That summer night was especially calm, with no clouds in the sky, the moon was full and the stars spread themselves in the empty spaces like chocolate rice on the side walls of a cake. On a balcony of a budget hotel in Kirribilli, facing the Admiralty House, two relaxed guys were making themselves comfortable, each with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A six-pack of Heineken and two packs of Longbeach 40s were placed nicely beside a porcelain ashtray on a glass table. A clay vase with fake Waratah stems was situated beside the glass table for decorative purposes. The two guys sat there in silence, admiring the calm night. Once in a while, soft, cool breeze made its way through the stillness of the balcony.

An English guy in his early 40s shortly made his way to the balcony with a mug of hot tea in his left hand. “Hello sinners!”, he uttered as a gesture of welcoming himself. His intention of being there was to have a smoke or two. The three strangers quickly got acquainted to one another because they share the following characteristic; professionals, avid smokers, love Australia and are still single. Well, and of course, they share the same shitty hotel. Duh!

It turned out that the English guy was originally from the English north western city of Manchester. From their conversation, a much disputed rumour was found to be quite true. “Fuck Manchester United! A team for conglomerates! Us working class people, the real Manchester people support Manchester City. Nuff said!”, said the Englishman.

The three of them were really caught up with their conversation. One or two cigarettes became eight to nine each. Then suddenly, there was a huge gust of wind sweeping the whole area and of course the balcony where they were loafing. The three guys were caught by surprise. It was a terrible gust of wind.

Immeadiately, like an act based on impulse, the first of the two guys shouted at the other, “Secure the Heineys!!!”

Then the ashtray dropped and shattered on the floor, vomiting cigarette buds and grey ashes, which were quickly dissolved in the wind. The clay vase with fake Waratah stems was on its side, cracked on impact with the hard-tiled floor. The packs of Longbeaches were thrown down the balcony and made its way to the streets.

After a long few seconds later, things were again, calm and peaceful.

The English guy realigned his thick rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. He then turned his head to the second guy. The second guy was still holding the half empty six-pack tightly under his arms, not showing any signals of letting go.

The English guy then gave a final smirk for that night, “Definite sinners!”

To place your head in the perfectly fitted rest, waiting ardently for the shining blade to come down. The blade will then be dropped, but it felt like it was floating down like a feather in a windless field. Just as the mind was wondering on pleasant memories, the head dropped. Eyes twitching and rolling. The spasm of the face muscles. Only for a few seconds before the eagerly intended darkness.

Sometimes it’s hard to explain the choices that have been made. Sometimes the objects of yearning are obviously treacherous. But yet, proceeded with the numerous self-inflicted demise. If I were a cat, I wouldn’t have any lives to spare.

Ultimately, because losing is amusing, then you’ll always see me falling in love with the guillotine.

The hot list keeps on growing but should it really bother the tiger? He has been whipping the iron since he was 3 years old (or was it 2?). And he has made it to the pinnacle of the tremendously boring sport. So honestly, in my opinion, he’s in this shithole because he had lost his period of adolescence. He has no childhood friends. He didn’t even get invitations to parties, not until he became famous. And furthermore, a Swedish blonde marrying a black guy with a Thai mother and is really good in playing golf? Get out of here! What if Tiger was just a high school janitor who occasionally plays golf?

If I were to give advices to the tiger I would firstly tell him to be friends with David Letterman. Do a tell-all interview. Have a whole episode with just Dave and Tiger. And of course Paul and the CBS Orchestra. Name the episode “The Late Show with David Letterman: ‘Tis Just Tiger”. Tiger needs a friend that understands the need to spread the love. They can trade notes and poke fun at each other’s expenses. Do it all out without the tears or guilt. Which reminds me, Tiger, stay away from Oprah, her tears-cursed couch and her overly enthusiastic audience.

Secondly, enroll yourself in a sex addiction clinic. There’s no shame in doing so. David Duchovny did it. Michael Douglas did it. Even the obnoxious Russell Brand did it. I’m pretty sure that deep inside Tiger was a Russell Brand quote, “Fame is a Wonka golden ticket to the pussy factory”. I know I’m right and I understand you.

So, major sponsorships are withdrawing. Well, I’m sure there are new opportunities looming behind this (over-rated) mishap. The picture below explains it all.

Finally, get back on course man! The good guys are always backing you up. The PGA awarded you player of the year and Associated Press named you ‘Athlete of the Decade’. Just do what you always do and continue to be good at it. Occasionally, you could drop by the LPGA events and be a guest commentator or a volunteer caddy. I think it’ll be a good thing, Tiger, lady golfers & 18 holes.

The bottom line, move on you boring people!

Apart from a generally homicidal day, late in the evening I found Syd in my office. He was sitting on my chair and had a frown on his face. When I came closer I realized that he was panting as if he had just walked up 10 storey flight of stairs. A drop of sweat was running down his temple. His eyes stared blankly through the oblivious pixels on my computer monitor.

“What the fuck? Weren’t you a chirpy lad a few hours ago?”, I began the somewhat lame conversation with a provocation.

He just sat there in silence. I reached out a pack of Pall Mall’s from his shirt pocket and lighted up a menthol cigarette.

“I don’t think I’ll be having dinner tonight. I wanna go on a diet”, he replied, lethargically after a few seconds.

“Huh?!” I then noticed that he was holding a nail clipper in his right hand.

He then slowly turned his head towards me, face still with a frown as if it was begging for a nice, tight slap.

When we were eye to eye, he uttered, “I’m having a hard time bending down to clip my toe nails.”

He then lifted his shirt and continued, “I had to unbutton and unzip my trousers halfway to do so.”

Minty smoke continued to flock the nearly deserted office space.

Sailam recently became a father for the first time. And like most young, married, Malay, male, it was his time to become a bachelor again, temporarily (he still needs to comply with Nini’s routine checks). Baby Maia was with her grandparents.

*****

That particular Saturday started rather grimly. I was planning on waking up early to do some gardening in the morning. But I woke up in total darkness. My soft and perfectly springy mattress became hard and stiff. It was when my head bumped into a piece of wood that I realized that my head was underneath the bed and my body laid nastily on the parquet floor. What kind of sick and fucked up nightmare did I go through last night? I asked myself. There was no answer for my redundant pondering.

Rain was pouring heavily as if the Klang Gate dam broke just 2 feet above my house. It was already 11 am when I finally could stand stable on my two feet, head spinning as an effect from sleep-drunkenness. I blame the rain. Yes, I always blame everything else but myself.

Cut to later, it was 4 pm and I was heading to Sailam’s house in Sunway Damansara. Azam was already there waiting at the parking lot. Sailam’s in his car. “Go park and get in this car!”, Azam shouted. What? No lazing on the couch, drinking Coke and watching The Biggest Loser first? Ah, damn, I was still groggy.

Sailam drove us to Dataran Sunway, to one particular row of the shop lots. We then climbed up a staircase that leads us to “K2 Snooker Centre”. But the thing was, the patrons didn’t really play snooker. They all entered a secret trapdoor behind the cue rack. We did so too and behind the mock wall was a room filled with slot machines. “Kuda!”. Now I know Sailam and Azam’s intentions.

Again, cut to later, I was in Sailam’s house and finally got the chance to laze on his Lorenzo leather couch watching Discovery channel, where a male panda was forced to mate an ugly female panda. Azam had to call it a day, he got a call from his wife telling him to come back home. After Maghrib, Sailam and I went to Damansara Uptown.

Long after dinner we went to a dodgy premise above KK Mart in SS2. I soon lost track of time but I think I can remember afterwards that we poke fun and screamed at the patrons of the over-rated, over-hyped Murni SS2. My god, we were assholes that night.

Funny, I can’t remember much after that but I remember listening to some soft music, played by some Filipinos in some lounge. Or maybe we went to Atria area first or did we eat durians before that? Anyway, cut to later again, we were back in Sailam’s place. Before I could start my pace to my car, Sailam said, “Sleep here, go back home after breakfast tomorrow. There’s no one else here.” Sure.

It was 3 am. Sailam was already fast asleep in his room. I was in the guest room, a room with a queen size bed filled with throw pillows on top. After Isya’ prayers I stripped down to my boxers, locked the door, threw away the throw pillows to the floor, shut the lights off and made myself comfortable underneath a fluffy blanket.

Suddenly, there was heavy breathing by my side, right beside my right ear. I can feel warm presence beside me, although I was actually shivering. Ah, come on! Not now! I can’t move my body. I was not pressed by that “thing” but still I could not move my body and the worst thing was, I could not sleep. I tried hard to close my eyes and to just doze off but failed, terribly.

Hours went by. All I could do was flicking my tired eyelids while my tired body froze, restless. I remember managing to get my body sideways, but immediately, I felt the “thing” spooning me. Fuck!

At exactly 6:30 am, it went away, just like that. I felt like I was used. I’m like a whore! A bitch whore!

*****

After breakfast I frowned at Sailam and said, “You tricked me into sleeping in your fucking guest room! You knew something was wrong with the room didn’t you?”. My eyebags were clearly showing, like small balloons underneath my eyes, filled with water.

Sailam calmly replied, “Siapa suruh tak baca doa sebelum tidur?”

When she asked me, “Why are you so cold towards me?”

I said, “I have to. It’s like an igloo. Icy cold blocks creates a wall; a cold wall to keep the inside warm. And the inside is my heart”.

Without looking straight into her eyes, I walked away. Trying to go far away, as far as my lethargic mind could take me.

Alas, it was lost.

But they say that the best photographs are inside your memory.

Words of self-comfort.

That night was especially dark. The dark figure came closer. I knew who that was. An old man that I used to know riding on an old and rusty Raleigh Superbe Roadster. The bicycle squeaked softly as it was approaching me. The front tyre was slightly twisted but not enough to make it wobble. I then could clearly see the rifle on the old man’s shoulder, balanced perfectly as if it was tightly tied to his clavicle.

Then there was a strange smell. A musk-like odour. The bicycle screeched gently to a halt just beside me. A sudden gust of chilling breeze went through the openings of my shirt. Bitter. It was then that I could see three mouse deer carcasses at the back of the bicycle, one tied on top of the others on the bicycle’s iron grill.

“What are you doing here? Wandering in the middle of the night”, the old man asked.

I tried looking directly at his face but could see nothing. I was not sure if it was because of the darkness or because my vision was weakening or even because if he had no face at all! But I’m pretty sure it was that same old man, the old man I used to know from long ago.

“I’m going back to my grandparent’s house, just a few yards ahead. I live there now since my grandmother is staying there all alone”, I answered.

“Ah, I met your grandfather a few days ago”, he said.

Right after his statement, I felt like trembling. Cold sweat began to drip from the back of my neck. I forced my feet to be sturdier on the ground. I braved myself.

“Where are you from?”, I asked.

As if there was an invisible grin on his face, he answered, “I was from the hill, hunting. Then I made my way back here through the rubber plantation.”

He lowered this right arm from pointing north-east. I could see his old, skeletal hand with a little help from the nervous moon light.

Something was obviously not right. The last of the rubber trees were cut down more than twenty years ago. The old man was pointing at the current hillside condominiums and luxurious bungalows area; a socially gated community. I was anxious. I wanted to end all this.

“Why are you here? Really. Why?”, I asked in a somewhat insolent manner.

I could feel an intangible sigh from the old man.

“I am a hunter and will always be one. In the land where I came from, there is nothing to hunt. Everything is already dead!”

Waktu senja melambai dari tirai ufuk
Kau menghampiri beranda
Membelakangi cahaya samar rawi

Maka basuhlah debu-debu neraka dari tubuhmu
dengan air wadi dalam tempayan
Tak mengapa, aku tunggu

*****

Dan habiskanlah sisa-sisa roti kehidupanmu
dalam pinggan porselin sumbing
Tak mengapa, aku tunggu

*****

Setelah seumur hidupku menunggu
Kita melangkah seiring ke dalam ranjang jagat
Rawi kini diganti purnama