She's Spoilt

"Doksoh lah. Enough. Stop it already. You should forget her. She's spoilt. Spoilt. Bloody spoilt," says Pok Kor the clairvoyant man.

"Pardon?"

"I am sorry I have to say this out very clear, young man. This is for your own goodness. Dok payoh lah, wak nyusoh je kekgi. Stop it already, if you carry on like this, she will be a bigger problem to you. Cakap ballik-belloh sekali dia ni. A good spinner she is. What she has told you before does not reflect what she's actually doing over there. Kuat ngulor ni, muttor ulor sekali. Like a petrified snake knocked senseless by a stick her words are."

"Oh."

"I am sorry again young man. This is an honest advice for your own goodness. Forget her already. She's spoilt."

"It seems like you know better, Pok Kor," says Sir Pok Deng.

This happened a day before Father died. God has answered my prayer. He showed me her true colours.

I Got The Job

Mother used to say that whenever God takes something away from us, He will surely give something else back to make us happy. We just have to wait. God took Father away from me, so surely one day He would repay me with something that could bring joy—like a pretty girl who would become my missus, or a high-paying job that could make my dream of owning a white Audi R8 (expensive shit) come true.

He has given me the latter.

Not exactly a high-paying job, but the salary is good enough for this single man named Sir Pok Deng, who only needs to walk twenty steps to reach the alternative entrance gate of SIRIM Berhad. My department block is within three minutes’ walking distance from the cafeteria, where every morning I spend thirty-five minutes sipping a cuppa while pondering the origin of the universe.

I already have visions of Father smiling oh so cheekily, trying hard not to smile again because talking while smiling would cause vowels and consonants from adjacent words to hybridize in weird ways—so I’d never quite understand what he was trying to say.

“Longpatje?!” imaginary Father asks.

“What? Beg your pardon! The hell are you tryin’ to say?”

“A-a-a,” Father stutters as usual, still unable to wipe the grin off his face. “A-a-along dapat keje ke? (you got a job?)”

“Hor lah,” I say. Yes, I do.

“A-alongpatjeke?”

“Hor!!!”

Tomorrow, I will notice that every specimen in his department—including the chairs, tables, stray cats, goldfish in the aquarium on the second floor, and even the red hibiscus flowers blooming outside the office—already knows the good news. Everybody in there calls me Along.

This is a happy post.

The Voice Within

Thought noise. Disturbing. Some people say it is a monologue. The orthodox claim it is the whispering of a demon. It is a cacophony inside the mind; deafening, distracting.

Thought noise always haunts me. I see images and hear voices of two people arguing over serious matters, and the winner at the end of the commotion is always the guy who looks, speaks, thinks like me. It is me; the transcript. It feels like a lucid dream where I can create, direct, and destroy any characters I want, building entire landscapes to my preference. Like a chess game—single player. The board will be slammed to the floor if I lose, though I make sure never to.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you may say I am just daydreaming! You are wrong! The world exists! It does exist! I curse and swear at my imaginary people—characters replicated from those I know in real life, those I hate so much, so true, so deep. Damn to hell every inch of their skin, every strand of hair, every drop of blood, every section of their spinal cord, damn their very soul!

There they lie, helpless on the floor, with needles pricked into each fingertip, the metal torched amber red. Then a six-inch stained nail is hammered into their skull and left there until the body suffers the excruciating spasms of tetanus—so painful the bowel liquid drains through the anus.

And finally, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you now see me as a vengeful lad who still cannot cast off past pains and sorrows to live as a normal man should. To say I am a psychopath—that is too early to assume. Like earthquakes, the slight quivers you see, Your Honour, come from great tremors deep below. I have no power to foresee the day the volcano will erupt, blowing dust into the sky, blotting out the light of the innocent world.

Can I have a seat now, Your Honour? Oh, thank you.