooner? I mean, why did we wait for a tragedy to occur?” voiced Mrs. Allison Chwee, who had her 8-year-old daughter with her. "It could have been one of us that was attacked"

"The boy could have died!” said Mrs. Lizawati. "Now, because our association and the MBSA did not take due action when the problem presented itself, we have a boy who is probably scarred for life, and not just physically"

"This is a huge case; it made the papers!” yelled Mr.Balasubramaniam. "Mutiara Damai once prided itself in its peaceful and tranquil atmosphere. We don't need this sort of publicity!"

More and more voices began shouting and yelling. What was supposed to be an educated discussion was turning into a free-for-all. They were energized by fear and worry. The dogs were turning into monsters that were haunting their dreams. The streets of Mutiara Damai were no longer safe havens where kids frolicked and played. Right now, to the paranoid residents, the streets were about as safe as slitting your wrists with a rusty blade.

"Calm down, calm down people", one voiced said, floating above the others with the aid of a microphone. Slowly the rampant chatter died away and people looked to the voice behind the mic.

"Calm down", a man said. He was Mr. Alyas Hatta, president of the MDRA. "It is very unfortunate that the tragedy had to happen; my deepest sympathies go to the family of young Mohamad Iman"

"Sympathy would not have stopped that from happening!” shouted a voice from the floor.

"Yes, I am clear of that", Mr., Alyas said. "That is why tonight we will, by hook or by crook, decide what course of action will be taken regarding the problem"

That only threw the audience into another heated discussion. Shouts of 'KILL ALL DOGS!' were heard, and some suggested a sort of 'vigilante' justice...Some opposed to the idea of calling MBSA again, calling them corrupt and useless, whilst others said the MBSA was their best chance of eradicating the pests. As the people argued and talked, a wiry middle-aged man suddenly walked up to the microphone; a piercing sound emanated from the speakers as he blew into it, generating white noise.

The floor went quiet, all eyes on the man at the mic.

"Hello folks", the man said. He wore a security guard uniform, and was scruffy, with wrinkly, tanned skin, the result of many years in the sun. It was not far off to describe him looking like a piece of leather. But his eyes were a light brown; so light they looked like two silver shillings, shining beneath moonlight. Mr. Alyas noticed this more than anyone else because he was standing closer.

"Most o'you seen me probably... My name is Manaf... I'm one of the guards, you seein' me in that lil' pondok at the entrance"

Heads nodded; the people had, indeed, seen him. He was often seen at the entrance of Mutiara Damai, sitting in his plastic chair, looking at cars past him by. At the entrance was a small hut, and one of those 'kongsi' type housings, which looked like a trailer made out of corrugated steel. Most residences assumed it was the security 'office', and paid little attention to it.

"Yeah, tha's me", Manaf said when he saw the people slowly nodding in recognition. He had a gruff voice, which sounded like a toad. "I was uh, lissenin'to all you folk screamin' and shoutin' and almost cryin' bout some dawgs and a lil kid who got bit”

Mr. Alyas was about to stop him from talking but Manaf held a hand, indicating he won't be long.

"I's gonna make you folk an offer, and is gonna be free o'charge, as free like you was sleepin' on you own bedsies"

He eyed the crowd, glancing slowly, deliberately from left to right, right to left. "I's gonna take care of you dawg problems. My only payment issdat you no ask me how I'm do it, and what I's do it... Just minds you owns businesses if you agrees... If you agrees... Well, you know where I is most times"

With that he handed the microphone to Mr. Alyas, and left the meeting. He walked with a curious gait, as if one of his legs was shorter than the other. As soon as he left all eyes turned to Mr. Alyas, as if expecting him to make the decision. Mr. Alyas, feeling the pressure pile on his shoulders, shrugged his shoulders.

A few days later as Manaf sat in his plastic chair in front of the kongsi hut, Mr. Alyas and Mr. Balasubramaniam approached him. Manaf smiled, a toothless grin when he saw them coming. They shook hands.

"Do it", Mr. Alyas said. "Do it and we'll just mind our own business. But I expect results Mr. Manaf". Manaf suddenly broke into laughter, a hissy fit which made him sound like... why, like a dog. Mr. Alyas and Mr. Bala left immediately, feeling somewhat disturbed.

Days passed. The pack of dogs still roamed the streets. But as the days went by, their numbers began to dwindle. At first it was barely noticeable. But the pack of twelve or so began to shrink; one day it was twelve... a few days later there were only eight that the people could see.

The days turned into a week, and soon into weeks. One by one, bit by bit, the pack of mongrels disappeared. The last sighting was of three dogs running down the street, their tongues hanging out.

"Mr. Manaf must be doing a great job", whispered the neighborhood. They were beginning to feel safer again. The specters of canine monsters were dying in their fears. The children were allowed to roam and play with lesser supervision now. Mohamad Iman, the boy whose tragedy unfortunately was the catalyst to the MDRA taking affirmative action, even came back from the hospital and started to engage in outside play again, as if the horrifying attack never happened.

The residents did not see much of Manaf in those days. They did not know what happened to the dogs either. Perhaps the old leathery security guard poisoned the critters. Or maybe he shot them at night? Maybe he had located the den and crushed the dogs' heads with rocks? The residents did not know. The truth was, they did not really bother. It was a free service after all, and is that not the paramount rule of all things that come free? That you don't complain? So they kept quiet, just happy that the dogs were disappearing at a pleasing rate.

Then one day, the dogs vanished completely. They were gone, without a single trace. The residents waited, as if to be sure, but yes, the mongrels were gone. No sign of them at all: no pile of dogshit, no upturned garbage bins, nothing. Another meeting, but just between the council members, was held. It was decided that they reward Manaf, as he clearly had done something to rid Mutiara Damai of the dogs. The reward was a gesture of good-will and gratitude. The residents association wrote a cheque of RM1000, and Mr. Alyas, as head of the association, was to go with his Vice-President, Mr. Raymond Lee and resident representatives Mrs. Allison Chwee and Mrs. Lizawati to present the cheque to Manaf.

They waited for Manaf to show up at his usual spot; but after a few days since the last dogs disappeared, Manaf, too, seemed to have vanished. They called the company that employed him: the company said Manaf had quit a week earlier, and was nowhere to be heard. At first they let this be. "Maybe he really did mean it as a free service”, one of them had said.

But a few days later word reached out that the kongsi hut near Manaf's old post started to stink; kids and joggers and cyclists who passed it by described the smell as putrid and rotten. They claimed it was as if something had died there, maybe an animal. Curious and concerned about a possible health hazard, Mr. Alyas and two other lesser council members went to check it out. They brought with them some tools to pry open the hut if need be.

Mr. Alyas wasted no time and took them to the kongsi hut. The hut was not big, perhaps 15 feet long and 7 feet high. It had shutter windows, which were closed, and the wooden door was locked. As Mr. Alyas they approached it, the first thing that struck them was the smell: it was horrible, nauseating. Coupled with the heat and the closed apertures to the hut, Mr. Alyas could only imagine what was rotting inside there.

Mr.Alyas was confident there was nobody in the hut: not with the smell anyway. But he knocked on the door for reassurance. Three times. When nobody answered, one of the council men, a young fellow with a strong build, pried open the door lock, loosening it, and he kicked it in with force. The door banged open; the light was very dim inside, and immediately the smell wafted out; Mr.Alyas covered his mouth and nose with a hankie, but even that was not enough. The other two men put their hands to their mouths as well; they were trying hard not to inhale too much of the stench.

They never saw it coming.

Inside the kongsi hut, flies buzzed like a cloud of black smoke. Maggots squirmed on the floor; cockroaches scattered at the sudden intrusion of light and humans. There even a few rats, which hastily scrambled out of the hut through their own holes and doorways. But that was not what shocked them.

Dogs. Rotting putrefied and yellowing carcasses of dogs; the floor of the hut was littered with drying and rotting dog flesh and buckets of blood, congealed and crawling with maggots and flies. At the end of the hut was a desk; on the desk were the carcasses of two (or three, they couldn’t tell) dogs that had been butchered. Nine dog heads had been nailed to the wall at the end; some of them had been skinned, whilst others were reduced to yellowing teeth and had the flesh falling off. Some of the heads still had eyes, but they had sunk into the sockets. To Mr. Alyas they seemed to be staring at him. One carcass had been nailed to the left wall; a few dog hindquarters and limbs were dumped on the floor. A DIY color box stood beside the desk; in it were dog penises, limbs, and what looked like intestines. None of the dogs had clean cuts; they looked as if they had been torn apart by brute force.

One of the councilmen vomited through his hands, sour puke spilling from the sides. Mr. Alyas was pale; he was controlling his nausea. He forced himself to look into the hut, feeling horrified and disgusted. My God, he said in his heart. My God. His companions were quiet. They did not say anything. No words were needed, it seemed.

Then they noticed something squirming and wriggling beneath the desk. It looked like a large pile of meat. Mr. Alyas fished out a flashlight and shone it on the pile of meat. It was covered in filth and blood and God knows what.

"What is that”, one of them said to Mr. Alyas, who only shook his head slowly. Truthfully he did not want to know. But he slowly traced the beam of light on the lump, when it suddenly shuddered. Mr. Alyas gasped in surprise. He stumbled backward, almost crashing into his colleague when suddenly the lump split, ripping a hole in the middle. Yellowish fluid spilled out, with what looked like coagulated chunks of blood. The rip had sounded like a giant zipper. Mr. Alyas and his two colleagues were even more surprised when, from the torn hole, a human hand slipped out, and moved, the fingers flexing. Then a head popped out, the eyes blinking, and a leg. Soon an entire human being crawled out of the sack of meat (cocoon?), stark naked and covered in gore.

Mr. Alyas still shone his flashlight on the... man that had emerged from the unholy matrix. He was completely naked, yellow slime and congealed blood dripping off his body. He was hairless, completely hairless, and his ears were pointed. His skin was smooth and his build was muscular, fit and sculpted. His fingers were tipped with claws. The man opened his jaws, working the mandible, revealing impossibly large fangs. Mr. Alyas and his two men shuddered, awed and frozen in fear. Suddenly the naked man snapped his head sideways and turned to them.

"I told you to mind your own business", he (it?) said. The voice was rich but choking, like someone speaking through water.

One of Mr. Alyas colleagues fainted; the other shat in his pants and sprinted, ran away without looking back. The creature advanced toward Mr. Alyas with its monstrous teeth bared; he could hear the thing breathing, which sounded like a hungry dog, slobbering and hungry.

"I told you to mind your own business", the thing said again.

Mr. Alyas felt warm liquid flowing down his legs, wetting his pants. He paid no attention to it. His hands were shaking but he kept on pointing the flashlight at the naked humanoid creature as it moved towards him. He shone the beam into its eyes, and the thing raised a hand to shiled itself from the beam; and yet it stepped forward, moving towards him. But Mr. Alyas did not doubt what he saw: a pair of eyes, light brown in color, the lightest brown he had ever seen, so light they looked like they were shining, like two silver shillings in the moonlight.

-----

Everything Burns

2008-12-30T16:54:00.000-08:00

---

Atiqah, the seven year old girl, sat at Sergeant Ismat's desk, drawing on pieces of A4 paper. She looked calm, indifferent, humming the tune of 'Spongebob Squarepants' as she went to work on her masterpieces.

Sergeant Ismat stood a bit further away, feeling twitchy and nervous. Cold beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He looked at the little girl. Beside Ismat stood his superior, Inspector Rashidi, who had his arms crossed across his chest. Both of them were in uniform, even at this late an hour. It was almost half past three in the morning.

Inspector Rashidi looked at the little girl named Atiqah, his face twisted in a mixture of disbelief and confusion. He nudged Ismat on one shoulder, surprising him.

"Are you sure?” Insp. Rashidi asked.

Ismat nodded gravely. But then quickly shook his head. Clearly he too, was perplexed. "I don't know", he said. "But would a girl of seven make up such a story? Or lie? She looked way too honest. But to tell you the truth I hope to God she was making up the story. It just seems... impossible. Preposterous!"

Rashidi nodded in agreement. "But there's no way of finding out right now. In the meantime, try to get in contact with her closest kin. But don't let that girl out of your sight. She is vital to this...”

"Yes Sir", Ismat said. He stood in his place. The little girl was still drawing.

He studied the girl intently. He was deeply disturbed.

Could it be possible?

-------

A few hours earlier

At about half past twelve, Ismat, who was on duty that night, received an emergency call regarding a major house fire in the nearby residential area. Police were often required at such scenes. He arrived at the reported scene about 10 minutes later, where the firemen were already containing the blaze. Ismat, with his junior officer Corporal Syireen, were greeted by one of the firemen, who had a little girl accompanying him.

"This little girl", the fireman said, "lived here with her family. When we got here she was already outside, watching the fire, but...” The fireman trailed off, shaking his head, which Ismat and his Corporal instantly understood. The little girl's family had perished. And almost immediately Ismat asked in his mind: how did she get out?

Of course, he first assumed that one of her family members had gotten her out first when the fire initially started, and returned to rescue the others, only to succumb to fire or smoke. Ismat had looked at the remains of the house; it had been charred black. The firefighters finally contained and put out the blaze.

"Look... our team will have to go through the rubble now", the fireman with the little girl said. "I suppose you're gonna have to take the girl for now. You know, inform her... family and things"

Ismat nodded and took the girl's hand. She was remarkably quiet and calm and she looked fine. Barely a scratch on her. Ismat motioned for Corporal Syireen to drive her back to the station, and he would come back later, with the other policemen who had arrived to provide any assistance. He waited for about an hour, answering some questions from concerned neighbors, assuring them to be calm. The media would probably be here soon, considering the only survivor of the house fire was a seven year old girl.

After the hour passed the chief firefighter in charge came up to him. He had a worried look on his face.

"Is anything wrong?” Ismat asked. The fireman wiped the sweat off his brow. His face was stained by grime and soot.

"We found the little girl's family... They were found... they were found in their rooms. The parents, two older girls and a younger boy. But Sergeant...”", the man said. Ismat nodded, prompting the fireman to continue.

"They were bound to their beds with wire... and they had towels in their throats... and we found bottles of kerosene everywhere...”

Ismat paled. The youngest boy was only 3 years old. He shook his head. "Are you sure?" he asked the fireman, who nodded gravely. The stakes were now much higher. Ismat was shocked by the discovery. He felt his heart quicken. He would have to report this soon. He thanked the fire brigade, and told them to call him for any new discoveries. Secretly he hoped the firemen were mistaken but then scolded him self for presuming the firemen weren't competent; they were trained professionals, and they must have seen their fair share of death caused by fire. They certainly knew what they saw.

Ismat drove back to the police station. The little girl seemed hugely significant now, and not just as the only survivor and therefore witness of a tragedy. If it was true that the rest of the family were found bound to their beds with their mouths stuffed, then there must be a reason as to why the little girl was spared.

When he arrived back at the station, he had considered some possibilities: a botched robbery, a revenge attack. But why spare the girl? Did the perpetrators suddenly have a bout of compassion? But then why the girl, not the younger boy? Or all the children? It was making no sense. He would have to ask the little girl how she managed to get out unscathed.

But first he had gone to his superior, Inspector Rashidi. He told him of the discovery at the scene, and Inspector Rashidi agreed to his idea to ask the girl. Sure, she might be seven years old, but she could potentially hold valuable information as to who committed the atrocity to her family, yet spared her.

Ismat was led by Corporal Syireen to his own desk, where the little girl was. He saw the girl was still quiet, but she was occupying herself drawing pictures. Corporal Syireen, who was already trying to reach the girl's next of kin, whispered to Ismat that the girl's name is Atiqah. Ismat took a seat beside Atiqah.

"Hello Atiqah...”

The girl looked up to him from her drawings, and pushed a strand of hair that had fallen on her face.

"Hello Atiqah... I am Ismat. You can call me Uncle Ismat", he said with a smile, aiming to make the child feel more comfortable. To his relief the girl smiled back, revealing a missing tooth. She also introduced herself.

"Hello Uncle Ismat. My name is Atiqah. I am seven years old...”

Ismat nodded, and suddenly the girls' expression turned sour. "What's wrong?” he asked the girl.

"Ibu, Ayah, Kak Maya, Kak Dila and Amir are dead, aren't they?” she said in an oddly disconnected voice. Ismat did not know how to respond. He put a hand on the girl's shoulder. Then he summoned up his most comforting voice.

"It's going to be alright Atiqah. Do you know any --"

"I didn't wanna do it... But he said if I did it, then he would leave me alone", the girl said, cutting Ismat off. Immediately his curiosity peaked.

"What did you say?"

The girl looked at him, her eyes innocent. "He made me do it"

"Who did?"

"Him", the girl said and gave Ismat a sheet of A4 paper on which she had drawn a crude figure in black, blue and red pen. Ismat took the sheet from her and looked at the drawing. It showed a man with long hair and goatee, wearing spectacles. She had drawn the man wearing a black t-shirt, and blue pants, which Ismat assumed were jeans. Curiously, and somewhat disturbingly, Atiqah had colored the man's eyes red.

Ismat studied the drawing. Could this be the perpetrator? Just as he was about to ask Atiqah, she spoke again.

"He always comes to me at the house. Even when Ibu and Ayah are around. But they cannot see him. Sometimes he's funny but sometime's he scares me...”

Ismat studied the girl. "Why does he scare you?” he asked.

The little girl made circles with her thumbs and forefingers and put them to her eyes. "Because his eyes are red. And he wears funny big glasses with a word that starts with L on the sides. I think it says Live or Levi on the glasses"

Ismat alternated quick looks at the girl and at the drawing she just handed him. "Atiqah, who is this man? Can you tell me what happened tonight?"

The girl suddenly withdrew. Ismat thought he must have sounded too much like a scolding adult to her. But then the girl spoke again.

"He says his name is Edd The One"

"Edd... Edd The One?” Ismat said. He had put down the sketch and had taken out a small notebook and pen. He needed to jot this down.

"Yea... he said Ibu and Ayah cannot see him because they're not special. He says I can see him because I am special"

"Was he there at the house tonight?"

The girl nodded. "He's always at the house. Sometimes when I sleep, I see him on my ceiling. He is always smiling and sometimes I smile back. But sometimes when the lights are off I can see his eyes are red and then I get scared"

Ismat paused in his thoughts. Who could this 'Edd The One' character be? He presumed that the girl was making this up. But he reserved his presumption for now.

"Atiqah... if you can tell me anything you remember from tonight... please tell me. But it's okay if you don't want to or if you're tired"

"I'm okay... He takes care of me...” the girl said.

"Who takes care of you?"

"Edd The One", she said nonchalantly. "Tonight after everyone went to bed, he came out of the mirror. I don't like it when he does that... He never uses the door. It's always the wall or mirror. He came up to me and said that I had to do something for him tonight"

"Alright...” Ismat said. The girl went on.

"Kak Maya and Kak Dila and Amir were sleeping. Usually they don't see him anyway... He came to me and told me to get up. 'Let's have fun tonight!’ that’s what he said. And he makes me get up. His eyes were redder than usual. He gave me some bendy string and made me tie Kak Maya and Kak Dila and Amir's hands and feet to their bedposts. He taught me how to do it. Then he gave me smaller cloths and made me put the cloths into Kak Maya and Kak Dila and Amirs' mouths. They didn't even wake up.

Then he took out bottles of water, but this water smelled funny, like eggs. I don't know. He made me pour it onto Kak Maya and Kak Dila and Amir. And they still slept..."

Ismat already ascertained that 'bendy string' was the wires that were used to bind them, and that the 'smelly water' was the kerosene. He gently interrupted the girl. "This, uhm, Edd The One made you do this?"

The girl nodded and went on, telling her story in a remarkably calm manner. "And then he took my hand and we went to Ibu and Ayah's room. I think he is a magician because his hands were empty but then suddenly he gave me more bendy string and made me tie Ibu and Ayah to their bed. He showed how to do it again. And he gave me two more cloth and made me put it inside Ibu and Ayah's mouths. And then he gave me that smelly water again and made me pour it onto Ibu and Ayah. Ibu and Ayah didn't wake up also...

I did it because Edd The One said if I did, Ibu, Ayah, Kak Dila, Kak Maya and Amir will go to a happy place, and also because Edd The One said that if I didn't do it then he would take me into the mirror and not let me go back...”

Ismat was listening intently.

"And then again Edd The One did a magic trick with his hands. He suddenly gave me a candle, a candle that already had a fire on it. He was smiling when he gave me the candle. It made his face look weird. I took the candle and then he told me to put the fire at Ibu and Ayah. There was a big fire. Ibu and Ayah tried to scream I think. I saw them moving. But they couldn't move. Edd The One laughed.

Then he quickly led me back to my room and made me put the fire to Kak Maya and Kak Dila and Amir. There was another big fire and I saw Amir open his eyes when the fire covered him. They tried to move as well...

Then he told me to follow him around the house. He kept pouring that smelly water on the house and told me to put the fire to the spots he poured water on. The fires grew bigger and bigger. Finally he told me to walk outside because people will start to come by when they see how pretty the house will be. He stepped back into a mirror and was gone. So I walked outside and just sat there, and then the men in the yellow jackets came and shooted [sic] water at the fires. And then you came and the nice lady brought me here"

The girl finished her strange tale. Ismat was stunned into silence. He had stopped jotting down on his notebook. The girl must be lying or making this up, he thought. But the calmness and stillness in her brown eyes betrayed no such lie. In fact, she seemed dead serious.

"Atiqah... did you... did you set fire to... did you set the fire?” Ismat asked. The little girl nodded.

"But because Edd The One told me to"

Ismat thought of that as well. He glanced back at the crude drawing of this 'Edd The One' character. A man, long haired with a goatee, wearing plastic rimmed glasses, who had red eyes, popped in and out of mirrors, and dressed in blue and black. Who was this mysterious person? Or was he just a figment of this girl's imagination. It seemed ridiculous.

But more frightening to him was also that he was convinced that the girl did set the fire... and burned her family members alive. Ismat suddenly felt scared to be close to this girl. They were either dealing with, sadly, a mentally troubled child, or worse, an unknown madman. Ismat hoped it would be the latter.

Atiqah, who seemed to notice that Ismat had gone quiet, went back to her drawings, scribbling using the black, blue and red pens. Ismat stood up, intending to go to Inspector Rashidi to report this strange tale to him. Atiqah called up to him, without shifting her gaze from her drawings.

"Uncle Ismat"

"Yes..?” Ismat said, cautiously.

"He also told me that he made me do it because he wanted to show me something...”

"What was it..?” Ismat said.

"Everything burns", the girl said, her eyes never leaving the piece of paper.

Disquieted, Ismat left her side and went to see Inspector Rashidi.

-----

Present time

When Ismat had relayed what the girl told him to the Inspector, he was greeted with disbelief. The Inspector made him tell the story twice, and then had asked to be taken to the girl, so he could hear it for himself. Ismat initially thought it would be a bad idea to ask the girl to re-tell it, but she did, and in exactly the same way, with no details changed or forgotten. She could not have been lying.

Now Ismat still stood in one place, looking at the little girl at his desk. He suddenly felt tired. He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, stifling a yawn. When he brought his hands down, he suddenly saw another figure beside where the girl was sitting. Ismat stared, not believing his own eyes: beside Atiqah, he saw a tall man, wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. The man had long messy hair and a goatee, and Ismat saw that he wore black framed glasses. There was a reddish light in his eyes, which he could see even from meters away. He was leaning with his hands on the desk, looking down at the girl as if studying her drawings.

Ismat blinked; suddenly, the figure was gone. Ismat rushed to the girl's side. She looked up at him with a confused look, and went back to drawing straight away.

Ya Allah I must be tired, he thought. I'm seeing things.

He sat on the desk. The girl had suddenly stopped drawing; in fact she had fallen asleep on top of her last drawing. Ismat gently pulled the drawing from beneath her head. Ismat felt his stomach tighten when he looked at the drawing; Atiqah had drawn a house on fire, and in the windows of the house were figures of people crying.

Ismat sighed. Then something caught his eyes. On his desk was the outline of a hand; a much larger hand than the girl's, with strangely long fingers. Ismat bent down; he touched them and pulled his hand back. They were hot, and then Ismat realized the outline was charred onto the desk, as if branded on. As if they were made by fire.

He felt suddenly weak, and frightened. The words of the little girl rang in his mind.

Everything burns.

----

note:
a bit long. inspired by a quote from The Dark Knight.

The School Toilet

2008-11-25T12:15:00.000-08:00

-----

Eight year old Faiz loved school.

He loved his teachers. He loved Math, English and Arts. He loved Phys Ed sessions where he would get to play football or just run around playing Cops and Robbers with his classmates. When the recess bell rang at ten o'clock he would go to the school canteen to have his packed lunch; almost always sandwiches, but then he would spend the RM1 his Mama gave him to buy kuih, fruits or a cool frozen lolly treat.

Faiz liked it when the teachers would come in late, because that would mean some extra time to talk about the latest episode of Power Rangers with his friends, or get a glimpse of the latest comic book a classmate would sneak into school. If there weren't any teachers at all, he loved the fact that they were quite free to do anything they please.

He loved school. He thought he could stay there forever.

The teachers loved him too, which made him love school even more. He was a good kid. A bright kid. He was always polite and never disobedient. With time, once his class-teacher told his parents, your son would be a fine young lad. His parents had been proud, and despite having only a basic sense of pride, eight year old Faiz felt like he was on top of the world. He could do anything he wanted. Just get through wonderful school, and the world was his oyster.

The only exception, however, were school toilets. He hated school toilets. An older child or an adult would have hated the school toilet because of hygiene, or the lack thereof. But Faiz, and his peers, had other reasons to hate the school toilet.

Monsters.

In his group of friends, a collective thought of eight year old minds would exchange tales of unspeakable horror about the Monster in the school toilet. Some said it was humanoid, but with abnormal amounts of hair. Others mention a scaly beast, with sharp claws and fangs. The lowest common denominator, however, was the Monster that lurked in the school toilet had a huge appetite. For children.

Nonsense, Faiz's mother said one day when he mentioned about the Monster. There are no such things dear; you're a big boy now. Don't be afraid of monsters okay?

Okay Mama, he had said, and his mother had kissed his cheek.

Still, he loathed it every time he felt like going to the bathroom during school hours. In fact, he was absolutely terrified. His young mind, clear and innocent, would imagine some foul beast waiting inside the toilets, ready to pounce on an unsuspecting victim.

So far though, he has been lucky. Still, his senses would be on extra alert from the moment he unzipped his pants and started to paint the porcelain yellow or white, depending on his fluid intake. His friends however told him of 'near misses', when they had seen something, or felt something. They discussed this with all the integrity and seriousness their eight year old minds allowed.

Eight year old Faiz, bright Standard Two pupil, loved school. But he feared the school toilets.

So it was on this dark and rainy morning, he sat in class. The clouds were shrouding the sun so much that the skies outside were almost black. Thunder and lighting rumbled and raced across the sky. The fluorescent lights in all the school classrooms were turned on. Rain pelted the tile roofs, the sound almost drowning out the teachers' voices. It was a cold day as well.

"Please take out your text books and open page..." said the teacher in Faiz's class. He took out his textbook and placed in on his desk when he felt his stomach churn. Faiz winced. He put a hand on his tummy as another bolt of pain ran through his body. Slowly he released his sphincter, attempting to ascertain if it was gas or if it was the shits. As he felt a hot wetness on his rectum, he tightened his buttocks.

He felt nervous as he glanced outside the classroom into the rain. It was raining heavily, and he dreaded having to go to the toilet in this weather. His palms felt clammy. But when he felt a contraction in his lower intestine, he knew he had to go or risk shitting his pants in front of 30 other kids. Faiz raised his hand.

"Yes Faiz?” the teacher asked, a bit annoyed.

"Cikgu, may I please go to the bathroom?” he said, stammering a little. His classmate Mahfuz looked at him in awe, no doubt amazed that Faiz would want to go to the toilet in this weather.

The teacher nodded and Faiz walked carefully to avoid an embarrassingly sudden release of his stomach contents.

The school toilets were all situated at the ends of the buildings, separated from the classrooms by stairwells. The one Faiz was heading for would take him about a minute of brisk walking to reach. Faiz walked as carefully as he could, one of his hands pasted to his stomach. As he approached the bathroom he hoped there would be other kids there as well. He would not feel so frightened if there were other kids in there.

Unfortunately there were no kids at the toilet. Cripes, Faiz thought. The lights to the toilet were off. He stood in front of the door and put his hand near the wall, fiddling for the switch. When he found it, he flicked it to the 'on' position. Nothing happened. He tried again, but to no avail. The lights were out. Must be the storm, he thought. Oh no.

He began to have second thoughts. He stared into the dark toilets, which seemed to grow around him. He considered trying to hold it in, or maybe rush for another toilet on another floor, but then he felt something poking out of his bottom and he made his decision. He rushed through the door, went into the nearest stall, dropped his pants and let loose. He closed his eyes as he did so, fearful of the darkness. The storm made haunting echoes which bounced off the walls of the empty toilet.

The rain outside began to fall harder. A curious wail from the wind was heard.

Faiz sighed as his bowels loosened. He breathed through his mouth to avoid the smells. Soon, he finished his shit and reached for the rubber pipe and began washing. Just as he finished a sudden gush of wind from outside caused the door to the toilet to slam shut with a loud bang. Faiz cried out in surprise. Panic began to creep in as he raised his pants and flushed. He wanted to get out of here, fast. He wanted to be back in his classroom, learning to subtract triple digit numbers.

As he zipped his pants, however, he heard the audible creaking of the door to the stall besides the one he was in open. The creaking was slow, almost deliberate. Faiz paused. His heart was beating in his throat.

From the stall beside him, he heard the slow shuffle of feet. The steps sounded wet and scraping, as if the soles of whoever it was were covered in metal that screeched against the tiled floor. Faiz stood still, his feet frozen into place. The footsteps stopped, suddenly. He heard the heavy, wet breathing of something. Faiz saw a shadow fall through the open space below the door to the stall. His pulse quickened. Without thinking, he closed the toilet seat and squatted on it, hoping for whatever it was that was inside the toilets with him to go away. In his head he imagined all the bathroom monsters he had ever been told of were in front of his stall, ready to tear him apart.

Faiz began to weep, but he kept quiet by biting his shirt sleeve. The shadow was still there. He squatted on the toilet, and in his fear he shat himself, but he barely noticed. Go away go away go away, he thought. The shadow shifted, and Faiz could have sworn he heard the grunting of something inhuman. At the same time a smell wafted through; it was not the smell of shit... rather, it was the smell of something alive and wet. And hungry.

He saw the shadow fall beneath his door again. He shook his head, praying to God to keep him safe. Then the shadow moved closer until Faiz saw toe-tips. He counted the toes; eight. He shook his head in denial. Whatever it was, it had only eight toes; and they were tipped with ancient looking, curved and cracked claws.

"Go away", he said feebly. All he heard in response was an animal growl, yellow and inhuman. Faiz saw the door bulge in the middle as the thing pushed it. Then he squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see, and screamed "GOOOO AWAYYYYY!!!!!!" at the top of his lungs. The door swung open fast as the lock gave in, but Faiz squeezed his eyes so hard he felt dizzy.

Minutes passed by. Outside, the rain was abruptly coming to a stop. Faiz was still squatting on the toilet as he slowly opened his eyes. He had expected to be grabbed and torn apart, but nothing had happened. He glanced around. The door to his stall was open. But there was nothing there. He glanced to the floor and looked for shadows, but did not see anything out of the ordinary. He got off the toilet seat and peered out. Nothing.

Faiz slowly walked out of the stall, glancing around for any signs of the thing. Then, satisfied, he gave a sigh of relief. It was just my imagination, he thought. I am so afraid of the school toilet that I let my thinking go crazy, he thought. Then he realized he had soiled himself. Thinking as quick as his eight year old mind allowed, he went back to the bathroom stall to wash his ass and get rid of his underwear. He hoped his pants weren't stained.

He entered the stall and closed the door. Then he heard a low, animal growl from behind him. He swallowed hard; again he voided his bowels. He told himself not turn around, but he did. He turned slowly. As his vision turned, he saw his own reflection in the opaque yellow eyes of an unspeakable horror. He froze; he did not even scream as the thing ripped it's claws into him.

--------------

When Faiz did not come back from the toilet after 10 minutes, his teacher thought the boy was probably having a bad case of the shits. But when half and hour passed by, the teacher took it upon himself to go see what was going on. As he reached the toilet the first thing that struck him was the smell. It was worse than ever. He flicked on the lights, which were working fine now.

"Faiz?” the teacher called out. He heard running water from one of the stalls. He went to check it out, and regretted it as soon as he saw the broken body of eight year old Faiz jammed inside the toilet, his knees at his face. The lifeless eyes were wide open. The expression on the boy's face was one of shock and horror, not one of pain. The teacher vomited once; then he gathered himself and went to get help.

---------------

A few days passed by. The parents of young and bright Faiz were almost inconsolable at first. The police and ambulance people could only speculate that it was a bizarre accident. They had no logical explanation as to how the boy had been found in his condition.

The school announced the death as an 'unfortunate accident'. Most of the teachers who were initially shocked decided to put it behind them. The teacher who had found the boy requested a long leave to recover from the shock. Things went back to normal, and nobody spoke of the 'accident' out loud.

Faiz' classmates, including Mahfuz, however, knew exactly what had happened. They sat quietly in class, each of them asking the dreaded question to themselves: will it feed again?

----

end note:
remember when we were kids in primary school, there was always this story of the hantu tandas? this is my take on it. an obvious inspiration for this story is Stephen King's 'IT'
- Muhammad Edwan Shaharir

The Night Two Girls Were Taken

2008-11-20T15:28:00.000-08:00

---

It was about 45 minutes past midnight.

Dollah scanned his eyes across the group of people, counting heads. Beside him, his best friend and fellow kedai kopi patron, Shuib, nudged his shoulder.

"How many are there?", Shuib asked. His forehead was covered in cold perspiration.

"There are 13 of us here", Dollah answered.

"Do you want to go to Tok Jais' house first?"

Dollah nodded. Again he counted the number of people in the crowd, and then motioned for them to follow him to Tok Jais' house a few minutes away. The people were carrying torchlights and weapons of various kinds: parangs, sickles, and Dollah could have sworn he saw an old World War Two rifle being shouldered by someone. He wondered if it would matter.

When the blood-curdling scream was heard about half-an-hour ago, Dollah had immediately roused Shuib and gathered this group of people. They had had enough of living in fear when night fell upon their kampung, remotely situated in Northern Perak, just south of Temenggor Lake. Here, miles from modernity, the people still lived sedate and tranquil lives, tending fruits orchards and vegetable patches. They were content.

Until the arrival of a beautiful widow 6 months ago, that is. Dollah had thought the old legends of mysterious witches were just that: legends. But when this widow, known only as Dayang, had strangely decided to settle in the kampung, things began to happen.

She's cursed us, Dollah thought as he and the crowd marched towards Tok Jais' house.

The widow had taken up residence in a house on the outskirts of the kampung, bordering the rainforest that surrounded the small residence. For the most part, her coming was only initially seen as strange; the women of the kampung feared at most that she would seduce their men. The men, on the other hand, had thought of her as simply eye candy, even if she was strange.

Nothing was known of her past. Attempts by village folk to get to know her were politely treated, but they never got anywhere. Soon the kampung folk simply accepted her presence. But she was rarely seen outside her house. Nobody knew how she got her income, if she had any.

But then strange things began to happen. Chickens were reported missing from their sheds. The fruits in the orchards began turning rotten before their time. The village youths who make daily trips to the nearest pekan of Gerik reported strange lights and shapes floating around the trees at night. And lately when the moon was full, the haunting wails of an unknown creature pierced the night air.

At first people had shrugged them off. Maybe a lost wild dog, said one. Maybe its just bad weather, said another. Only Tok Jais, who listened quietly to these uneasy rumors, held a quiet suspicion.

Three months ago a woman named Kamilah died during childbirth. The death came as no big surprise however, as she had been in poor health prior to the delivery. The rural doctor who had visited her just a few days earlier had somehow failed to see any causes of her illness. He had just told the womans' family that she was ill. When she died, nobody noticed anything out of the ordinary because she had been sick. But when the baby died as well a few days later, people began feeling uneasy.

Soon, most of the women in the village began falling ill with an unknown disease. They lost color in their faces, and they became gaunt and almost waif-like. Again the doctor visited, and seeing the women of the village become ill, he became worried that a disease was spreading. But he had no explanation as to why it affected only women. And from what he knew, the disease coincided with every of the victims' menstruation. The doctor told the village headman, Pak Ali, that he would get federal help, but that would take time.

In the meantime, the uneasiness of the kampung folk increased. More and more women fell ill to the mysterious illness. They became weaker and weaker. Soon, one of them died. A few weeks later, two more women died.

"Something is going on..", Tok Jais had told the kedai kopi patrons one day. Dollah had been one of them.

"What do you mean Tok?", he had asked.

"I cannot say for certain. But our kampung is filled with...", Tok Jais answered but trailed off.

"With what, Tok?"

"Something", Tok Jais had finished and walked away. The patrons of the small kampung kedai kopi had went back to their drinks uneasily.

Meanwhile, the widow by the name of Dayang was seen less and less around the kampung. Suspicious fingers pointed out that she was a witch who kept a 'pet', and that she was feeding the women of the kampung to her 'pet'. Pak Ali the headman had attempted to squash these rumors, but he himself had an uneasy feeling about the woman.

"Let us not jump to conclusions", he had told a group of people one day.

For a while then things were quiet again. Until this night, when suddenly a scream was heard. Dollah and Shuib, who had been first roused by the scream, had rushed to the source, a house owned by a man named Sazali, who lived there with his wife and two daughters. When they had reached there, they found Sazali in hysterics, almost catatonic. His wife, whom Dollah found shivering in a corner of the kitchen, said that "she took our girls". When asked who took her girls, she shivered violently and said "Da.. Dayang.."

That was the final straw. Dollah and Shuib gathered a group of people who were brave enough to face whatever it was they had to face, and went to see Tok Jais. They were planning on asking Pak Ali to come along as well.

When they reached Tok Jais' house, they saw he was already dressed in front of his door. He had put on a white jubah and a ketayap, and in his hands he held a tasbih. He stepped down from his house and motioned for the crowd to pick up Pak Ali.

"So she has finally decided to not let it be secret", Tok Jais said when Dollah told him about what they had found out at Sazali's house.

"What do you think she is doing Tok?", Shuib asked. They were walking now towards Pak Ali's house.

"I do not know. Let us pray to Allah the little girls are safe. But I suspected that this woman was playing with evil when she first arrived"

"How so?"

"I just.. felt something was wrong. But we may have time yet to drive this woman and whatever evil she has brought to our kampung out".

They reached Pak Ali's house and unsurprisingly, he too, was already prepared. He slung a hunting rifle on one shoulder, and carried a torchlight in one hand. Soon the group began their march towards the widows house on the outskirts of the kampung.

In the time it took them to reach there, a small part of Dollah's mind was thinking: are we crazy? Are we actually marching in the middle of the night? What are we going to do? His mind was filled with the images of an unspeakable evil. But another part of him was hoping that the widow would just turn out to be a crazy kidnapper. At least that would make her human.

As the crowd neared the widows house, all of them began to feel terrified. The exception was Tok Jais, who looked oddly calm. The house stood ominously in front of them now, the windows like eyes. There was only a dim light emanating from the open front door. Another scream, unmistakeably from a little girl, pierced the night air. Dollah could feel the hairs on his neck stand up.

The crowd quickened their pace, fueled by both fear and a desire to rid the kampung of whatever it was the widow had brought. They reached the house and a few of them men, including Pak Ali and Tok Jais and Dollah, crashed down the front door. Pak Ali immediately cocked his rifle, pointing into the room.

But the entrance way was empty except for a small lamp on the floor. In fact, the entire house was empty. Wary, Tok Jais began citing some holy ayat for protection.

"Ya Allah protect me from Evil..", Dollah whispered. There was a discernible chill inside the house. The walls were bare, unpainted and unadorned. They saw bloodstains on the floor. As an act of caution, Pak Ali told the rest of the crowd to guard the perimeter of the house.

Cautiously, Dollah, Pak Ali and Tok Jais began to follow the bloodstains, which led from the entrance way into a room on the east wing of the empty house.

Who would live here, in this emptiness? Dollah thought. The house truly was empty. It seemed as if nobody, not even one person, had lived there at all. And yet they knew the widow had been here for months now.

They approached the room where the bloodstains led to. They could hear whimpering from inside, and an odd chanting. The widow, no doubt, Dollah thought. He was gripped with fear. Before they stormed in, Tok Jais recited some prayers and gently blew over their faces.

"Ready?" Tok Jais said, and the rest of them nodded. He insisted on going in first. Pak Ali steadied his rifle in his hands. Tok Jais then swung the door open whilst saying in a loud voice:

"Allahuakbar!"

In a flash, Dollah saw the two little girls, Sazali's daughters, huddled in a corner of the room. They were covered in blood. In the center was a small bronze bowl filled with incense, and the smell wafted throughout the room. But where was the widow? he thought. Dismissing this, he immediately went to comfort the girls, who wrapped their arms around him. Tok Jais scanned the room. On the floor were strange markings.

As he comforted the children, Dollah asked "Where is the bitch?".

Just as he answered the woman appeared out of nowhere in the doorway. In her hands she held a small keris; her face was covered in blood. In reaction, Pak Ali lifted his rifle and shot the woman in the chest. The blast was deafening and the woman fell backwards.

"Astaghfirullahul'azim", Tok Jais said as he slowly uncovered his ears. For a few minutes they stared at the woman, who lay motionless with a large wound in her chest. Then Pak Ali and Tok Jais turned to Dollah and the two girls.

"Are they alright?", Tok Jais asked. Dollah had managed to ask the girls if they were hurt. One of them was too shocked and terrified to say anything but the other one could speak a little. She said the widow had hurt them 'down there'. Dollah had not asked further.

"Let's get out of here. We can deal with the widow's body in the morning when it's safer", Pak Ali said. Then a groan sounded from the doorway. To their horror, they saw the widow crawling towards them. Blood was pouring from her mouth. Pak Ali immediately raised his gun again, but he did not pull the trigger.

The woman's body suddenly jerked. She gave an ear-splitting scream, and she threw her head back. Her tongue came slithering out of her mouth, almost a foot long.

"Ya Allah!", said Pak Ali and Tok Jais in unison; Pak Ali was frozen in fear, the rifle temporarily forgotten. Dollah wrapped his arms around the girls, shielding them from seeing this, but his own eyes were glued to the horror unfolding in front of him.

The woman raised herself off the floor, almost floating. Her eyes were black as midnight itself, her jaws wide, the tongue hanging out. Suddenly an audible crack was heard, and Dollah saw a huge gash appear at the woman's neck. Then another gash appeared, as if an invisible knife was cutting her head off. With a final scream, the woman's head separated, and the body fell to the floor with a dull thud. The disembodied head floated, and Dollah saw that below the stump of the neck, the head was dragging a heart and a stomach, as impossible as that may sound. Blood dripped from the hanging organs.

The head screamed. A blood-curdling, animal sound.

Finally seeing too much, Dollah squeezed his eyes shut. In his head, he recalled the old lore of the Penanggal, a blood sucking fiend who appeared as a disemboweled head dragging a stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut and wrapped his arms tightly around the frightened girls, and as he heard Pak Ali and Tok Jais' fighting with the creature, Dollah prayed that this was all just a nightmare, and that he would wake up in a world where no such evil stalked the night.

----

I Hope You Walk Home Safe

2008-11-02T16:11:00.000-08:00

---

disclaimer:
the following story may be disturbing.
read at your own discretion.

I think about you often.

I often think about how soft your skin would feel on my lips. When I watch you emerge from your shower and drop your towel to get dressed, I feel the blood rushing through my veins. If I could feel your breath on mine, I would almost surely die of ecstasy.

I think of you often, even more so during nights like these, when KL is dark and dreary and the rain never seems to end. In fact, I actually have been thinking of you all the time lately. There is something within you that makes me want to cradle your body in my arms. How I wish.

I think of you even more now since reports came out in the news that a string of young women, all around your age, were found raped and murdered within shouting distance of their homes. Apparently, said the news, a killer is on the loose, targeting young women. I had gone to some of the crime scenes myself, intrigued by the reports.

I know you always seem carry yourself as tough and street-smart. But I wish I could tell you to be aware. I wish I could tell you that even the smartest people get caught out. Like the old Malay saying, "sepandai-pandai tupai melompat, akhirnya jatuh ke tanah jua".

In my mind I could imagine me telling you: "Sweetheart.. be safe. Don't talk to strangers. Always be wary of your surroundings. Keep to well lit streets, even in this housing area. Make eyes on the back of your head"

Because you are so beautiful. And your beauty seems to scream a frailty that would surely attract a twisted mind. Your beauty incites lust so deep, it is almost unholy. I admit there are times when I lose control and get carried away by fantasies of having you.

I suppose that is your gift: beauty. I just wonder if it is your curse as well. These are not good times to be beautiful in Kuala Lumpur.

I think about those murder reports that came out in the news. Five months back, the first victim was found about beside a dumpster just 200 meters from her apartment at Jalan Ampang.

The news reported that Miss Juliana Razali was a nurse at Gleneagles Hospital. She lived nearby, in an apartment. The news said her body was found by an early morning jogger, who thought the body was a drug addict. Imagine his shock then. PDRM's official statement said 'the body of young woman was found, believed to be murdered'.

There was also evidence of sexual assault. What they failed to mention to the general public was that Miss Juliana Razali was found without her lower jaw, which had been crudely cut off with a knife. The jaw was not found on the scene. Miss Juliana also had her throat slashed thrice, and her killer had stabbed her about 33 times in the stomach. The coroner had noted that her 'intestines were displaced', whatever that meant..

Sadly the news of Miss Juliana's murder was relegated into the inner pages of the newspapers. When I had read that report I almost dismissed it. Sub-consciously however, I wondered what were you doing that night the poor girl had been murdered.

But then victims number two and three followed within days. Number two, reported as Cecilia Fung, was a clerk at a bank; her half naked body had been found in an alley behind Berjaya Times Square. Her house was 3 monorail stations away from Jalan Imbi.

The circumstances of the murder were very similar to the the slaying of Miss Juliana. There was one slight difference, however: Miss Cecilia's jaw was not cut off. Rather, she had had a massive cut, almost 20 inches long, that ran up from her vulva all the way up to her ribcage. Her intestines had been severed in that long cut. But the wound that killed her was a slash to the throat, deep enough it severed her windpipe. Medical examinations also found semen samples, which matched the ones taken from Miss Juliana.

Police were now worried.

Their worries were justified when number three, a salesgirl by the name of Miss Fatimatul Abdullah, was found in a parking lot in Jelatek. Miss Fatimatul was mere yards from her old Iswara. Again, she had been killed with a savage cut to the throat. There were multiple stab wounds on her stomach, but most grotesque was the fact that her breasts had been cut off and placed on the windshield of her Iswara.

Later medical examinations revealed what police was fearing and had already concluded: the same killer.

A task-force was set up. DNA samples were taken, despite no sample to compare to. Suspects were brought in and released, however; because there were no supporting nor circumstantial evidence to support the case. Heavy pressure was put on the police by the public and politicians alike.

The media begin to intensify their reports. Through the media, police asked for any information regarding the killings, just when victim number four was found beside a car, at Bangsar, again within walking distance of her home.

Victim number four was 27 year old Miss Aleeza Adnan, a rising star in the accounting firm she worked for. When she was discovered, she was dressed in a shirt and skirt; the shirt had been crimson red, soaked from the blood that had flown from her slashed throat. But later, when she was brought to the M.E, the extent of her injuries were revealed. Miss Aleeza's chest had 19 stab wounds. One went straight to her heart. The M.E determined that a knife or sharp object had been rammed up her vagina.

Again, the same DNA was found. The public began to demand an end to the killings. Police received angry letters and phone-calls. Tabloid newspapers dubbed the killer 'The KL Slasher'. The KL Slasher was selling the tabloids. I for one thought it was a shameful deed, exploiting these murders. I for one, thought that, had it been you, I would have been angry and devastated that these fucking tabloids were running stories on the murders day in and day out, sensationalizing the killer.

Then, number five, Miss Renukha Singh, was found in a drain near Datuk Keramat LRT station; she lived in the houses nearby. A savage cut had left her head hanging by just a piece of skin. Her chest had 47 stab wounds; her genitals were torn, again with a sharp object.

But the full savagery of the murders really screamed out loud when Miss Karen Leong, a STAR College student, was found behind a bus-stand in Setapak. Her head had been cut off, and like the first victim, her lower jaw was missing, leaving pieces of ragged flesh where the mandible should have been. Her left arm was broken, possibly in a struggle, and she had been disemboweled. Her intestines had been strewn like trash beside her headless corpse. She had a 9 inch cut that ran from her genitals to the rectum. Her ribs were broken, one lung collapsed.

Evidence showed it to be the work of The KL Slasher.

But yet, the police had nothing. They knew all the murders had had the same modus operandi: all the victims were killed within walking distance to their homes, which signaled that the killer was choosing his victims. The killer probably stalked his victims, determining what was the best time and opportunity to strike. All victims had been killed with a cut to the the throat, then savagely mutilated.

All the signs and samples taken at each crime scene were cohesive and consistent, reported the news. And yet no one had been caught. No face or name has been put to the monster now haunting the city. A true monster, seemingly unstoppable, with an escalating blood-lust.

Kuala Lumpur began to be gripped in fear. Women did not dare go out at night alone. The streets became empty and desolate. The police could only answer vaguely to the concerned and worried public. Even the PM and Mayor issued statements regarding the murders. The entire city of Kuala Lumpur was now on red alert; neighbourhood watches were started, patrols were run. Parents set curfews for their daughters, and husbands and boyfriends made sure they accompanied their wives and girlfriends all the way to the front door.

A serial killer, in Kuala Lumpur. It was almost unheard of. But reality has now proven otherwise. Six women, all in their twenties, had been found so far. The killer apparently left no fingerprints. DNA from the trace samples had been taken and analyzed, but as mentioned above, there was nothing to compare it to. This killer was unknown to the people. A ghost, faceless and nameless.

I shook my head, a bit angry at myself for thinking about those unsolved killings. I should have been thinking of you instead.

My mind drifted back to you. We were neighbors; your beauty had caught my attention ever since you moved here some months ago. I even at times attempted casual talk with you.You always worked late. And you always got off at the bus stop 300 meters south of your rented house. In that 300 meter distance, you had to walk along an empty playground at night.

"I'll be fine", I heard you say one day to your friends. I shook my head. I wanted to warn you, to tell you to PLEASE BE CAREFUL but I could not bring myself to say so to you. I can only watch as you come home, and breath in relief that your beauty has remained intact so far. I hope everytime that you walk home safe.

The last murder, victim number six, was found almost two and a half months ago now. Nothing new came out in the news since then. Reports of the investigation got relegated to the back pages of the papers. Even the tabloids were beginning to lose interest in the killer they had dubbed 'The KL Slasher'. The police had not yet made any major break-through.

It is funny how people easily forget. But I don't. However, perhaps that is why you said "I'll be fine" to your friend the other day. Maybe you thought that the murders were over. Maybe they are.

It is now late night, almost midnight, as these thoughts run through my mind. Moments later, a bus stops about 30 meters away from where I was sitting. I see you get down from that distance. You wave at your friend on the bus as the vehicle drives away. Despite the hour of the day, you do not look worried at all. In fact you walk casually, almost strolling your way home. I feel perplexed and a bit amused at your expression of nonchalance. And again I feel struck by your beauty: your curly raven hair, your honey colored skin. The gentle curves of your body and the way your hips sway when you walk. You truly are gorgeous. And you seem so carefree, so oblivious to the terror that gripped our city in the past months.

You do not notice me in the darkness as you pass me by. Then I walk up to you.

"Hi", I say. You were startled, and I said sorry.

"Hi", you say. "What are you doing here in the dark?"

"Oh, I was smoking. I don't smoke in the house", I answer. I silently take in your beauty. I wished then I could run my hands through your hair, and smell them. I felt the blood pulsing through my body.

"Oh okay..", you say. "Well, you wanna walk home?"

I smile. "Sure, sure.."

We walk in silence for a moment.

"Aren't you afraid?", I ask. "These are dangerous times"

"Afraid?", you say, raising your eyebrows. "Of what?"

"You know, crooks. Snatch-thieves. The KL Slasher", I said while wiggling my fingers for dramatic effect.

You laugh. "Well yeah, but it has been quiet. Maybe he's no longer killing. Maybe he killed himself". You smile at me. I smileback. Perhaps the murders really were over... but what if they weren't? I sigh again. We were about 200 meters from our houses, still walking along the dark playground.

"Besides, you can always walk me home right? Haha..~!", you say and wink at me. I laugh a little, and slow my pace so I was a bit behind you. I put my hand in my pocket, and I take out an eight inch black steel butterfly knife.

"Right", I say softly, but my mind was elsewhere, and as I drive the blade of the knife into the soft, tender meat of your neck, and as I catch your body as you fall to the ground, feeling your curves as I did so, all I could think of was how much I was going to enjoy you, number seven.

------------

The Old Man On The Train

2008-10-25T14:31:00.000-07:00

note:
this story was told to me verbatim by my brother, who heard it from his wife(i think). i've fiddled with it a bit.

Made it!!

That's what Amir thought as he slipped by the doors of the train just before it closed. He was rightly relieved; this was the last train that night, and it was Putra LRT. No driver to help open doors there. He boarded the train at KLCC, where he worked as a sales assistant at Isetan.

Amir took a seat as the train began to move. At this late hour, there were not many people on board. It was quiet as well. Amir glimpsed a couple, with the girl resting her head on the mans shoulder. There were a few skater kids as well, chatting (thankfully) quietly, their skateboards across their laps. There were few more less interesting people.

Amir exhaled. He was tired. It had been a busy day for Malaysian shoppers.. and consequently for him as well. He had had to run from here and there, getting stuff, helping customers et al. Sometimes he thought it would never end. His heels were blistered, partly to the running around, mostly to his God awful shoes.

Still, it was a job at least. In these hard times, he was thankful for that. Besides, this was just part time. He was planning on going back to college to further his studies, maybe sometime next year.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to catch a few Z's. He got off at Terminal Putra, in Gombak, and it was still quite some time off. He hated taking the late trains. Somehow he was not entirely comfortable at the thought of being underground, in the dark tunnels beneath Kuala Lumpur. Dark tunnels that reputedly passed below graveyards. Often he heard of stories and whispers about the underground train tunnels; of workers killed during construction, of grotesque finds, of ghosts.

But the thing that perhaps bothered Amir the most about the underground trains and Putra LRT was the fact that it was machinized. Not that he didn't think that there were procedures established in case of emergencies; rather, he would have felt more trusting of the trains if there was a driver ahead.

But beggars can't be choosers, he finally thought. He lived in Gombak, on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. His parents died when he was young, and in Gombak he lived with his uncle and aunt, who had been taking care of him since he was small.

The train pulled into Ampang Park station when he finally fell asleep. Before that, he managed to look around to see people getting on. Sometimes there were really cute girls who took the late train. None today though, Amir thought, a little disappointed. Instead only one old man got on at Ampang Park. Just before his eyes shut, he thought the old man looked sort of familiar.

And so he napped, waking up occasionally when the train stopped. He did not worry about missing his station, as Terminal Putra was at the end of the line. Someone would surely wake him up there anyway.

Everytime he woke up he saw the old man that had gotten on at Ampang Park. The man was quiet, ignoring the few people around him, not even looking around. Judging by his dress, he seemed to be stuck in the seventies. People did not seem to take notice of him either. Just an old man to them, probably.

Amir noticed the old man sat quite upright, with his face down. In his hands he held a small piece of paper. Amir shrugged it off, and went back to his nap.

The train stopped by more stations en route to Terminal Putra, and more people got off. In the end not more than a handful remained. Amir continued his nap, not bothering with the going ons.

He was jolted awake by a Chinese lady who said they've arrived at Terminal Putra. Amir squeezed his eyes and said a brief thank you to the lady as she walked out the train. Cool midnight air blew in from outside. He stretched as he got up, ironing out the kinks in his joints. His neck ached due to the posture in which he napped.

He noticed then that the old man in the old fashioned dress was still in the train. Odd, Amir thought. But then he thought maybe the Chinese lady had woken the old man up first and then him and then just walked outside. The old man was still sitting quietly, his head bowed down as if in prayer.

Amir walked by to him.

"Pakcik", he said. The old man barely stirred.

"Pakcik.. Pakcik, we've arrived at the last station", Amir said to the old man. He gently shook the old mans shoulder. Had this old fella missed a train?, Amir thought. He gently shook the old mans shoulder again.

The old man slowly looked up at Amir, and Amir saw that despite his aged features, his eyes were bright and seemed to be full of humor and joy, but beneath that, his eyes showed the rivers of time. He must have seen a lot, Amir thought to himself. The old man smiled, a smile that was sad. Again Amir was struck at how familiar this elderly gentleman looked. He must have seen him somewhere.

Suddenly he felt creeped out.

"Pakcik, if there's nothing else, I'm going first. Assalamualaikum", Amir said and walked out of the train. Then he felt the old man grab his arm, but not roughly. Rather, it was like a grandfather holding on to his grandchild for support. Amir paused; maybe the old man needed help to walk.

"Pakcik, do you need any help?", Amir asked. The old man did not say a word. Instead, now he took Amirs hand and placed the piece of paper inside it. Then the old man spoke.

"I'm alright", the old man said. His voice was smooth, deep and melodious... and familiar. Amir looked at him, feeling an odd nag at the back of his mind. I've seen this person. Where?

"I'm alright. Go home young man. I can look after myself from here", the old man said. Still, he did not get up. Amir just nodded awkwardly, said 'Assalamualaikum', and walked away.

As he stepped out of the train and took a few steps, he held out the piece of paper the old man had handed him on the train. It was yellowed by time, and the ink on it seemed faded and blotted. Amir tried to ascertain what was written, then saw it was in Arabic script; in Jawi, written intricately and in flowing cursive. He wasn't that good at Jawi.

Amir turned to see if the old man was behind him, intent on asking him why the piece of paper with Jawi on it. Instead there was no one. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse, to see if the old man was still in the train.

But no. No one there. Not a soul. And he was sure as hell that the old man did not just pass him by either. Feeling a bit disturbed, Amir rushed off home, and went straight to bed.

The next morning as he had finished showering and had breakfast, he suddenly remembered about the piece of paper the old man on the train had given him last night. Amir told the story to his uncle, and asked his uncle, who was there at the breakfast table with him, if he could read Jawi fluently. His uncle said yes, so Amir got out the note from his backpack and handed it over to him.

His uncle, a gentle man of 59, put on a pair of thin glasses and looked at the note. He noted how intricate the Jawi was, and proceeded to read the note out loud:

Maafkan aku kerana meninggalkan kamu semua. Maafkan dosa-dosa aku kepada kamu semua. Tetapi dengan pemergian ku ini, aku hanya berharap dapat bertenang untuk selama-lamanya. Aku pinta hanya satu.. tolong jangan siarkan filem-filem dan lagu-lagu ku lagi. Aku mahukan ketenangan.

Remuk redam hatiku hancur
Airmata di Kuala Lumpur

Yang benar,
Teuku Zakaria bin Teuku Puteh

His uncle finished reading the note and slowly took off his glasses. They stared hard at each other. His uncle mentioned the name that had signed the letter, speaking slowly and almost in disbelief; yet when he looked into his nephews eyes, he knew that Amir was not lying, not one bit.

Amir felt a chill down his spine.. then at the same time he felt a palpable sadness in his heart. Now he knew why the old man on the train had looked so familiar.

"Teuku Zakaria bin Teuku Putih was..", his uncle said. But Amir did not need his uncle to tell him. He knew all too well.

"P. Ramlee.."

-------

Jannah

2008-10-15T12:52:00.000-07:00

---------

Jannah walked quietly along the street that led to Sogo. It was night-time, and Kuala Lumpur seemed to have died. There was hardly a soul. Occasionally a car or taxi would pass by. She ignored the headlights as they crossed her body, casting warped and twisted shadows on the sidewalk and walls.

She just kept on walking.

Jannah held the bundle she was holding close to her body. Wrapped in layers of warm cloth, a tiny hand poked its way out. Jannah noticed this, and stopped for a moment to tuck the infant securely in the cloth. She gave it a gentle kiss on the forehead, whispering softly to the child.

Just as she was about to reach Sogo, she turned into a quiet alley, fearfully looking around to see if anybody noticed her. She walked deeper into the alley, and suddenly began to sob. Some of the tears fell on the face of the infant she was carrying, and she wiped them away.

Ya Allah forgive me for what I am about to do, she thought. I have sinned against myself, my faith, against You.

She stopped by near a dumpster that was against a wall. She looked around again, and, convinced that nobody was around, she began to lay the infant beside the dumpster... and stopped. It was dark in the alley, but in that darkness she saw the twinkling of light in the eyes of the baby. The baby had opened its eyes, Jannah thought. It, she thought again.

Suddenly compassion took over as she looked deep into the eyes of the infant. She sat on the floor, leaning against the dumpster and held the infant close to her chest. She sobbed hoarsely, hiccupping. She kept saying "Forgive me" over and over again. She kissed the infants' forehead, and it made an odd mewling sound.

Jannah slammed her head repeatedly against the dumpster, feeling that she should be hurt as penance for the sins she has committed. She slammed her head one final time, and leaned back, crying, praying to the God she has almost forsaken.

-----

Jannah was born some 24 years ago to a wealthy set of parents. She had a brother who was three years older than she was. As a child they had had everything they could ever have wanted. They were not close though.

Her brother grew up to become a renowned and notorious ladies man, and had at any given moment, a dozen girlfriends. Her brother, Ilyas, was the proverbial alpha male.

Meanwhile, Jannah had grown up spoiled and bratty, used to getting her own way. To her, there was no other way except hers. And as she grew, so did her beauty. Even her name meant 'Heaven' or 'Eden', depending how you saw it.

Jannah flaunted her beauty during her teen years, and, as her brother had done before her, began to sleep around. As a pretty young thing she found out that boys and, indeed, men, came in the scores, flaunting her, wooing her with money and luxuries. When she was fifteen she gave up her body for the first time to a 34 year old architect, and in turn she had received a brand new Rado watch. Her parents, being wealthy, never suspected anything. They thought the world of their daughter.

Jannah did not bother to study in school despite her above average intelligence. All she was concerned about were her luxuries and men. Then, when she had finished school, the oddest thing happened.

One day whilst their parents were enjoying a vacation overseas, Jannah found herself at home with just her brother. Ilyas at the time was studying Engineering at a nearby university. Jannah found him that day at the swimming pool of their multi-million ringgit home. He was doing laps. Jannah had trained her eyes on him, and suddenly was struck at how handsome her brother was. Absently she went to her bedroom and put on a skimpy bikini, and went straight away to the pool.

She flaunted her body to her brother. She did not feel odd or ashamed at all, just a sense of absentness. And it seemed Ilyas took notice as well. They talked for a moment, first like the siblings they were, but then more and more like strangers who stumbled upon each other at a bar. And though some part of her was saying it was terribly wrong, she found herself feeling delighted and excited each time her brothers eyes fell to her chest and her long, smooth legs.

She took leave from Ilyas, walking slowly and deliberately, knowing Ilyas was looking at her. She went up to her bedroom and began to undress. Her heart was thumping. Soon she heard footsteps and through her bedroom door, saw that Ilyas had come up. Ilyas paused when he saw Jannah looking at her. She was holding a towel up to her chest. She stared hard at Ilyas, even as he began walking towards her. When he came into her bedroom, they fell into each others arms, not one of them thinking they were doing anything wrong.

Their torrid, dirty affair continued from that day. They took turns sneaking into each others' bedrooms after their parents went to bed. Ilyas would come back from his classes early to be with his sister. Jannah did not at all feel guilty or remorse or disgusted. In fact, the more often they did it, the more she became aware of her brother.

Eventually she fell in love with him.

And then two years ago when Ilyas mentioned that he was moving into his own place in Kuala Lumpur, an apartment near Jalan Putra, Jannah immediately made plans of her own. She told her parents that she had gotten a job and wanted to live on her own. Her parents, clueless and adoring their daughter, had agreed.

In fact, Jannah moved into an apartment in the same building as Ilyas, and they continued their affair. Then one day last year, Jannah became pregnant. She had argued with Ilyas about it. Ilyas wanted her to abort it, whilst Jannah suddenly had an epiphany. Fearing for his reputation and the wrath of his parents' Ilyas suddenly fled the country, leaving his own sister and the mother of his child alone.

Jannah almost fell apart. She avoided seeing her parents and family, claiming she was busy. She cut off her ties from her friends, with the exception of the closest ones. Even so she told them that she did not know who the father of her unborn baby was. Day by day, as her belly swelled, the fear of God grew inside her. She began to question her life, and she began to realize the mortal sins she had committed.

The child that was growing inside her was her own brothers'. Jannah and her brother Ilyas had spent years committing an unspeakable act, an act condemned by religion and society alike. How could she bring the child into the world? But she has done enough, she thought. She will not add murder to her list of wrongs.

Then a month or so ago, she gave birth to the child. She had given birth alone, in HKL, with no one by her side. She had looked at the child, and had pleaded to her doctors not to take photographs or release statements to the public. The doctors had agreed. Then Jannah had taken her baby home. For a month or so she tended to the child, hardly leaving her apartment. She tried to contact Ilyas but to no avail. When she left her house she took the baby wrapped in the most concealing of clothes.

For the child was deformed. The infant had 6 fingers on each limb, but instead of hands and feet, they terminated in an odd claw like appendage, resembling pincers with three prongs on each side. The infant's forehead was flat, the nose missing; in its place were two flaring nostrils. The eyes were black slits, obsidian and depthless. The infant had a cleft upper lip. When the infant cried, the sound it made was cat-like, hoarse.

Jannah cringed every time she saw the child; but another part of her cared for it. Her instincts were at odds with one another. A part of her always wanted to just leave the infant and run; another wanted to stay and atone for the sins. So she spent a month in limbo, feeling that she was slowly growing insane.

Then today the infant had refused to stop crying no matter what she did. The infant, a female, had gone on crying until the night when Jannah, who was feeling mad and sad and angry, wrapped it up in bundles of clothes and went out with it. She could not take it anymore.

So she found herself beside this dumpster, holding her misshapen child in her arms. She cried, sobbing hoarsely, audibly begging for forgiveness from the Almighty. She looked at her baby again; she looked at the deformed face, and held the infants' claw-like hands. The baby seemed to be peacefully looking at her. Could she leave an innocent soul here to die, a soul borne of her own flesh and blood? Would she do it to save her self, sacrificing an unsullied life?

Ya Allah forgive me, she said in her heart, cradling the child in her arms. She looked towards the skies, as if hoping for an answer, but the skies remained as they were, dark, black as jet, and as silent as Death.

-----------

Ravenous

2008-09-20T11:20:00.000-07:00

------

"BODOH! SETAN!!!"

Those foul words emanated from the porch of the house, causing Salwani to rush out to see what was going on. As she arrived at the door she saw her husband getting out of his car, cursing and shouting towards the sky. He had just got home from work.

"Heyh! Abang Zali! What is going on?! Keep it down, our neighbors will hear!” she said to her balding husband. Her husband, Razali, shook his head and pointed towards his car, a brand new BMW 5 Series.

"Those goddamn crows! I just washed my car and look!” he pointed towards the roof and bonnet of his car. There were smatterings of bird droppings. Razali looked furious. He had always hated crows. "Rats of the skies", he always says.

Salwani shook her head and prompted her husband to calm down. "Enough, it's only droppings, you can just wash them away. Besides, you're parked beneath the porch, they won't poop there", she said. However, Razali was already spraying water on his beloved new car and scrubbing with a cloth, his mouth moving, no doubt cursing the damned avian flock. Behind him, the caws of the black birds were heard, coming from the trees. Salwani left her husband to tend to his car.

Razali was a businessman who had just made it big a year ago. He dealt in supplying raw, halal chicken, and had started small about 6 years back. But now his company had a deal supplying chicken to a major food chain, and he was just beginning to reap the seeds of his hard work. And work hard he did. Now, with the money he had made, he and his wife had managed to move into this brand new house in Puchong, and he had been able to afford a brand new BMW, his first ever luxury car. At 47 years old, Razali felt he had finally gotten it good. A new house, a new car, a happy family; even his two children were now studying overseas, with their fees fully funded by himself. He was comfortable and happy.

Except for these goddamn crows!! He thought furiously. He finished wiping his car and prayed that the miserable carrion eaters wouldn't soil the glistening paint. Before he had moved here, he had lived in Klang, famous for its crow problem. He thought he had finally managed to get away from those birds, but apparently they were everywhere he went.

He went inside the house to see that Salwani had already prepared dinner, which sat beneath a saji. He lifted the saji up, and was satisfied with what he saw: kangkung belacan, gulai lemak daging salai, ikan goreng and sambal belacan.

"Sal, let's eat", he said to his wife, who was in the kitchen. She walked out and handed him a mug of coffee.

"Don't you want to change and shower first?"

Razali sipped his coffee and shook his head. "I'm starving. Getting angry at birds makes me hungry". He sat down at the dinner table while Salwani just smiled and went to get rice. They were having dinner when he heard the caws of crows, and nearby as well. Salwani instantly noticed the look of irritation on her husband's face.

"Let them be, they're not bothering us", she said. She was well aware of Razalis hatred of the birds. In fact, Razali had once volunteered to shoot them on behalf of MPK when they were living in Klang. She had asked him once, why he hated crows so much.

"They stink, they're noisy, and they're dirty. They bring diseases. They're flying rats", he had said. In fact, his hatred for crows probably stems from deeper, a childhood memory. He has a vague memory of being attacked by a murder of crows when he was very-very young. He had probably somehow threatened the birds and they had attacked him. He must have been about 4 or 5 years old. He vaguely remembered black shapes around him and the peck of hard beaks on his body. Anyways, it had left an impression. He had hated crows ever since.

Razali angrily finished his dinner. Even the cawing of crows from outside somehow managed to raise his temper. He mumbled beneath his breath, uttering expletives directed at the crows outside. He spent the rest of the evening seated at the wheel of his new car.

He loved the BMW. He had dreamt of owning a piece of German luxury since the days he started working. He had watched enviously at drivers of BMW's on the road passing him by in his cheap Proton a few years back. Now he had one of his own. He was seemingly infatuated with it. Salwani just let him be, knowing how much he loved the car. And he had earned it with his blood, sweat and tears. He caressed the leather interior, the tactile switchgear and wonderfully sculpted steering wheel. Then he got out and admired the lines of the car. He had ordered his BMW in a navy blue color. It was stunningly beautiful to him. He wasn't about to let a bunch of sky-rats ruin it.

The next morning as he was backing his car out of the porch, he rolled his window down to say goodbye to his wife who was standing at the door. As the car became parallel to the road, he stuck his arm out to wave, and that's when plop! A green-white gunk of bird shit dropped on his sleeve. Instantly he was furious. He parked his BMW, got out ranting curses and threw rocks at the trees, to no avail. Salwani had to calm him down as he changed shirts and afterwards angrily sped off.

A few days later, he was sitting in his garden, watching his wife tend to her collection of orchids. In his hands was a piece of biscuit, and he was casually munching on it while chatting to Salwani. Then, just as he was about to take a bite, a black winged shape came swooping down and just plucked the biscuit out from his hand. He managed to glimpse the bird flying off and perching on a tree about 30 yards outside his house. Again, he broke into a hissy fit, cursing and stomping and yelling. And again, Salwani, who was embarrassed should some of their neighbors see this, had to calm him down.

The crows continued to torment Razali. He felt as if he was being picked on. His car kept getting shat on; the birds left feathers on his porch. Once, a crow had even stolen food from his kitchen.

Goddamn birds, he cursed. Goddamn smart-f*cking birds.

He called the local authorities, complaining about the crows. When they came to investigate, however, there were none of the birds around. And when the authorities questioned his neighbors, none of them had any complaints about crows. So they had let the matter be.

Goddamn suits, Razali cursed.

This went on for several weeks. Somehow he managed to blame everything on the crows. He even claimed the crows were deliberately targeting him, tormenting him. Nonsense, Salwani had told him. Aren't you over-reacting?

Razali dismissed his wife. He bought a professional grade sling shot and began to practice, hitting cans with ball bearings. Pretty soon he became good at it. His wife however, was starting to worry.

"Abang Zali, isn't it too much? Buying a slingshot? What next? Guns?” she said one night when Razali was hitting cans in the garden.

"If need be, hell yes", he had replied, and continued to pound the cans. Salwani looked at the dented cans, and she had to concede that he was remarkably accurate with the weapon. She figured it was only a matter of time before he began shooting the crows from their roosts.

Personally, she never saw the crows as problematic. She tolerated them. They were pests, sure, but she knew that, like most pests, if she kept clean and tidy, they would eventually realize that their food source, i.e rubbish, was gone and pretty soon they would be too. Razali, however, was taking it personal. To him, the crows were evil creatures born to torment him. They dirtied his car, stole his food, and interrupted his peace. Razali wanted to take the fight to the birds. He saw it as a crusade. Almost like an ethnic cleansing.

One morning, Salwani heard her husband laughing from outside the house. She looked out the door and saw he was shooting at the birds; in fact there were 4 dead crows at his feet. Some of the neighbors who saw him just shook their heads and looked away, as if concluding that he was a madman. Salwani rushed out to meet him.

"Abang Zali! Stop it!” she said.

"Huh? What? Why? I'm taking care of a problem here. Be quiet!” he said. He continued to shoot at the birds, almost at random. The birds were now flying away, well aware of the threat. Finally Razali stopped. He looked at the dead birds at his feet. He picked them up and threw them inside the large drain behind his house, where they were carried away by water. That night Salwani begged him to stop, saying that he was taking it too far. Again Razali dismissed her. She sighed.

Then one day he accidentally broke a neighbor’s window with his slingshot. After an embarrassing public argument, Razali finally promised to pay for the damages and to not shoot at the crows. Besides, there weren't that many left now anyway. He felt satisfied. He hoped they would not return.

One day he heard the chirp of birds coming from his garden. Curious, he went to look for the source of the noise and found two crow chicks on the grass. They were featherless and grey. They looked like tiny vultures, Razali thought. When he approached them they became rigid, and quiet in fear. He glanced upwards from the position of the chicks, and in a tree which was outside his house he saw the outlines of a nest. The chicks have obviously fallen out. Then he noticed the parents of the chicks at the tree; they were anxiously watching him from above. One of the parents had a white streak across the head.

Razali glanced at the chicks, then at the nest and parents. He stared at the chicks for a long time. The parents were not approaching them because he was there.

"Abang Zali", a voice called out. It was Salwani standing at the door. "What are you doing?"

He looked over and said "Nothing. I'm coming inside". When his wife went back inside, he grabbed a rock his wife used to balance some flowerpots. He glanced at the parent birds, and suddenly smashed the rock on top of the chicks on the grass. He heard a wet scrunching sound and peered beneath the rock; the chicks were now pulp. He grinned, almost laughed, and went inside.

So Razali did not realize the parent crows finally flying down from their perch. Together, they removed the rock, pushing it with their beaks and feet. They cawed alternately, as if talking. One of the birds prodded the crushed bodies with its beak. It cawed at the bodies, as if trying to coax them back to life. When that clearly failed, it let out a long screech. Then its mate joined it, screeching high. After a moment they flew off.

---

Razali awoke the next day feeling good. To a normal person, perhaps, the brutality in which he crushed the helpless chicks would have been deemed inhumane and cruel. To Razali, however, it was an act of public service. He honestly thought that the less crows in the world, the better. So when he had woken this morning, he took a shower and had a big breakfast. Even Salwani was lulled into a sense of joy looking at her happy husband. Razali cocked his ears towards the windows and doors and, much to his delight, heard no caws or screeches of crows outside. The parents must have left the nest then, he thought. Nice.

He glanced at his watch and motioned to Salwani that he had better get ready. Today was an important day. He was to go on a business trip to Perak, traveling north. He would travel alone, and drive up the 200 miles or so. It was a trip he was relishing; this would be the first time he would take his BMW on a long distance drive. He was eager to find out the dynamic qualities of his car. So he said goodbye to his wife and went outside to his car. He put on his shoes and suddenly paused.

There were two crows on his car. Annoyed and angry, he shouted and shooed them away. The birds fluttered off the car and onto the fence. They did not caw. Instead they seemed to be staring at him, cocking their heads the way birds do, the movements darty and sudden. Razali was a little disturbed; the chicks parents? He thought. It did not matter. He shrugged it off, got in the car and drove out from his housing area.

He made his way to the highway exit. He was trying to enjoy his car, except he couldn't. He seemed to notice there were crows along the side of the highway. Though it was probably normal, the fact that there seemed to be a far larger number than usual bugged him. He even saw one flying behind his car in his rear-view mirror, again as if they were following him.

You're just being paranoid and feeling a little guilty, he told himself. He drove on until he reached a petrol station. He stopped to refuel and buy some drinks and snacks for the journey ahead. Razali parked his car and went inside the station shop to get his snacks and pay for the petrol. He walked back to the car and suddenly paused.

There was a murder of crows beside the BMW. He shuddered a bit; he even thought about the collective noun for crows: a murder. It frightened him a little. There were about 7 of them right now, just a few feet from his car. Several of them cawed ominously when they spotted him. Then a curious pump attended shooed them off, and for a moment Razali was relieved. He went to his car and refueled.

He whistled as he pumped fuel into the BMW. In truth he suddenly felt nervous, though he did not want to admit why. Then he felt a shadow fall on his shoulder. He glanced up. A crow stood on the pump, looking down at him. Again the bird cocked its head from side to side, like it was measuring Razali up. Razali swiped his hand and the bird flew off. Then it landed on the ground several feet beside him. To Razali's growing horror, the murder of crows had come back. They just stood there, eyeing him. Only their heads moved.

Stop it! Razali said in his mind. Go away!

But the birds stayed put. Razali hurriedly finished filling up and got in the car. He gunned his engine and sped off. He felt nervous and slightly frightened. Were the birds following him? Had they somehow learned that he had killed part of them? Nonsense, Razali told himself. He switched on the car stereo and tried to relax.

Which he did after about an hour or so. There was light traffic on the highway. He began to feel easier, and finally began to savour the handling and ride of his BMW. He attempted to go as fast as he can, slowing down when an obstacle came onto his path. Razali grinned. Five hundred thousand ringgit well spent, he thought, and gave a pat on the back to himself.

The highway soon came into the mountains, where it snaked through like a river. Razali was now cruising, taking his time, enjoying the view of Gua Tempurung to his left. That's when the first shadow flew overhead. It was so quick Razali barely noticed it. Then a second shadow flew ahead, and a third. Then Razali began noticing. A few more shadows passed by. Razali leaned forward on his wheel to see what in the world they were. As he looked outside his windscreen, he saw. And his blood froze inside his veins.

Crows. They were darting in and about the car. Razali was dumbfounded and scared; how could birds keep up to his car? Then the cawing began. First it sounded like white noise and static to his ear. Then the caws became deafening. Soon they filled the air. Razali glanced at his rear view mirror and almost screamed. What he saw was a dark cloud, black and pregnant with malice. But this cloud was not a result of the evaporation of water; it was a cloud of crows, thousands of them. They were flying at tremendous speed, catching up to his BMW. Razali slammed his throttle, trying to outrun the birds.

"What in God's name is going on!!!” he yelled in his car. He managed to make some side glances and saw that the few other motorists did not seem to notice the cloud. Razali decided he did not care. He sped up the twisty highway, risking an accident. He wanted to go faster to escape that cloud, but the road conditions were preventing him.

Suddenly the light seemed to dim; Razali watched as the cloud of crows blotted out the sun around him, surrounding his car. His vehicle was now surrounded by crows, all cawing, flying on some demonic wind; some of them began pecking his windows, and the glass begin to chip and crack. Razali heard the screech of claws on his metal roof, and the pecks from thousands of hard, black beaks. He screamed in fright. The crows now blocked his vision, and he steered the car wildly on the road. He felt his BMW bump into the railing and perhaps other cars, but he didn't care. He was losing it; fear and fright and incomprehension threatened to drive him mad.

Suddenly the crows dispersed and for a split second Razali felt relieved; then he felt that the wheels of his car were no longer connected to the asphalt but were soaring through the air. Through the windscreen he first saw the horizon, and then as the car nose tipped downwards he saw the forest below. His car plummeted perhaps 150 feet downwards, hitting the side of the cliff and rolling over, smashing onto trees and rocks. Razali was thrown around like a rag doll inside the car, and then suddenly squashed as the airbags came to work. Then the car abruptly crashed at the bottom of the hill, turned into a twisted pile of metal.

A few minutes passed. Amazingly, Razali was conscious. He tried to move and found every bit of his body hurt. He felt warm blood flow from his head, wetting his shoulders and face. He could not move his legs. He tasted salty blood in his mouth and spat it out, along with some teeth. He breathed in shallow gasps. He somehow summoned all his strength and slowly, tortuously wriggled out of the wreckage. He finally managed to do it, and lay still on the ground. He was in tremendous pain. It was a miracle he was even alive.

His eyes darted around, looking for signs of the crows. There were none. Perhaps he had fallen asleep at the wheel and however briefly dreamt it all? Maybe he had been hallucinating? There weren't any crows around. The skies were clear, and the only bird sounds were the nice ones, of sparrows and maybe jungle doves, and the buzzing of cicadas.

No matter, he thought. Someone must surely have seen him crash. Help would arrive soon. All he had to do was stay still.

Then from the corner of his eye he saw something land beside him. He painfully twisted his injured head to look; scaly, black feet. Coal black feathers. A crow. It looked at him with a malignant glow in its beady eyes.

Razali tried to shoo it away. Carrion eaters, he thought. The fear came bursting back inside him. Suddenly the air around him seemed to vibrate. A low, steady throbbing filled his ears. He realized what they were: wings. Soon enough the skies darkened with hundreds of winged shapes. The crows began to land all around him. Razali tried to scream but couldn't. He voided himself, feeling the hot flow of urine wet his pants, and he smelled the stink of his bowels being released.

The crows began to move towards him, sensing he was at his weakest. To the crows, Razali was now just another dying animal, waiting to be reincorporated into the circle of life. A few of them began pecking at his wounded body, and he felt a hard beak pulling away at a piece of his own muscle. He tried to struggle but couldn't.

The birds began to peck and claw at his body, literally eating him alive. He felt agonizing pain as his muscles were being torn by hard beaks and tiny claws. The sounds of the cawing birds shattered his soul, terrifying him. He could not even move. He was being torn apart in small pieces, bit by bit, by a murder of crows.

Then suddenly one of the crows lighted on his chest. He managed to lift his head to look at it. This crow had a strange white streak on its head. Razali looked directly into its eyes, and in them he saw what was inevitable; his own death.

----------------------

The Strange Story of Ishak and His Three Wishes: A Comedy.

2008-09-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

----

Ishak Idris is not the best of men.

At 36, he was unmarried, rented a room in an already crowded flat with 8 others who were all still students, and did not hold a steady job. Perhaps he could blame his bachelorhood on his not-so-enticing looks; he was short, flabby and had the complexion of a 15 year old teenager who did not use facewash. He was also rude; perhaps his last relationship was 15 years ago. He rarely kept a job because he was lazy and tended to slack off. He no longer has any family; his parents died years ago to disease, and he is estranged with any extended family he still has. He dropped out of school at 15, simply not bothering to keep up with education. In fact he hated school.

What Ishak was good at, however, was getting into trouble. He has had several brush ins with the police; twice for theft, once for assault, several times for 'disturbing the peace', and the list goes on. He was in a Pusat Serenti in his early twenties; got released only to relapse into a world of intoxicants. He was a drunk, shunned by his peers (who numbered a pathetic few), and tolerated in his rented flat only because he was rarely in the house anyway.

He manages to just earn a living doing odd jobs; driving lorries, cleaning toilets, sweeping streets, mowing lawns. In spite of that, he somehow manages to gamble whatever is left of his money as well. Not for wins either. He's never won a bet. Perhaps the outside observer would say that Ishak has spent most of his 36 years betting on the wrong horse. And dog. And numbers.

One of the few people who seemingly tolerates him is Kahar. Kahar is a small time drug dealer, working indepently but often for one of the many gangs in Kuala Lumpur. A fellow rehab relapser, it was Kahar who first introduced drugs to Ishak. Now, perhaps the worst thing about Ishak's drug problem was that he rarely had the money to purchase them. Despite the temptations, Ishak has amazingly ignored the urge to steal. He knew he would get caught easily if he did. So often he borrowed. And garnered debts. And he did not borrow from banks either.

This night, sitting in a mamak shop near Jalan Pahang, Ishak and Kahar were having chendol. It was Kahar who had invited Ishak for the treat.They were talking about life in general.. which was actually more of Ishak blaming people for his misfortunes, and Kahar listening patiently, even if he was not really paying attention.

"Eh by the way", Ishak said, wiping his mouth. "Do you have some barang for me?"

Kahar rubbed his neck with a grimace on his face. "Ada. But you can't afford it.."

"Ahh Kahar..", Ishak said, smiling and putting a hand on Kahar's shoulders. "It's not like we're not used to this.. Just lend me the stuff and I'll pay you back later when I have money"

Kahar shrugged. "And where do you think you have the money?"

"Don't worry my friend. I'll borrow some cash from Tommy". Tommy was the neighbourhood loan shark, with connections to a large, feared gang. Many have suffered the consequences of not being able to repay his loans. In spite of this, Ishak seemed casual about it.

"Tommy and I go back a long way", he said. "I'm sure he'll lend me some cash"

Kahar looked at Ishak uneasily. He edged his chair closer to Ishak, making the man look at him awkwardly, as if the gesture was somehow intimate. Not that Ishak would know what intimacy was.

"You see Ishak..", Kahar said. "That's the thing.. you've been borrowing a lot from Tommy, and he's been strangely lenient about your repayments... but..."

"But? But what?", Ishak said, suddenly wary and suspicious.

"Well.. I went to see him the other day to borrow some money myself. Then he asked me about you, and if I had seen you recently. I told him no.."

"Then? What did Tommy want?"

"It seems that he was, like, book-keeping or something, when he realized he had a large portion of money missing.."

Ishak was catching the drift. He swallowed, and asked Kahar. "It's the money I owe him isn't it?"

Kahar nodded. "Yes. RM34 000. Over 6 years. And that's not counting the 'bunga'.."

Ishak paled at the amount mentioned by Kahar. RM 34 000 was a huge amount of money for a man like Ishak, who had no steady job and therefore income. And if he added Tommy's interest to that figure.. he was looking at a figure of at least RM50 000. Maybe even more, if Tommy decided so. Ishak thought a moment; where had all the money gone? What did he spend that amount on? Drugs. Gambling. Women. Like a rockstar, only without the multi-million selling albums or talent.

"Tommy was furious.. he's coming for you, that's what he said..", Kahar said. "But it makes me wonder, why was he so lenient with you?"

Ishak again swallowed, hard. "Sometimes I do odd jobs for him.. Somehow his mind must have slipped and thought I was working for him. Maybe. I don't know.."

"Well, whatever it is, he's not going to play Mr Nice anymore..", Kahar said, shaking his head. He had heard of the horrible beatings and mutilations perpertrated by Tommy and his men towards the unfortunate who did not have the means to pay him back.

"He's coming for you", Kahar said. He finished his cendol and beckoned for them to leave. Ishak had gone pale all over. Like Kahar, he too was well aware of the atrocities that had been done on the people who went MIA with their loans from Tommy. He just nodded and got up, leaving Kahar to pay for their cendols. They got on Kahar's motorbike, and sped off for Ishak's flat.

It was dark and quiet when they reached the flats. Ishak got off the motorbike.

"I'd watch my back and start looking for money if I were you", Kahar said as Ishak stepped off the motorbike and handed Kahar his helmet.

"Easier said than done", Ishak said. He was sweating bullet sweat. He felt cold and terrified. If Kahar said that Tommy was coming for him, that meant dangerous times ahead, unless he magically appeared with at least fifty grand.

"What do you think I should do?" , Ishak said. Then as if on cue, a rock came hurtling out from about 20 yards to the side and hit Ishak on his temple. He fell to the ground, his hand touching where the rock had hit. It hurt like hell, and he saw stars. Kahar looked stunned as suddenly a group of four people approached them. They were young, muscular and menacing looking. The one walking ahead of the other three was clearly the leader. He stank of beer and cigarettes.

"You stay still there. Move and you'll get it as well", the leader said with a heavy accent. He picked Ishak off the ground easily.

"You", he said. Ishak looked at the man's scarred face and trembled.

"Tommy wants his money. RM60 000. He wants it in three days time", the tough man said.

"Three days?!", Ishak said, looking at Kahar as if for support. Kahar just sat still on his bike, with one of the thugs by his side. Ishak saw that most of them were carrying weapons; he saw a baseball bat, glimpsed a knife and maybe even a hammer on one of the men. Kahar looked terrified. He was a dealer, but not a violent one, clearly.

Ishak shook his head, trying to reason. "Three days is not enough time", he said and that was when the lead thug punched him in the gut and face. Ishak fell reeling to the floor.

"Three days", the lead thug said again. "If in three days Tommy doesn't get his money, we cut off your hands. You try to run away, we cut off your head. We're watching you. Get it?"

Ishak nodded quickly, too much in pain to say anything. In his head he hoped the man was just bluffing, but he knew that the thug was dead serious. He had seen it before; a Pakistani factory worker, owing RM20 000 to Tommy, decided to leave the country. But Tommy's men caught up. The Pakistani's headless body made national news when it was finally found in a state of bad decomposition in an oil palm estate.

The lead thug pulled Ishak's head up by the hair, and said again "Three days". Then he spat in Ishak's face and slapped him. Finally he beckoned for the other thugs to leave. As soon as they left, Kahar rushed to Ishak's side, helping the man up.

"I'm screwed, I'm screwed", Ishak kept on repeating. He sat himself on the curbside whilst Kahar stood beside him.

"Where am I going to find RM60 000?? In three days?!", Ishak said, almost screaming.

"Can't you hide? Or run away?", Kahar asked.

"No.. that guy said Tommy is watching me. And I have every reason to believe it's true".

The two men sat for a moment, thinking of various ways for Ishak to obtain the money. Ishak knew he couldn't bargain his way out of this one. By some miracle Tommy The Loan Shark had already been lenient for six years. That was too long a time. Ishak had no other way out but to repay his debt. But how? Robbery? Ishak was not good enough. Scams? There was no time. Ishak had no answer. Then Kahar said something.

"There is one way.. but it's strange, and I don't think you'd believe me anyway", Kahar said in a cautious voice. Ishak looked at him, his eyes full of hope.

"What? What is it? Just tell me dammit! I don't care if it's strange", Ishak said, impatient. He really had no other choice, and was willing to listen to any suggestion on how to get RM60 000.

"Well.." Kahar hesitated. "There is this place in Kemensah, behind the Zoo Negara, where you could get anything you ever wanted.. but it's tricky.. and frightening"

"Just tell me; it has got to be worth a try", Ishak said.

"Are you sure? You believe in shit?"

"I'd believe anything right now"

So Kahar told him the place and the way. Ishak listened with intent, at first unbelieving. But then the spirit of desperation and the fear of being murdered caused him to follow up on Kahar's peculiar advice anyway. An hour later, Kahar left him, saying good luck in a wary voice. Ishak watched his 'friend' leave, and went up to his flat. He sat at his doorway for a few minutes, thinking. Then he got up and went down to a pay phone. He called Tommy.

"Tommy", he said over the phone.

"Yes.", a soft voice spoke on the other line.

"I'll get your money in three days", Ishak said, and hung up.

Two nights later, Ishak found himself on a borrowed motorbike heading into Kemensah, a small village with a river running through it. It was well past midnight; the small kampung road was quiet and eerie, the only sounds being his motorbike and the constant chirrup of insects. It was dark, the only illumination coming from his headlight. He rode on the road until he found what he was looking for; a large tree, with a girth perhaps 6 feet or more. He stopped his bike. Peering into the undergrowth beside the tree, he saw what Kahar had told him: a dirt path, barely visible. He got off his bike and killed the engine. He looked up at the large tree, feeling the hairs on his neck bristle. The tree had grey bark, and stood out ominously. It was as if it was guarding the small dirt path. Ishak shivered, and turned his attention to the footpath. It was overgrown with shrubs and weeds, but it was there. He drew in a deep breath. He took a bagpack he had brought with him and a flashlight. He switched the flashlight on, and headed up the footpath.

As he walked he reminded himself not to look back; it was pitch black. He had passed by a village en route here, but further up the road he used the houses got sparser until all there was on the sides of the road was dark forest. Now, walking up the footpath with only a flashlight as illumination, Ishak was gripped by incredible fear. What he was about to do could only be done by night, as Kahar had told him. And he had spent the previous night making preparations: blood of a chicken, some fruit and a spoon. He thought it was crazy, but if this could get him RM60 000 and maybe more, he would do it.

Slowly he walked up the footpath in the darkness, his hands trembling, his breathing ragged. Sweat wet his brows. He continued walking. He noticed the sounds of insects began to die out. Finally it was quiet except for his footfalls. Occasionally he tripped on a root or rock, but he kept on going. His life perhaps depended on it.

After walking into the jungle for perhaps 20 minutes or so, his flashlight fell upon an object raised 2 feet above the ground. It looked like a tombstone, Ishak thought. He moved his light upon the object, inspecting it. He saw tell-tale signs of people, perhaps people who were as desperate as he is right now, around the object: spoons, seeds, plastic cups and bags. There was a foul smell in the air, which made him uneasy. The object itself was now overgrown with creepers; he set down his bagpack and using his free hand, tore off the plants. What was beneath the creepers scared the hell out of him; the object was an idol in the form of a naked man with bulging eyes and large, sharp teeth. He closed his eyes and remembered what Kahar had told him two nights ago.

"You go to Kemensah; but first you need the blood from a chicken, some fruit, preferrably bananas and durian, and a spoon. Then at night, go to Kemensah. Follow the main road until it gets smaller and you come across a large, grey tree. You won't miss it. When you find it, look closely near the roots. You'd see a footpath, which may be hidden from view. Go walk up the path. You will have to keep on walking until you find a stone idol", Kahar had said.

So here was Ishak, in front of the creepy stone idol. He was trembling, feeling cold sweat all over his body. He kneeled in front of it and grabbed his bag pack. He remembered the second part of Kahar's story.

"When you find the idol, kneel down in front of it. Lay out the blood, fruit and spoon in front of it", Kahar had said, so Ishak was now doing as he was told. "Then", Kahar had said, "you say this:"

"O he who resides in stone; i bring thee gifts to satiate thy hunger, and in turn i wish for thee to satiate mine"

Ishak said the words, shivering in fright as he did so. But his need was great, and he put that above his fear. He remembered the last part of Kahar's story: "Say it, wait a moment, and He Who Resides In Stone Will Appear. This is the hard part; you must not run! Wait, give him your gifts, and let him satiate his hunger first. This is important!! Only when his hunger is satiated will he offer you three wishes. And wish carefully!! He will grant them but be wary of what you say! And remember, you can only ask him this favor once! He will not entertain return customers, so to speak. Above all: be brave!"

Now Ishak waited. A few minutes passed by. Ishak was beginning to think that Kahar was pulling his leg when suddenly he smelled a bad stench in the air, the smell of rotting flesh. Then he noticed it; not at first with his eyes, but with his mind. A dark figure came walking out from behind the stone idol. It's hands pushed aside the plants. Then it stood directly in front of Ishak.

Ishak's eyes went wide in both fear and awe. His nerve strained to keep him there; he felt warm liquid seeping through his pants as he pissed himself. His body was trembling but he willed himself to be there.

The figure that had walked out of the jungle in front of him was vaguely man-like in shape, but it's face was flat, the nose just two holes. The eyes were a watery yellow, huge and bulging out of the sockets. The mouth was wide and large, with huge, crooked teeth and saliva dripping out. The creature's black skin was covered in rough but sparse hairs, and the limbs were long but disjointed, as if broken in different places. The creature stared at his Ishak, it's breathing deep and rumbling.

"What it is that thou want from me?", the thing spoke, it's voice full of malice and evil. Ishak soiled his pants, but did not notice it. Somehow he managed to stay in place.

"I.. I bring you gifts..", Ishak said, showing the creature the plastic bag of chicken blood, the fruits and the spoon. The creature eyes the offerings, and smiled a malignant, toothy smile. It remained quiet as it began to drink the blood and eat the fruits. Curiously, the creature took the spoon and held it in its hand. A few moments passed; Ishak somehow became calmer and bolder, despite the smell of urine and shit in his pants. Finally the creature turned to him.

"For thy offering to me I may grant you three wishes; anything you want. be wise and quick, for I do not have much patience", the creature said, the voice now somewhat gentler but still terrifying.

Ishak took a deep breath. This was it! He could get his RM 60 000 and live; but then he thought; if he could wish for anything, then why bother wishing for Rm60000? In fact, he might as well wish for his own wealth, or the deaths of Tommy and his no good thugs, or to be good looking and rich. He had three wishes, and he could wish for anything! Feeling bolder, Ishak looked at the creature. He decided his first wish would be infinite wealth.

"I wish for..", Ishak said, but just as he said it, some small, unseen animal bit his foot and he in pain he exclaimed "..argh lan***!!!", which was a Chinese word for penis. He placed his hand on where he was bit, feeling for any injury.

But suddenly the creature said "Very well. Your first wish is granted". Ishak turned to the creature in horror, wondering what it was he wished for. He got his answer when he suddenly felt itchy all over his body. Then the itch turned to pain as suddenly his body became run with protrusions, which emerged from his skin. He felt his hands all over his body, looking at his skin as the protrusions grew longer and formed appendages. In shock he realized he had said "I wish for" and exclaimed 'lan***' in surprise. He realized that his body was being overgrown by male genitals!

A few minutes later the sensations stopped; but Ishak now observed that he was covered from head to toe in genitalia; it was an absurd sight, and Ishak felt terrified. The creature, on the other hand, just looked at him indifferently. Ishak's sight was impaired by the 'appendages' which even grew on his forehead. What now? he thought. He had wasted his first wish, and now had no choice but to use up his second to rid him of the extra organs.

"Please", Ishak said. "Make all these lan***s disappear. I wish for them all to disappear"

The creature nodded. "Very well; your second wish, granted", it said.

And suddenly, as sudden as they had popped out of his body, the organs began to disappear. Ishak looked relieved bit by bit as the organs shrank and disappeared in front of his eyes. He rubbed his hands over his body again to make sure, when he felt something odd. His eyes widened when he realized what it was, and as if to confirm it, he looked inside his pants. His manhood was gone. There was simply nothing down there. His second wish had made them all disappear.

He looked stunned, and incredibly began to weep. This was not happening, he thought.

All thought of money went out of his mind. He did not want to live his life an incomplete person, even if it meant his life would be spared by paying off Tommy if he wished for money on his third wish. Incredibly Ishak was thinking that maybe he deserved to die, but he wanted to die a complete human being. He had blown his chances.

"You have one final wish; make it quick for I wish to slumber", the creature said solemnly. Ishak, now weeping, abruptly said:

"Please, I want to be back to my original state". Ishak knew that by wishing so he was essentially signing his own death warrant. Tommy would surely kill him now. But strangely, the thought of having no manhood frightened him more at the moment. I must be crazy, he thought.

"I wish to revert back to my original state", he said again, weeping, finalizing his wish. The creature nodded.

"It is done then. I will leave now", it said. Then it walked backward, back into the darkness of the jungle, and simply disappeared. The jungle was quiet.

Ishak was nowhere to be seen. His clothes lay bundled in front of the stone idol, his flashlight by lying on the jungle floor. The backpack he had brought was open and sat there like a creature with an open mouth. But Ishak was nowhere in sight..

No normal person would pass by this place. But if by some divine intervention someone suddenly came to be there, and that someone inspected the bundle of clothes, that someone would make a strange and perhaps gruesome discovery.

Inside the bundle of clothes, hidden amongst the folds and creases, was all that was left of Ishak: a foetus.

--------------

Love, Together Until Death.

2008-09-09T10:14:00.001-07:00

----

Azhar slowly pushed open the door. The room smelled of medicine and stale air, and of musty sheets. He glanced at the bed, looking at the thin, frail figure shrouded beneath blankets. The figure was breathing shallowly, it's chest rising and falling in short, almost abrupt intervals. It was his wife, Hayati.

Azhar's heart broke at the sight of his wife. He was moved to tears looking at her decaying state of life. Hayati was now only a shadow of her former self. Azhar wiped his eyes, and walked towards the bed, sitting slowly on the chair beside it. Hayati turned her head ever so slightly towards him, the movement looking strained and painful.

"Sayang, how are you doing..?", Azhar asked, despite being fully aware of the condition of his beloved wife. As an answer Hayati only smiled weakly, and slowly blinked her eyes. The smile was a ghost of the warm, wide one it once was. Azhar held her hand in his.

"Sayang, would you like some food or drink? I can make it for you", Azhar said. He was restraining himself from crying. But looking at his wife in a state of sickness, it was proving much too difficult. Part of the reason he had offered to get some sustenance for Hayati was because it was aching him to see her like this.

Hayati smiled again. She said in a soft and raspy whisper, "Can I please have some of the chocolate pudding from yesterday and a glass of warm tea?".

Azhar nodded, bending over to kiss Hayati gently on the forehead. "Wait a moment alright?". He got up and out of the room, glancing back to see that Hayati had already closed her eyes. Maybe, Azhar thought, even opening her eyelids was painful. He made his way to the kitchen. He filled up a kettle to make some hot water and set it on the stove. He leaned on the kitchen cabinet, sighing.

Hayati was suffering from systemic lupus. It was a condition where her own immune system was turning against her, essentially causing her anti-bodies to 'rebel' and attack her own body. There was no cure, and despite treatment to delay the inevitable, her last visit to the doctors made it clear: she was going to die.

That was a year ago. It was terrible news to hear. Azhar remembered that both of them had cried when the doctors told them that there was nothing left to do. So they had accepted the facts, and had tried to live on like normal. Except that Hayati's condition got worse day to day. Now, it seemed, it was only a matter of time. And time seemed short indeed.

Azhar loved his wife. They had been married for 6 years now. They were still childless, although they are trying to conceive. Or were, he thought with a deep pain in his heart. He shook his head, not wanting to think of such morbid matters. Instead he focused on the happier times with Hayati, the times before the disease seemingly took their happiness away from them.

They had met during their final year in university. He was a final year law student, and she was the artsy girl. Their first meeting was a blind date, arranged by his then housemate. It had been awkward when they had met, he remembered. He had somewhat over-dressed, wearing a neat striped shirt tucked into his jeans with black loafers. Hayati, on the other hand, had come in a faded t-shirt, a bandanna around her head, 3/4 jeans with cut off bottoms and slippers.

In spite of that, they got to know each other fast, and soon romance blossomed. They were seemingly fascinated by each other's differences; he was the studious, neat type while she was a fun loving and somewhat carefree soul. But when they fell in love, it was a love personified by a single element: strength.

Azhar rubbed his face with his hands. He glanced at the stove and realized the flame was not turned on. Cursing, he twisted the ignition and the flame came bursting into life. He poured himself a glass of water and waited for the kettle to whistle.

When they had finished university, Azhar immediately got a job at a respected law firm in Kuala Lumpur. Hayati, meanwhile, had somewhat curiously opted to become a kindergarten teacher. They led happy, content lives, seeing each other every week at their favorite dating place, The Curve, always meeting up at the fountain just in front of Cineleisure. It was the place where they had first met and shared awkward introductions.

Azhar was almost overwhelmed by just how much Hayati was in love with him. She took care of him so tenderly, and loved him so selflessly that at times he wondered if he was dreaming. Here was this beautiful young woman, with a soul as free as a butterfly, who loved him. Azhar greatly appreciated this, and he loved her in return like no other man would. He would die for her, he supposed, should that day come.

Then they had gotten married; it was the best thing ever to happen to them. They had enjoyed and indulged in every day together, blissfully aware of the love and need they had for each other. They had spent evenings painting in their home, or cooking together. They went to the movies together, visited each other's parents, went on spur-of-the-moment vacations. They were living a dream.

A dream now seemingly shattered by a disease.

The kettle whistled and Azhar broke away from his thoughts. He made a mug of warm sweet tea for Hayati, and went to the fridge to get the chocolate pudding. Then he brought the little snack to the bedroom for his wife.

As he entered he saw that Hayati had sat herself up. The look on her face obviously showed that it had taken her great effort to do so. But Azhar also knew that she attempted it to please him, to show that she can move without his help. He was touched.

"Sayang, I brought you your pudding and tea", he said. He handed Hayati the mug of tea, but insisted that he spoon her the pudding himself. Hayati smiled sweetly at this. She took small sips of warm tea, and that seemed to bring some warmth to her pallid cheeks. Azhar gently and caringly spooned the pudding for her. Hayati took another sip of tea, then suddenly gave a small, weak laugh.

"What's funny dear?", Azhar asked, amused that his wife managed to laugh at whatever it was that was playing in her head.

"Nothing.", Hayati answered and looked at him. "I was just thinking about the day we met.."

Azhar smiled and put a hand on her thigh. "It was a nice day wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was", she said. "I felt so wrong for dressing up like a hippie when you looked ready for dinner at The Shangri-La".

They laughed, the sound filling the room. Azhar glanced at the room, which was formerly a guest room. They no longer shared a bed. It had been her decision. He had honored it. They continued talking about their first date. At first, both of them had been quiet, feeling like the date was a mistake. But then Hayati noticed that Azhar was wearing a Flik-Flak watch, and showed him that she too, was wearing a Flik-Flak watch. That was all it took, strangely. Soon they warmed up to each other and talked through-out the night in front of the fountain, until all the shops at Cineleisure and The Curve were closed, and a night watchman politely asked them to leave.

Before they did, though, they had exchanged phone numbers and e-mails. A few weeks later Azhar proposed to Hayati to be his girlfriend. The rest, as they say, is history.

"Azhar", Hayati called out suddenly. He was now seated on the bed, his back resting on the wall, with Hayati leaning on his shoulder.

"Yes dear?", he said.

"Will you make love to me?"

He was quiet for a moment. They haven't made love for months now. He was afraid it would be straining or stressful for her. And she really didn't seem like she wanted to do it anyway.

"Are you sure?", he asked.

Hayati nodded. "I can't say how much time I have left.."

"Don't say that"

".. you know it's true. So I don't want to leave this world without being with you for one last time, at least", she finished. She then glanced up towards his face and kissed him. Azhar glanced down at her face and saw the beautiful woman he had married six years ago. Soon enough, they came together for what seemed like the final time. Their inhibitions vanished as they sailed a blissful moment in each other's arms, melting away in their love.

"Sleep with me tonight", Hayati said afterwards, lying wrapped in his arms. Then she rested her head in his chest. Azhar gently stroked her hair, and her bare back, painfully aware of how thin she had become, how weak she was. But he was glad they had made love; it brought back a touch of their former days, and seemed to rejuvenate her a little. Strange. Even so, her breathing still came in ragged, shallow gasps.

But it only lasted for that one night they spent together after so many years. In the days that followed, Hayati's condition became worse. Their doctor came for a visit, and privately told Azhar it was now only a matter of days. Azhar took the grave news calmly, and did not tell Hayati. When the time came, she would know. Azhar took leave from work to care for his dying Hayati.

Azhar now slept in the same room. He had brought in a mattress and slept beside Hayati's bed. Hayati grew weaker every day, until she couldn't even bear to talk. But somehow she always found the strength to smile, or give Azhar's hand a light touch, to show that she appreciated what he was doing.

One day, in the wee hours of the morning, when the sun wasn't even out yet, Azhar woke up to the sound of Hayati's whispering voice calling his name. He immediately got up and went to her bedside. Hayati was wearing a nightgown. She looked worse than ever, her body bare bones, her hair messed up and frizzled. Her eyes were sallow, her skin devoid of colour. Her body was trembling ever so slightly. Azhar seemed to sense that the time was coming. He took her fragile hand in his.

"Yes Sayang, what is it?", he asked quietly. Hayati was breathing fast, her breasts hitching up and down. She spoke in ragged words, almost inaudibly.

"Do.. you.. remember when we first met at the fountain?", she said. Azhar nodded.

"I want to go there..."

"We'll go there in the afternoon alright Sayang?", Azhar said, though he doubted that it would come to pass.

"No..", Hayati said, shaking her head slowly from side to side. She was deteriorating. "No, I want to.. go there.. now.."

"Now?", Azhar asked, confused.

"Ye..Yes.. Now.. please.. do you love me?", Hayati turned to him with pain in her eyes. "I wish to go there, where we first met.."

"It's still early, Sayang.."

"I know.. But please.. take me there now.." He heard the plea in her voice. It pained him.

Azhar thought quickly. What harm could it do? And what wouldn't he do for her? In his heart, he knew Hayati was going to pass away soon. Maybe it was alright to honor her wish, even if his mind told him it was ridiculous. He lifted Hayati's grossly light body off the bed and carried her outside. He took her to the car, strapped her in and locked his house. Then they drove the fifteen minutes or so to The Curve, to go the fountain where they had first met. When they arrived, it was still dark. There was barely a soul walking around. Azhar didn't even see a night watchman.

Hayati declined the wheelchair that was kept in the car, instead asking Azhar to carry her to the fountain. He did as he was asked. His heart was racing. It could be any moment now. But why the insistence? he wondered. Then he decided it didn't matter.

They finally reached the fountain. Hayati asked Azhar to sit down, cradling her in his arms. It was cold. Dawn was about an hour away. Azhar glanced around to see if there were anybody else, less they be mistaken for devious characters.

"Azhar, my love..", Hayati said weakly in his arms. He was kneeling beside the fountain, it's jets of water dead, the surface of the water in the pool as still as glass.

"Yes Hayati?", he said. He looked at his wife's face and broke into tears. She looked deathly pale. Almost, he thought with deep horror, corpse-like.

"Azhar my love.. I wanted.. I wanted you to take me here because this is where we first met.. and this is where we always met up.. remember? I want to die here.."

Azhar nodded. Hayati spoke again, despite the obvious stress that was on her. Azhar wept freely now, just waiting for the moment that life be taken away from his beloved wife.

"Azhar my love.. I want to tell you that I love you so much.. and I wanted to thank you for taking care of me all these years we've been together.. I truly appreciate it Sayang.."

"Hush, mengucap Sayang..and I love you too Hayati.. I love you so much. Forever..", Azhar said, kissing Hayati on the forehead.

"Forever?", she asked.

Azhar nodded again. "Forever. I can never love again, after you"

Hayati smiled, and in the darkness, the smiled looked oddly mischievous.

"Hold me and tell me you will love me forever, and that there will never be another but me", Hayati said. Azhar embraced her close to his body, sobbing, knowing her life was draining out of her.

"Sayang, I will love you forever, and there will never be another in my life. I will never love again. You're my last, my everything, I promise", Azhar said with Hayati in his arms. He felt her shallow breathing on his neck.

Then a strange, lucid sensation pierced his neck on the left. Odd, he thought for a moment. Then the sensation turned to excruciating pain as a blade of a knife sliced him across the neck, from left to right. In reaction, and total shock at the abrupt move, Azhar suddenly dropped Hayati out of his arms and put his hands around his neck, and felt hot blood gush out of the cut, saturating his chest. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and Azhar tried to speak when he realized he couldn't do both, as his windpipe was almost severed. Slowly he was losing consciousness as the blood poured and sprayed out of the wound. Azhar fell backwards, his back propped against the fountain's curb. His eyes looked at his Hayati, who was lying on her back on the floor beside him. In her hands was a small kitchen knife. Wildly in the back of his mind he remembered that he had brought the knife to her bedside to cut pieces of fruit for her a few days back. She had somehow pocketed it.

Weakened and stunned, Azhar fell on the side of his face beside Hayati, facing her. His body went into spasms like a slaughtered animal. The blood that was pouring out of his severed arteries and veins pooled around his neck and head, making a crimson puddle. In his dying moments, he heard Hayati speak.

"Sayang, I'm sorry.. I'm sorry it had to be this way.. but.... I had to make sure I would be your only one. I couldn't bear to die knowing that you may..... in the future love someone else... it hurt me.. it hurt me more than the disease ever could.. so I figured.. I figured out a way... but I'm sorry it had to be this way.. Sayang, maafkan Yati.. Azhar, I love you.."

The last image in Azhar's eyes was of Hayati blowing him a kiss, and saying 'Goodbye' , and closing her eyes.

Then, blackness. Nothing.

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As the sun rose, Hassan, an elderly watchman about to finish his night-shift, walked along The Curve's 'The Street' towards Cineleisure. As he approached the courtyard containing the fountain that separated The Curve from Cineleisure, his eyes spotted two figures lying motioneless beside the fountain. It looked like people, he thought. Drug addicts? Curious, he made his way to the figures, his hand unconsciously moving to the baton on his waist.

"Ya Allah!", he said when he reached the figures, and immediately he turned away in shock. His complexion went pale, his stomach churning; he felt the bile rise in his throat. Minutes later, still reeling from the sight, Hassan made the call to the police.

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