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Three Stories
From The Sunny Little Red
Dot Otherwise Known as
Singapore
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Ab Syahid
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Swapping Everything You Own For Clear Blue Skies and a
Pair of Weathered Dungarees



You have cigarettes? I say, tapping two fingers to my lips.
The international sign for smoking.
Sure I have cigarette, I have everything you want, baby, she says, like delivering a half-
assed line in a half-assed play.
I am not impressed.
Sofia has a body that could definitely last for days but her snatch is loose enough for a
five pound brick to slide in and out without a hitch.
She reaches over my glistening body to grab her purse, rummages its content and takes
out a pack of menthol cigarettes, all crumpled out of shape.
I cant help but sympathize the next dipshit who is going to fuck her, and how hes going
to taste my residuals that will undoubtedly still linger in her mouth.
She places a cigarette between my lips and my sympathy for the next guy evaporates
into nothingness, swiftly replaced by empathy.
I am a dipshit, too, for screwing this Czechoslovakian whore.
There were probably a hundred guys before me.
Ive just had an uninhibited sexual tussle with this blonde woman.
I am a complete dipshit.
I look at her hair and wonder how Id look like if I were blonde.
I would look fucking stupid, no doubt.
What are you thinking about? You look so distant.
I want to tell her to mind her own goddamn business but I release drawn out sigh
instead, which I immediately conceive to be a pretty annoying sound.
My sigh was nowhere close to belonging in the relief category of sighs.
It was more of an exasperated sigh which meant to convey a plenary form of vexation.
Why baby, tell me. Im here for you, she pouts and her left hand hovers over the satin
sheets, slowly gravitating toward my flaccid manhood.
There is no way in hell I am ready for round number two.
Round one took the wind out my sails and I need some time to recuperate, alright?
Relax.



The television is showing some jackass interviewing another jackass with a scrolling
headline at the bottom of the screen which says, LOCAL HOME OWNER RENOVATES
HOME TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE THE SET OF FRIENDS.
I miss that show.
In my opinion (not that it matters), it is the last great American sitcom.
My favorite character is Ross.
He doesnt have to say anything; he can make me laugh just by sitting on a sofa saying
nothing.
My sister always says that he reminds her of a giraffe.
I think that is the reason why I find him so funny.
Why would a human being look like a giraffe?
Or why would a giraffe look like a human?
Thinking about this makes me laugh and when I realize that I look completely crazy
laughing for no damn good reason, I mask it with an elaborate cough.
The I-have-something-stuck-in-my-throat-help-me-Im-dying kind of cough.
Sofia offers zero assistance.
I am annoyed but it doesnt last long for it bodes well for me, because I dont have to put
up the fake coughing song and dance any longer.
Being phony is tiring.
I try to keep that shit to a minimum.

We watch re-runs of Frasier and Fawlty Towers, wordlessly.
I glance at her naked body ever so often, with the knowledge that Im able to do
whatever I want to it at any given time, or tell her to do anything I want to me, and she
has to oblige, no matter how nasty my requests are.
All of this is on the table; until six in the morning, that is.
That is when she goes out the door with my money in her purse.

We watch another episode of Frasier and halfway through, I can feel my mojo coming
back.
Im all ready to perform some ground and pound again.
The second time is always better because it usually lasts longer.
Sometimes, on the second go-round, Im blessed with the sexual stamina of a pornstar,
tipping the hour mark, soaking every inch of the bed sheets with perspiration, losing at
least three pounds of water weight, easy.
By the time the credits roll, she is on top of me, going crazy for my erection again, riding
it aggressively as though the elixir to end world hunger would shoot out of it.
I look at her and flinch when the image of her as child pops into my mind.
This central European whore used to be a child whose life revolves around sweets and
cartoons, just like me when I was a child.
I imagine us meeting as two wide-eyed children, our parents keeping an eye on us from
a distance as we say hello to each other at the playground.
I shake my head and rub my eyes to destroy this mental image.
What the hells the matter with me?
Holy shit.
Sofias head is tilted backwards and she propping her double D breast in position,
preventing it from flopping about, rubbing her nipples with the tip of her pointer
fingers.
I quite like it when it flops around like jello but I dont tell her.
I dont want to interrupt her focus.
She is looking as if shes in it to win it.

Her heavy moans prove that I have perfected the art of love making, or fucking if you
want to be painfully blunt.
But I am not doing anything; I am simply lying down on my back with my hands clasped
behind my head watching her go all ballistic with every animalistic thrust.
I smugly think to myself, Im not even trying and shes already like this. What if I put a
little effort into it? Will her head explode from an overwhelming orgasm? I bet it will. So
Im just gonna do the right thing and stay put so she can keep her head.
The wall clock says 1.27am but Im still fresh.
My body feels like 1 in the afternoon.
My age doesnt correspond with my nighttime activities and Im sort of proud of myself
for It.
I can still hang with the best of them.
Yeah.
Collecting cards that say, You Have Sinned is somewhat an innate talent that have
bestowed upon me at my time of birth and Im sort of proud of this, too.
Not many people can say that.
Most people lack the decency to take the blame for their shortcomings and absence of
restraint, and they are the ones who ought to rot in hell for all of eternity (times
infinity).
Fuck them.
Theyre scum.
At least be accountable for your own damn mistakes for fucks sake.

Looking at what I have and what I can afford now, the tetchily enduring memories of
growing up in a one room flat in Tiong Bahru, together with an older siblings (a brother
and a sister), and two meth and heroin fiends for parents seems like fragmented scenes
from my horrid imagination.
All this fucking $800 Czechoslovakian whores and living in a house much too big for
thirty full grown adults feels like a momentary reprieve and Im going to wake up to that
one room flat again, having to watch my step to avoid stray syringes/needles on the
ground.
A stray cat we adopted got caught with one of those goddamn things and died.
Our parents told us Betty was just taking a long nap and that shes going to wake up
when shes had enough rest.
The nap lasted longer than expected; it lasted forever.
Her stiff carcass rested in front of our house for a couple of days and invited all kinds of
bugs and rodents.
It was fucking disgusting.

My father lived in a perpetual state of intoxication, spaced out of his skull, lost in his
own peculiar world, a syringe seemed like a permanent fixture in his hands, always
telling us that he was going to die the following week but always managed to stay alive,
allowing him to break our hearts beyond recognition.
My mother played the devils advocate, mostly.
She was pretty much the worse female role model a child could ever have.
Sometimes when my father couldnt get his fix and was hit by one of his unbearable
withdrawals, he would turn violent; slapping my mother around so bad she would lay
unconscious on the floor by the end of it.
She would always regain consciousness as if from some kind of satisfying slumber, rub
her eyes and find some toilet paper to clean the congealed blood off her face, and then
put on her hooded jacket, her battered converse sneakers and walk out the door.
My father said she just needed to wander around on her own and mull over her
mistakes, listen to the grass whistle and birds sing to clear her addled mind, to guide her
toward the realization of her failure as a wife/mother.
Knowing is half the battle, hed often say to us while smoking his hand-rolled cigarettes.
My mother would return about an hour later all upbeat, telling us what a beautiful day it
was outside in an awfully creepy sing-song manner, plant her ass next to father and start
stifling him with kisses.
It was as though the fresh bruises on her face could be concealed by her exaggerated
display of affection.
My brother, sister, and I were young, but we sure as hell were not stupid.
One of my friends back then-at least I considered him a friend- was this pasty looking
bucked-tooth son of a bitch named Azhar.
Hed often ask whether he could come over to my place after school and during the
weekends.
I soon found out why he was always so eager to come over.
It was on a Saturday afternoon (after wed played soccer at the void deck with some of
the kids around the neighborhood) when I caught him staring at my mother with mouth
agape, one hand underneath his shorts moving in a manner which could only mean one
thing.
I nailed him with a knee to the face, he fell backwards, his head bounced off the floor,
causing him to lay flat on his back, limbs sprawled in different directions; the proverbial
lights in his head went out temporarily as he took an involuntary nap.
Every part of his body went limp except for one, which made his crotch area look like a
pitched tent.
My parents were too out of it to notice the ruckus so I nonchalantly grabbed Azhar by
his ankles and sent him packing, tossing him out the door like a wretched bag of rotten
clams.
My brother came to me after that to call me a mentally-stunted fucker for failing to
discern Azhars blatant perversion.
Isnt it obvious? Mum never wears a bra. Look at those things. Theyre bouncing all over
the place as if independent from her body!
I told him that hes sick in the head for looking at his own mother that way, and that he
might have some kind of Oedipus complex.
Youre the one with deep-rooted incestual desire, fucker! he yelled in my face and
stomped off.
That was how he reacted whenever hes on the losing side of an argument.
I miss him.
And my sister, too.
The same cant be said for my parents.
The last I saw of them was back in 2005.
That was the year when Million Dollar Baby won the Oscar for best motion picture.
It doesnt feel long when I think about it now, but I occasionally struggle to recall how
my family members look like.

The hankering for an improved standard of living; the kind of life I constantly
envisioned for myself while I was still in that gaudy one room flat, sort of like a parallel
universe to the dingy excuse for a home in which I endured for the better part of my
youth; this ceaseless desire unknowingly eviscerated memories I have of my family,
turning them into fragmented lines of unassured afterthought.
I bumped into an old family friend a couple of weeks ago at some obscure semi-
trendy/semi-upscale bistro in Tanjong Pagar.
She recognized me even when I had my shades on.
She said my face hasnt changed at all the last time she saw me, which was about fifteen
years ago according to her.
With much trepidation, I avoided singing obvious and mental scar inducing songs with
her, swerving towards flaky ones instead like what coffee she was having, what was the
last movie she saw in the theater, how abusively humid the weather was, and on and on
in a stream of consciousness manner, all the while hoping and praying she wouldnt talk
about my family.
But she refused to stay on course, chose to indulge me with an up to date news
regarding my family members current state of affairs.
My parents are still barely surviving in the same one room flat I grew up in, my brother
signed on as an infantry muppet for the Singapore Armed Forces, and my sister had just
gotten engaged to some guy who works as a waiter in a bar somewhere in Club Street,
Chinatown.
Your sister went blind in the left eye from consuming too much alcohol, she said.
Ive always wondered whether that was possible.
Hehe.
This old family friends disposition remained phlegmatic when she divulged this piece of
startling information.
The barista gave me my coffee.
I left in haste without saying goodbye.

I stare at the white vacant ceiling, visualizing my family sitting on a couch readying
ourselves for a formal portrait; one which doesnt involve domestic abuse, drugs, and
negligence.
I can feel Sofia heavy on top of me and it makes me sick to hear her moaning like a
deprived sex fiend.
She is looking up at the ceiling, too, but for different reasons, I suppose.
Maybe shes visualizing her family up there, too, who knows.
It is weird to be thinking about your family while having sex so I stop.
I think about random things like multiples of seven and authors whose names starts
with the letter H.
Hunter S Thompson.
Hubert Selby Jr.
Henry David Thoreau.
But this doesnt help much.
My family is still up there, but weve aged with each passing second and theres a fire in
the background and a spark of white light in the foreground.
We are still looking forward, anticipating the bright flash of the camera.
The fire gets bigger and is looking to engulf us but we are still oblivious to its impending
arrival.
The fire spreads throughout the ceiling, swallowing us whole, and this is when the
unseen photographer decides to immortalize us on celluloid.
Click.
Sofia pulls me up and Im on top of her now, in a mount position.
She is clutching my waist, pleading me to go faster.
The television is showing an episode of Seinfeld now: the episode where Jerry dates a
phone sex operator.
I pull myself out, reach for the remote and turn the volume up.
Sofia doesnt move.
She is mumbling in a language that sounds foreign to me.
I push her away from blocking my view of the television with my right foot.
She gets on her knees and throws her head backwards to reveal her flawless face, green
eyes, full pout, biting her lower lips, nose flaring, two fingers in her snatch, in and out,
and then three fingers, and then four, and then five, in and out making wet sounds.
Most whores just check in and out with little to no emotional connection with their
client.
The Im just here to perform a service just to get paid kind of whores.
But Sofia is quite simply a whore chasers dream come true; the value for money sort of
whore.
She enjoys what she does for a living.
At least she has that.
The same cannot be said for me.
I hate what I do.
I make a lot of money and am pretty fucking fantastic at it, but that doesnt mean I wake
up every morning eager to get to work and feeling like the luckiest son of a gun in the
world; pretty damn far from it, actually.
What I do is what causal observers would call legalized gambling.
Im in the business of making the rich richer, which bodes well for my bank account.
People envy me and I envy them right back, just a different kind of envy, I guess - The
envy of living along the golden mean.
My overachievement has dealt me a life of financial freedom, allows me to treat people
like inanimate things, objectify women as and when I please without getting lip from
any of them because they know Im sitting high in the social hierarchy.
I dont know how it feels like to be poor anymore, how it feels to wake up hungry, not
knowing where my next meal would come from, or worrying whether I have enough
change in my pocket for a bus ride home.
Worrying about trivial bullshit like that sure stinks.
But I sort of miss it.

I am thinking about my sister and how shes coping with permanent monocular vision.
Life is already such a drag with two eyes to see from.
Goddamn.
If I know where she is now, I can easily give her some money for a cornea transplant or
something like that without feeling a pinch in my pocket.
The cost of such surgical procedure is chump change to me.
But I can envisage the long, drawn-out procedure, what with having to be in line with all
the others on the waiting list which means that I have to keep in contact with my sister
throughout the entire process.
That could be weeks, or months.
Fuck that.
If she wants to see with both eyes, she has to work for it her damn herself.
Or get her husband to do something about it.
Shit.
Im not in the business of giving handouts to people who are able-bodied but are just
too fucking lazy to dig themselves out of their crummy little holes.

Sofia is screaming and creaming down south, and I am staring at her, unblinking, totally
flaccid, wishing theres a button I could press which would make me invisible.
I want to get up but my body refuses to move.
The room is too cold.
The tip of my fingers, the sole of my feet and toes are numb.
The temperature setting has been tampered.
Damn! This tastes like air-con! was what I used to say whenever something cold
touches my tongue.
Shut the fuck up, idiot. Nothing tastes like air-con except for air-con, was my fathers
typical reply.
I wouldnt know how air-con tastes like anyway on account of were too shit poor to
even afford a fan in the house.
I pretty much grew up in a sauna and it is fine.
It is part of my illustrious/growing history.
As a method of self-consolation, Id tell myself that it is just warm up practice for when I
finally burn in hell for all eternity.
This is what people may call silver linings.

Sofia lights a cigarette, takes a long drag and blows smoke rings which floats toward my
face.
I feel like a whore, being paid to fuck for the very first time.
I want to tell her to leave but my mouth refuses to let the words slip out.
It has already started.
My body does this for around twenty to thirty minutes every night.
It shuts down; a thorough deprivation of physical senses.
I cannot see, I cannot hear, I cannot taste, I cannot smell, my skin loses its pressure
perception; everything drowns in a soothing lake of mandatory paralysis.
My eyes are open but it doesnt perceive my reality, instead, I am watching myself sitting
alone in a movie theater with a big tub of buttered popcorn.
The big screen is showing previews of upcoming movies.
I always show up fifteen minutes earlier just to catch the previews.
A typical movie screening usually shows two to three previews.
I always play this game with myself where I decide which movie trailer is the best and
based on this, I will watch the said movie when it comes out, and that movie only;
disregarding the others no matter how good they turn out to be.

So I am watching myself in the movie theater, eagerly waiting for the first preview to
come on.
The first preview is a movie where the protagonist looks exactly just like me and all he
does is shoot random people in the head or cut their throats.
It is called Lightning Edge Express.
The second preview seems like a family movie at first but turns out to be about a kid
who lives in a house full of unemployed junkies who abuses him on a regular basis. It is
called Chewing Gum and Choking.
The child-actor in the movie looks like a splitting image of me when I was a child.
The resemblance is uncanny.
I see myself nodding in my seat, forcing popcorn down my throat and washing it with
root beer.
The screen fades to black for about ten seconds, like a suspenseful overture to the final
movie preview.
Hey! Why are you all alone in this huge theater?! I yell at myself and receive no
response.
The final preview is for a movie about a sex addict who has intimacy issues and is living
in denial.
He lacks the social capacity to interact with humans which causes him to tear himself
away from society, spiraling uncontrollably towards a life of heartache and abject
isolation.
It is called, Singaporean Misanthrope.

I find myself thinking that it is impossible to pick the best out of the lot.
There is no way I can watch Singaporean Misanthrope and not watch Light Edge
Express and Chewing Gum and Choking.
There is no way I can watch Lightning Edge Express and not watch Singaporean
Misanthrope and Chewing Gum and Choking.

The seemingly endless permutations are tearing me apart.
I want to see all three when it comes out in the big screens.
My life in its state of perpetual turbulence; immortalized on celluloid.
I imagine myself being first in line to buy tickets for all three movies, watching them
back to back to back, reveling in glorious cinematography.
I cant hold back my excitement.
My heart suspends in restless anticipation as my body regains its mobility.





















Neck Deep In Custody


Zulaiman dreamed of dying again.
This time, he was sitting in an electric chair, surrounded by fire and brimstone.
He woke up feeling like death jammed in a tiny little parcel; fragile and not prepared for
delivery.
His head was still buzzing from the 12 bottles of beer he drank last night.
Through the familiar process of vague contemplation, he figured what the hell, it was
just another dream.
He was hoping to wake up in the uncertain world of the great beyond.
But he got reality instead.
With nobody to talk to.
And nowhere to go.
He found it hard to find a good enough reason for him to get out of bed.
All he managed to draw in his skull were irregular shapes that didnt bear any meaning
before it went completely blank; a prolong state of darkness swirling in his mind he
perceived as peace, not hopelessness.
He liked to tell lies to himself and to others, too, naturally.

The morning sun engulfed the room, illuminating every tangible object he owned.
Hiding is futile.
He wished he could live in perpetual darkness long enough to make him appreciate
light.
Dust modes danced in the atmosphere and he studied them with mouth agape,
yawning, cutting a forlorn figure.
Time to get up.
Time to do some shit.
But he just sat there, motionlessly, unblinking, waiting for something to happen instead
of making them happen.
He spends a large chunk of his time thinking about doing something and then
forgetting about it five seconds later.
Then he began to think about breathing, becoming fully aware of his respiratory cycle.
He illustrated the cycle in his mind, taking in deep breaths and exhaling them out.
He imagined how tiny oxygen molecules and carbon dioxide molecules exchange places
through the process of diffusion.
What do they say when they pass each other?
Do they get along?
He hoped that they do get along because if the oxygen and carbon dioxide molecules
were to have some kind of disagreement and decide to have a cold war, the respiratory
system will crumble and people will forget how to breathe, keel over and die.
Young, old, infants, crippled, movie stars, homeless people; they don't give a fuck.
Dead bodies everywhere.
Such morbid scenes!
Oh no.
What if I stop breathing?
What if I forget to breathe when I'm asleep?
Because that's how people die in their sleep, right?
Their brains malfunction while transitioning haphazardly from one passage of
consciousness to another that it goes into complete shutdown.
Shit.

His son Bazlee was watching SpongeBob Squarepants in the living room.
He had the volume way too high so Zulaiman screamed at him to lower it down.
Even though Zulaiman had his door shut, the sound coming from the television was
deafening.
His son had mumps when he was 3 which caused sensorineural hearing impairment, but
Zulaiman did not give a shit.
This was the reason for him to get off his bed.
The reason hed been leisurely searching for.
He rushed into the living room and hollered at Bazlee to turn the fucking volume down
before somebody receives a beatdown.
Bazlee did not budge from his position, just turned his head languidly to face his father.
And then he smiled, unaware of what was going on.
Oblivious to the fact that his father had just threatened to beat his ass if he failed to turn
down the volume.
Zulaiman grabbed the remote from his hand, turned the television off and called Bazlee
a little shit.
He raised his left hand high above his head, ready to execute a backhanded bitch slap on
his nine year old boy.
Human conscience and morality got in the way, and he places his hands on his hips,
saying Oh Shit, I'm so sorry, while looking down at his feet.
The rush of guilt was so intense that he got on his knees and started crying.
Bazlee got up, walked towards the television and pressed on the button to switch the
television back on.
When he returned to his seat, Zulaiman smothered him with kisses, tears streaming
down his cheeks, begging Bazlee for forgiveness.
Bazlee simply shot a puzzled look at his father and proceeded to focus his attention on
SpongeBob, like nothing had happened.

The phone rang and Zulaiman picked up the receiver.
'I'm coming to pick him up in 30 minutes.'
His wife hung up the phone on him before he could squeeze in a word or two.
The bitch.
The antagonizing, unforgiving bitch.
They got a divorce three years ago and she's still bitter about what he did to her.
It was just one drunken night with a Thai prostitute.
His heart was with her while he was thrusting in and out of the $100 an hour piece of
Thai meat.
What's all the fuss about?
Sure, he came home around half past three in the morning, still reeking of alcohol,
running amok like an aggravated wild beast, breaking everything in sight.
He cut up the leather furniture with a pair of scissors, smashed all the ceramic kitchen
utensils, swung all the wooden chairs against the wall like a baseball leaving behind a
splintered mess.
Apart from all that nonsense, he had been a good husband to her.
That was just a one off thing.
But she did not want to give him another chance.
He struck out once and was instantly out of the game.
Fuck that unreasonable bitch.

That was a side of him she never knew existed and it frightened the shit out of her.
She never expected someone as kind-hearted as him to be capable of cheating on
someone he presumably loves.
And then she told herself, people change after they get married.
She pressed the red button and not long after that, she was back in the market, albeit as
a divorcee.
She was still in shape though, so it wasn't so bad for her.
With that hefty thing on her chest and a pear shaped butt, she went to places Zulaiman
could never even dream of taking her.
He saw her with different men each time they bumped into each other.
Goddamn slut.
The antagonizing, unforgiving slut!
Fucking around like a tramp and allowing Zulaiman only one day a week to spend time
with his son.
Alternate weekends.
Saturday or Sunday.
This is chosen to his convenience, naturally.
That was the only silver lining in the custody agreement.
He exclusively chose Sundays because his job required him to clock in on Saturdays as
well.
That was before he got laid off.
After that, he was able to see his son on Saturdays if he chose to.
And he wouldn't be so damn tired each time he comes over, too.
That's the silver lining he got from his firing.

All the sitting around at home with nothing to do but get drunk and high slowly caused
a feeble sense of apprehension to creep into his tepid awareness.
With zero income coming in and his savings running out, it dawned on him like a flying
shit to the head that Unemployment was not a friend of his.
From foe to friend, and friend to foe; again and again like a delirious top that never
stops spinning.
All he was praying for was some kind of Golden Mean where work and leisure are able to
walk affably together, hand in hand.
Is that too much to ask?
Surely not.
He took a seat next to Bazlee and asked him to explain what's going on so that he could
get up to speed with whats on the television.
Squidward's up to his usual ploy trying to cause tension between two best friends;
SpongeBob and Patrick.
And it's working, too.
After the episode ended, Zulaiman tapped Bazlee on his shoulder and asked him to
come closer.
He lured him in, cupping his hand to his sons ear as if to whisper a secret.
Bazlee was sold; inching closer, eager to know what his father had to say.

'Later when mummy comes to pick you up, I'm gonna play a game with her and you
must play along alright, Baz? You have to remember that it's all just a game. Mummy
knows that it's all just a game as well. So you just keep quiet okay, Baz?'

Bazlee nodded, grinning, excited by the prospect of his parents having fun together,
playing some kind of secret game.
A collector's item.
This rarely or hardly ever happens, he thought, smiling gleefully.
The doorbell rang and it was his wife with.
There was a tanned, Hawaiian-looking guy next to her.
He was wearing a light blue oxford shirt, buttoned all the way to the neck.
It made Zulaiman think of strangulation.
It made him think of a boa constrictor.

'You're drunk,' she said, miffed.

'No I'm not. Don't accuse me of shit like that in front of this asshole!' Zulaiman yelled,
motioning towards the tanned, Hawaiian-looking guy.

'Who are you calling an asshole huh? Fucking useless unemployed piece of shit. If you
plan to keep that up, you better be prepared to have a broken face.'

'Easy there, tiger. Don't have to get all physical with me. Bazlee's in the living room
watching cartoons. Just give him another five minutes, it's about to end. Come on in.
Wait right here on the couch, I'll make some tea.'

'No thanks,' she replied offhandedly.

'How about you? What's your name by the way? So rude of me not to introduce myself.
I'm Zulaiman, ex-husband of this tramp you're fucking. Nice to meet you.'

Zulaiman stuck out his hand for a handshake but it was not met.
His extended arm hung in limbo awkwardly.
'I know who you are, dick. Who I am isn't any of your fucking business. Just get out of
my face,' the tanned, Hawaiian-looking guy said.

He then made hand motions to shoo Zulaiman away as though hes some kind of stray
animal.
Just breathe, Zulaiman reminded himself.
Deep breaths.
Slow and gentle exhalation.
Only think of things that make you happy, flush away all the dour memories.
Think of Arsenal Football Club finally winning a trophy after an eight year drought.
Think of Bazlee growing up and choosing to live with you indefinitely.
Think of Bazlee becoming a millionaire and taking care of you.
There you go.
Deep breaths.
Slow and gentle exhalation.
You are doing great.
Keep up the fine work.
Don't let this mug make you lose your cool.

'Why don't you get a job already, Zul? What's all this slacking around deal? You're not
young anymore. You have a seven year old kid for fuck's sake. You want him to grow up
learning that he has a deadbeat father? Get the fuck off your ass and do something with
your life!'

'Hey, don't tell me what to do. You can't do that anymore, bitch,' Zulaiman wagged a
finger at her.

'What the fuck did you just call her?!' the tanned, Hawaiian-looking guy went semi-
ballistic.

His eyes came close to shooting out of their sockets.
The man rose to his feet and rushed towards Zulaiman with ill intentions.
Zulaiman's ex-wife came in between them to intervene before something stupid happen.
'Stop it you two! Quit behaving like a bunch of school kids.'

'Fuck you!'

'Yeah? I'm right here, baby. Take a shot, I beg you to swing at me, please do it. Make me
the happiest man on earth.'

The man taunted Zulaiman, sticking his neck out, pointing to his lips, telling Zulaiman
where to take aim.
Just breathe.
Deep breaths.
Thats it.
Slow and gentle exhalation.
Be the master of all the animosity that's brewing within you.
Silence the violence in you.
Dont let it out.
For the love of God do not let it out.
Who let the violence out?
Who?
Not me, thats who, yeah.
You're going to be the bigger man and walk away.
Deep breaths.
In.
Out.
Yes.
In and out again and again, steady and controlled.
This is basically the most in and out action youve had for a while now.
When was the last time you ejaculate without the aid of your hands?
Shit.
Hahaha!
You are such a loser!
But you are doing great now.
Keep up the good work.
I have never seen such sublime breathing patterns.
I am proud of you.

'I'm not gonna be lured into your trap, shitface, Zulaiman said, unimpressed.

Zulaiman flailed his arms towards the two of them as if to say whatever, and trudged
into the kitchen.
A few seconds later he came back with a steak knife in his hand and a sinister smile on
his face.
His breathing pattern was terribly irregular; it was as though he was having an asthma
attack.
He was inhaling when he was supposed to exhale, and exhaling when he was supposed
to be inhaling.
It choked him.
His respiratory system went total apeshit.
It was like a mob scene in there.
Total chaos, complete anarchy up in that shit.
Order was non-existent and it made Zulaiman dizzy.
He was drifting in and out of consciousness, not sure whether he was dreaming or not.
It felt real.
It also felt entirely surreal, too.
The higher ups pulling all the strings of human consciousness handed him a raw deal.
He began hallucinating and having wild coughing fits.
Zulaiman raised his free hand to his face and started to make a fist with it, and then
opening them up again; he did this multiple times to discern between dream and reality.

'Holy shitwooaaahhh.....'

'What do you think you're doing with that knife?'

'Easy, man. Don't have to get all crazy now. Drop the knife. Just drop it and we can -

Zulaiman slashed the man's throat in one swift motion and blood began to spurt onto
the floor like a busted pipe.
Red was in fashion.
He wanted more of it.
More RED please!
A round of RED for everyone!
Put it on my tab, thank you very kindly!

Satisfaction was evident on Zulaimans face, his lips curled upward into a malevolent
snarl.
The man applied pressure to the wide open gash with both hands but it did not alleviate
his predicament.
Blood still oozed but less dramatically now as the tanned, Hawaiian-looking guy
dropped to his knees.
Life was slowly seeping out of him.
The sort of pleasure Zulaiman gained from watching this unfolding before him was
comparable to when he first cradled baby Bazlee in his arms.
The copious amount of blood and heinous struggle reminded his ex-wife why she turned
into a staunch vegan.
Flashbacks after flashbacks of gruesome videos she painstakingly watched on Youtube
which show animals being slaughtered, mercilessly slashed at the throat with sharp
blades, and left for dead.
The word barbaric scrolled vertically through her skull in red, bold letters.
Her eyes quivered with terror.
The immense amount of blood circling around the white-tiled floor twisted her gut into
tight knots, making her wish that shed never been born.
It took his ex-wife a few seconds to snap out of diabolical horror before she held her
hands to her mouth.
She could not hold it in any longer; it was just too much for her to stomach.
She placed both hands on her knees and barfed out her tuna lunch.

The sight of vomit and blood blending together was not a pretty one but Zulaiman's
mind failed to process what he was seeing.
There wasn't enough oxygen in his brain for it to function normally.
Everything was a muddled; information perceived through his clouded vision turned left
when it was supposed to turn right; they ascended when they were supposed to descend.
He just stood there with the murder weapon in his hand; casually tapping the bloody tip
of it to the side of his thighs; gently humming 'How Deep Is Your Love' by the Bee Gees.
A solitary bead of sweat rolled down dead center of his forehead, then to his nose before
it dribbled off his chin, falling downward, assimilating itself with the mixture of vomit
and blood on the ground.

Zulaiman grabbed his ex-wife by the hand and led her into the kitchen, tying her hands
up with polyester rope he found under the sink.
She wouldn't stop screaming so he laid a tight one across her face and that helped shut
her up real nice.
A loose piece of yellow handkerchief lying on the floor came in handy.
He picked it up, dipped that thing in the toilet bowl that hadnt been cleaned for weeks,
and jammed that moist/vile piece of fabric down her throat.
She was already in a daze when this happened.
She offered minimal struggle.
Her brains telling her no, this cannot be happening, undoubtedly trapped in a state of
denial.
No way!
It's too crazy to be true.
No fucking way!
Come on!
Wake up from this sadistic nightmare, woman!
For the love of God!
Wake the fuck up!

God didn't come to her rescue (not the first time this happened).
She was still there, with a nice view of her boyfriend's limp body lying in a pool of blood
and vomit in the living room.
She spat out the damp handkerchief and screamed for help.
Her scream pierced through the air like flying shrapnel traveling in the speed of light.
Zulaiman rushed back into the kitchen, spouting vulgarities, pissed as hell, telling her to
shut the fuck up, digging his toes into her solar plexus, taking the wind out of her.
He grabbed his ex-wife by her hair and banged her head against the wall three times
before jamming the damp handkerchief back into her mouth and tapping it shut with
scotch tape.

Bazlee came into the kitchen and took a sit at the dinner table, facing his mother.
He didn't say a thing; rather irreverent to her mothers obvious painful quandary.
Zulaiman convinced him that mummy and daddy were still playing a game and the guy
in the hallway had just lost.

'Who is winning then, daddy?'

'I am, of course. I am the game master. I never lose! Ha!'

He held his hand up for a high five and Bazlee connected with it; laughing with the sort
of elated innocence only a child could produce.
Zulaiman stroked his hair softly with his hands.

'Daddy is going to give mummy a haircut now. She lost a round so she has to complete a
forfeit.'
He took out the portable hair clipper from the top shelf of their bathroom storage
drawer and turned on the switch.
The droning noise it created resounded soothingly in Zulaimans ears.
His ex-wife's was drifting in and out of consciousness; an arbitrary balancing act atop
the fringes of sensory paralysis.
Zulaiman hollered her name directly into her left hearing hole and it jolted her upward
into a state semi-consciousness.
He hollered her name once more, louder this time and it truly woke her up.
Her eyes were wide open, her eyes fixated on the buzzing clipper in Zulaimans hand.
She tried to scream but only managed to produce muffled sounds.
She screamed so hard she thought her throat would explode.
But still, she failed to create anything substantial.
Zulaiman shaved her head and collected her hair off the floor and placed them in a gray
ceramic bowl.
Bazlee looked on with dull eyes, indifferent to what was going on, like an unimpressed
spectator at a lackluster boxing bout.

'Will you make me some pancakes after you're done playing, daddy?'

'Sure, kid. I'm in the mood for some blueberry pancakes anyway!'

'Hooray!'

'Hold on, daddy's almost done playing with mummy.'
He grabbed a small can of lighter fluid on the table and doused her shaven hair in the
gray ceramic bowl with it.
He lit it up with a matchstick, singing Kumbaya.

'Kumbaya my love, KumbayaKumbaya my love, Kumbaya...'

Bazlee nodded and clapped along to the plaintive melody.
His father was out of tune for the better part of the drawn out musical performance.
Zulaiman could not hold a musical note to save his life.
Abruptly, he stopped singing and stripped her off her clothes, leaving only her panties
on.
There were yellow and brown marks on her white cotton panties, and he called her a
nasty ass bitch for not wearing a clean pair of panties.

'You still wear one pair of panties for three, four days straight? Some things never
change, I guess. What a wretched bitch.'
He slapped her large breasts and cupped them with both hands.
'In a few years, these will hang all the way down to your bush. Ha!'

He propped her body up against the wall and clothed her with a white t-shirt.
There were words on the front, written in red.
It said: It's Britney, Bitch
He untied her hands and dragged her limp body out the front door.

'Go on now, be gone. Go to the police and tell them what happened, you dumb whore!'

Zulaiman headed back toward the kitchen, skipping past the cadaver as though it wasn't
there.
His mind was in a standstill.
A flash of light blinded him and he fell down to the ground.
Bazlee rushed toward him, asking if he was okay.
'Breathe daddy, just breathe,' Bazlee said.
You're doing great.
Keep it up.
In and out.
Slowly.
Yeah, just like that.
Everything will be all right.



































The Kind of Tragedy Only Rain Could Envisage



Suzannah was a bitch who loved to rub her happiness into people's faces.
The kind who is always blabbering about this and that when nobody really gives a fuck
about what she has to say.
She believed that in order to receive love, you have to give it first.
Be the initiator.
Get the wheels rolling if you want to have a roll under the bed sheets.
That's Suzannah.
Simple minded.
Perpetually horny.
Annoying as fuck.

The girl had a distorted perception of happiness.
Proud to have been kissed after getting fucked in the ass by some guy she met at a bar in
Ann Siang Hill.
That was the life she led and she enjoyed every minute of it.
She paid no heed to all the bad press she received.
All my haters can swallow my sloppy seconds, shed say.
She shrugged off all the nastiness aimed at her with that lopsided smile of hers, which
seemed to be a permanent fixture on her face.
She lived her life the way she wanted and cared about nobody else's happiness but hers.

Pei Shan was cleaning up her bistro when she saw Suzannah loitering just outside the
entrance door.
With a man by her side, of course.
A sight of her without a man by her side was thought to be a collector's item; a rarity to
say the least.
Pei Shan observed them from behind the counter with disapproving eyes.
Their presence had an inexplicably unsettling effect on her.
She hated Suzannah.
She never admitted it to anyone, but Pei Shan had always wondered how it would be
like to be Suzannah for a day.
A body switch which would last only for 24 hours.
It would be a drastic change from the drudgery of work at the bistro.
Same old shit day in and day out.
Same old shit which made her question her existence at least ten times a day.
A mind numbing routine; serving self-entitled jerks who don't even have the decency to
say thank you upon collecting their orders.
She dreamed of a different life where could attain an orgasm without the help of her
vibrator and plastic dildo.
She named her toys Steve and Jones.
But it's just not quite the same.
She longed for a man's touch; her fingers tracing the naked body of a man shed just
met.
Pei Shan would make up filthy scenarios in her head, and all it did was made her more
frustrated with her lack of sexual experience.

The rain was getting heavier; ominous thunder crashing onto earth with blinding
velocity.
Suzannah and his man friend had no place to go.
No other options but to wait it out until the rain subsided.
Pei Shan wiped the coffee mugs dry with a rag with an air of contempt circling around
her head.
Two of her employees are cleaning the bistro with her.
David was wiping the tables clean, polishing the wooden table tops with a homemade
mixture of ammonia, lemon juice and olive oil; a recipe passed down by his late
grandmother.
Cindy was sweeping the floor and whistling to the tune of Marvin Gaye's What's Going
On.

Suzannah looked into the cafe from the tinted glass window, miserable and desperate
for shelter to protect her from the cold.
The wind blew in their direction and brought along the rain with it.
It struck her skins like shards of melted glass.
They were soaking wet and shivering, utterly miserable.
This put a smile on Pei Shans face.
'Look at those two morons outside, loitering like a couple of degenerates. Can't seem to
handle a smudge of Mother Natures wrath. A little bit of rain and they're trembling like
a bunch of rotting leaves. Don't they read the news anyway? It's monsoon season, pack
an umbrella if you plan to go out for fuck's sake. You know, these kinds of fuckers piss
me the fuck off.'
'Take it easy, boss. It's just Suzannah and another one of her male companion,' David
said.

Cindy held the broom up, pretending it was a microphone, singing along to the song on
the radio with gusto.
'Hey David. Why don't you invite them in? I know how to deal with this pair of morons.
Let them in. Tell them they can stay until the rain stops.'
'But we're already closed and Im supposed to pick Jessie up from work in ten minutes.'
'Do as I say or you'll find yourself reading the classified ads tomorrow!'
David let them in and pulled out two chairs for them, wishing hed never applied for this
low paying job in the first place.

Pei Shan crossed her thick arms peevishly underneath her equally thick tits and casted a
look of discontent towards two of them as if they were child murderers hanging by a
noose.
She strapped on an affable guise and approached them with a portable fan in hand.
'The rain is pretty relentless isn't it? Looks like it's not going away anytime soon. You
guys can make yourselves comfortable here. Excuse me,' Pei Shan said politely, plugging
in the portable fan and pointing the thing towards them. 'Sorry, we had to switch off the
aircon. The utility bill is driving me up the goddamn wall! Fuck the goddamn
government for sucking us all dry eh? Increasing the cost of everything every few
months. Fucking blood sucking swine!'
'Hey, you don't have to do that. It's bad enough that we're taking up your time after
you've already closed.'
'No worries. We're going to be rained in together, so why not help one another out.' Pei
Shan winked.
Pei Shan ambled back to the back of the counter, making disgruntled facial expressions,
mouthing something along the lines of 'fucking whore' or 'bloody whore' a couple of
times.
David caught it and shook his head.
He knew her kindness was just a facade.
He knew she was up to no good.
But he dared not do anything about it for Pei Shan was as obstinate as she was ugly.
He figured it would be best just to steer clear of her maliciousness; avoid her range of
fire.

Pei Shan walked over to Cindy and told her to clean the pantry.
She snatched the broom from her hands and hissed softly, 'What are you standing there
like an idiot for? Go on, get out of my sight.'
Cindy took a step backward and was gone in a flash, her body floated across the room
like a fluttering spirit.
She detected a maniacal presence in her boss's eyes.
She had seen it plenty of times before.
Had even been a victim of its wrath in a couple of unforgettable instances.
It consequently ingrained some kind of warning alarm in her skull which goes off like
disco lights upon any hint of danger.
Under Pei Shan's tyrannical management, Cindy transformed into a mercenary who
blindly follows orders, scared shitless of her direct superiors.
Each time she had to report to work, it felt as though she was reporting to the frontlines
of a bloody warzone.
She needed the money and work was scarce then, so she sucked it up and kept on going.

Pei Shan swept the floor, discreetly moving towards Suzannah before asking her what
her favorite genre of music was.
Suzannah said jazz so Pei Shan played some jazz tune on the stereo to please her.
I live to please you she whispered while adjusting the volume of the stereo.
And then she asked whether they wanted anything to drink and they said no.
She said it was on the house, but they still declined her offer.
She rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, before huffing out her indignation.
Fucking stuck up bitch she thought.

She prepared two cups of chamomile tea anyway.
Pei Shan was not going to take no for an answer.
She's not going to give Suzannah the satisfaction of rejecting her kind offer.
Fuck that slutty bitch.
Who does she think she is?
Both Suzannah and her man friend were terrifically lost in each other's company when
Pei Shan came over, balancing two cups of tea in her hands.
She overheard the guy saying, 'I understand. It's the similar kind of fear I used get when
I was a young boy. My father would ask me to go to the barber alone and the guy who
trimmed my hair would rub his erection against my arm, ostensibly making it appear as
though he didn't mean to but I know he did. I know the fucker did. If he hadn't, his dick
wouldn't be hard. And I couldn't do anything about it. I just sat there and did nothing.
Nothing at all. Completely paralyzed by fear. I couldn't even tell my father about it. I
was so afraid he might think I was lying. How could I tell my father that a man had an
erection for me? I was so embarrassed. You're the first person I'm telling this to.'
Empathy did not believe in Pei Shan, and the feelings were mutual.
She giggled at the man's distressing confession, but managed to contain her amusement
when they turned to look at her.

With an innocuous smile plastered on her wretched face she said, 'Tea?'
She wore a phony smile.
Hot steam escaped exquisitely from the surface of the tea cups, ascending in multitudes
of irregular shapes and patterns, losing form before the count of three.

Pei Shan held it up to her face and made good use of her olfactory sense, taking a whiff
of the aromatic scent infused in the tea.
She licked her lips and went, 'Umm'
As soon as the tea cups touched the table, Suzannah and her man friend uttered the
words Thank You simultaneously, before laughing and clasping their hands together,
fingers intertwined, like teenagers in love.
It irked the hell out of Pei Shan.
She wished it was her instead.
Not that slutty bitch Suzannah.
She craved for that sort of intimate human connection.
It was elusive for her.
She thought it only happened in films and romantic novels.
It made her heart flutter and puncture all at once to see it in reality.
And it had to happen for the person she hated most.
Pei Shan had this urge to grab Suzannah by her hair, drag her into the toilet and force
her head down in one of the filthy cubicles and then taking a piss on her dead body.
But all she could say was 'Enjoy your tea. Just call my name if you guys need anything.'

Once Pei Shan wasn't near enough to eavesdrop on them, Suzannah said, 'She's acting
really weird. Why is she being so kind to us? She could have just close up shop and head
home. I think she's up to something. What do you think?'
'Oh don't over-analyze the situation,' he replied evasively, 'Perhaps she's just kind by
nature. It doesn't kill to be kind, you know.'
'I don't buy it for a minute. There are always underlying motives behind random acts of
kindness. I feel uneasy, let's just brave through the rain and get to the restaurant. We're
already late for our reservation by almost an hour.'
'Lets ask them for some newspaper or something, alright? Turn them into makeshift
ponchos. You wouldn't want to catch a cold now, would you?' he playfully jabbed her on
the jaw.
Suzannah hesitantly made her way to the counter, swallowing her pride and asked Pei
Shan for some old newspaper.
Her man friend observed this awkward interaction from afar.
Pei Shan asked if it was for the rain.
Suzannah said yes, and Pei Shan suggested something else; a better solution.
She pulled out two trash bags from one of the drawers and cut two holes in them, and
what she held in her hands was some sort of a makeshift poncho.
'I know Halloween's in three weeks time, and it's too early to be wearing a costume,' she
joked, 'But this will shield you from the rain more effectively.'

Suzannah forced a smile and accepted the two trash bags.
And for appearances' sake, she thanked Pei Shan for her warm hospitality.
Suzannah and her man friend put on the makeshift ponchos and exited the bistro.
A few seconds later, the chilling noise of a heavy duty vehicle skidding across the wet
road could be heard, followed by a dull thud.
David and Cindy rushed out to the scene.
Pei Shan depicted the outcome in the projections of her skull.
It anchored her soul, catapulting her into momentary paralysis.
Everything went silent for a moment.
Then somewhere, a raging thunder struck.
Its ferocious shock waves crashed into Pei Shan, knocking her back into reality.