The Red Wall

"Haha! Blackjack, bitches!" Loo Kar Weng hollered, tossing down his winning cards onto the table. "Pay up!"

"Blardy hell," Mike chidded.

"Celaka laaa..." whined Iskandar Lutfi.

The other boys of Tingkatan 3 Biru were also in various stages of chaos. One group had cleared the desks at the back of the class and had started a breakdance tournament. In the narrow corridor outside, a 2-on-2 game of futsal was in progress. One third of the class was missing. And of course, the class monitor Daniel Aziz was sound asleep on his desk.

The environment in a classroom of boys after PMR would put a troop of caged monkeys to shame.

They really didn't have a reason to show up at school. Except that they were threatened by the Guru Kanan Disiplin to have their PMR results witheld unless they scored a perfect attendance for the rest of the school year.

"Weih," Daniel - still sleepy eyed - staggered over to the Blackjack table. "Jom fly, nak?"

It was 10.47am - unusually late for someone to suggest 'fly'ing. Most others would have taken off by 9.30am. Even so, Mike, Kar Weng and two others decided to take Daniel up on his offer.

Being a boys school located in the heart of town and bordered on one side by thick tropical underbrush, it wasn't unheard of that a student would go missing, only to show up later at a cybercafe playing Half-life Counterstrike. However there was one more factor in the equation that Mike and his friends had forgotten to take into consideration, which they would only discover later.

The five boys in white shirts and shit green uniform pants stealthily made their way to the Red Wall at the back of the school. It was named such because legend has it that during the Japanese occupation, detainees were lined up against the wall and bayoneted to death by Jap soldiers. A hostel boy once told Mike and I that one night he saw a black figure standing against the wall, crying blood and begging for mercy.

The ten foot wall which kept the students inside and the jungle outside didn't prove much of a challenge for five cunning young men nearing their physical peak. Mike and Daniel were the last two. Daniel gave Mike a boost as he did for everyone, and Mike hauled himself onto the top of the wall.

Looking down at the beautiful green bushes and trees on the other side, Mike wondered why it was unusual to fly school after 10.30am. A school basketball player, Daniel took a running start and pounced onto the wall, grabbing it at the top. Mike pulled him up and they jumped over together.

That's when they saw it. 

Parked 40 feet away was a police car. And standing outside it, watching all the action from behind his dark glasses was a police officer on patrol. Now Mike knew why it was stupid to jump the wall after 10.30am.

The five boys froze, waiting for the law enforcer to react. He responded with an ice cold stare, as if daring them to move another muscle. Mike considered crying blood and begging for mercy. A whole 30 seconds passed.

"Aku dah nampak korang buat apa," yelled the police officer, his booming voice sending a chill right down to Mike's testicles.

"Aku bagi korang dua pilihan," he continued from across the shrubs.

"Satu," he counted. "Korang semua masuk balik cara yang sama korang keluar."

"Dua," he offered an option. "Korang semua naik keta aku. Aku bawak korang masuk skolah ikut pintu depan."

"Mana satu korang nak?"

Never in my life had I seen five boys scale a wall that fast to get INTO a school.

The Bloodhound

Mike got into the driver's seat of the white Proton Saga and started the engine. The car was nearly as old as he was, but it was ever loyal to the Stone family. As far as Mike could remember, its Magma engine hadn't acted up even once in the last two decades.

Now if only the same could be said for Diana Ying.

Mike rubbed the bite mark on his left arm. Diana was so sweet, that if they made an action figure of her, it would come with an insulin shot. But when she went crazy, she was a maniac. 

Keeping up with Diana was emotionally draining for Mike. Keeping up with Mike was physically draining for Diana. So they complemented each other in some weird way. 

Mike hadn't had time to check if her farewell bite had left a mark under the sleeve of his Black Sabbath t-shirt. Mama Stone had wanted to go to Makro, so Mike obliged his old lady. Mama Stone locked the front gate of the house and made her way to the car. 

She seemed preoccupied with her shopping list - the scribbling on which only she could read. However, as soon as she got into the front passenger seat, she looked up from the white piece of paper. She took a whiff of the air and paused.

"What's her name?" she asked, looking back to the shopping list.

"Huh?..." Mike's eyes widened. "Who you talking about, ma?" he asked, innocently.

"The girl you brought in the car." she responded flatly, eyes still scrolling down the list.

Mike sneaked a glance into the back seat to see if Diana was actually hiding back there. She wasn't.

What the hell? How could she possibly know?

"...Nobody in our family uses Clairol Herbal Essence." Mama Stone said, looking up at Mike. She was still waiting for an answer.

All Indian women must become bloodhounds the moment they give birth.

The New Kindergarten

For the first two years of preschool, Little Mikey went to a Chinese kindergarten where he spoke Mandrin to most of his friends. After school his aunt would walk him back to his grandparents' house where the lingua franca was Tamil. When his parents picked him up after work, they would speak English to him.

So Little Mikey never really had much of a use for Malay - that is, until he got moved to a different kindergarten.

I know most of you probably cried on your first day of kindergarten, but after moving to the new Tadika Smurfs, Little Mikey cried every damned day for two whole weeks. Why?

"Nobody wanna friend meeee-eeee," he sobbed.

You see, Tadika Smurfs was a kindergarten in a dominantly Malay neighbourhood. Little Mikey was moved there because it was nearer to his parents' house. 

(By the way, if you're too young to know what Smurfs are, they were a popular cartoon in the '80s about a community of little creatures - kinda like Spongebob, only much less obscene)

To the social elite of Tadika Smurfs, Little Mikey was the awkward English speaking new kid whom nobody understood. And to Little Mikey, Tadika Smurfs was a lot like France, where people looked down their noses at you for speaking English instead of the local language.

"Appa, I don't like school la." Little Mikey complained. "I donno how to talk Malay."

"You must make friends la." Papa Stone said. "Then only you can learn from them."

"But nobody wanna friend me." Little Mikey whined.

"Why?"

"Because I donno how to talk Malay!"

Papa Stone scratched his head. Was this really the idiot who would look after him when he was old? "Maybe I should make another one, just in case?" he wondered.

"Ok," Papa Stone said. "I'll teach you how to make friends."

Little Mikey listened.

"When you go to school tomorrow," Papa Stone began. "You walk up to the first Malay boy you see... and you look him in the eyes... like this." He motioned with two fingers.

"And you say... Sa - ya"

"Sa - ya" Little Mikey repeated.

"Nak"

"Nak"

"Ka - wan"

"Ka - wan"

"A - wak"

"Awak!" 

Little Mikey was excited now that he knew the secret code words. He couldn't wait to show up at kindergarten the next day and be one of the cool kids. Maybe they'd even let him play polis sentri!

    *     *    *    *     *

The next morning, Papa Stone dropped Little Mikey off at the front gate of Tadika Smurfs. Little Mikey hopped off the Honda kapchai, ready to grab the bull by the horns. In his head, he repeated the magic phrase over and over again. 

He looked for the first person who would be his new best friend. Mohd Saiful Imran stood by the swings sipping a Junior Juice sachet. Little Mikey closed in. Out of pure curiousity, Papa Stone decided to stay and watch.

His son, in sailor uniform and red Kiki Lala shoes, walked valiantly up to the Malay boy by the swings.

"Imran," Little Mikey said, bold and clear. "Saya nak kahwin awak!"

An uneasy silence followed.

"Eeeeee!... Tak nak lah!" Little Imran cried out, running away.

Little Mikey felt a cry ball rising in his throat. Papa Stone was laughing so hard he almost fell of his motorcycle. 

The Air Traffic Controller

“Fox 02, this is Lumut Tower,” Air Force Captain Nazrul Johar spoke loud and clear into the microphone addressing the pilot. The navy helicopter hovered at the other end of the airfield from the control tower. Captain Nazrul referred the pilot over to ground control.

Down on the tarmac below, Navy Sub Lieutenant Michael Stone signaled the aircraft forward. When it was right above the yellow square on the ground, he began to motion it downward. Inch by inch, he guided the pilot until the helicopter skids came into contact with the cement helipad in front of him.

That was the last one.

Stone lowered his ear muffs and goggles. Wiping the sweat from his brows, he exhaled deeply. It had been a long and humid day. He shook hands with the rest of the ground control men on duty that day and trudged back toward the main building. He needed a cold drink.

In the crew room he found Captain Nazrul reclined in a chair, sipping Nescafe and watching the 6pm news.

“Slamat petang tuan,” Stone greeted.

“Ha, Subby,” Nazrul replied sheepishly when he saw Stone. “Satu hari ni dari tower aku duk perhati kau jadi air field marshaller. Aku suka la gaya kau.”

Stone smiled. “Gaya macamana tu, tuan?”

“Kau ni rilek je. Sempoi.” Nazrul said. “Biasa kalau orang baru, dia punya gelabah takyah cakap la. Macam takut kena makan aircraft tu.”

Stone chuckled.

Despite having a credible Air Wing, the Navy’s air traffic control (ATC) department was operated by a small but highly competent team of loaned personnel from the Air Force. Nazrul was one of those few who wore the Air Force colours but played by Navy rules.

He confessed that he joined the armed forces to be a pilot, but ended up doing ATC instead. Stone chatted with Nazrul about his Air Force training and experience in the service.

“Zaman aku kadet dulu lain,” Nazrul said. “Training kau macamana?”

“Kalau nak bandingkan dengan tuan,” Stone tried to be as tactful as possible. “memang la lain. Sekarang squat jump pun dah takde dah.”

Squat jumps are a physical training routine intended for stamina and knee strength. Never mind that after thirty in a row, the trainee feels as if his kneecaps are going to pop like corks. The trainee crouches with his hand clasped behind his head. When the count is given, the trainee jumps in the air as high as possible and lands back in the crouching position.

“Ha? Squat jump dah takde?” Nazrul seemed alarmed. “Apasal?”

“Punca kerosakan sendi lutut, tuan.” Stone grinned, quoting his training officer.

“Mana ada?” challenged Nazrul. “Kalau tak buat betul-betul baru la sendi lutut rosak. Kau tau tak? Squat jump tu penting untuk kekuatan lutut tau.”

Stone grinned.

“Kau tau tak kekuatan lutut tu penting untuk apa?” Nazrul asked.

Stone full well knew the answer, but he kept in mind that this was a senior officer he was addressing.

“Untuk berlari , tuan.”

“Mana ada? Lari pakai otot betis. Cuba kau pikir lagi.”

“Untuk angkat barang, tuan.”

“Mana ada? Angkat barang pakai otot belakang la. Cuba kau pikir kreatif sikit.”

Stone smiled. “Entah la saya tuan.”

Nazrul sighed. “Kau ni dah kahwin ke belum, Michael?”

“Belum, tuan.”

“Haih… patut la kau tak tahu jawapan dia!”

Stone was the butt end of a joke, but the buildup to the joke was so darned good he laughed.

“Kau tengok aku,” Nazrul continued. “Masa aku kadet dulu, rajin aku buat squat jump. Skarang isteri aku bahagia.”

The Engagement

The face of the young Malay girl at the toll booth lit up as the car window rolled down. To say she was doll-faced would be an understatement. The sign outside the booth read:

Jurutol Anda: Aisyah.

“Hai Aisyah,” Mike grinned cheekily as he passed her the magnetic striped ticket.

She blushed, smiling from ear to ear. Her skin was so fair and flawless you would expect to see her in a Sendayu Tinggi advertisement, not a PLUS tollbooth. She proceeded to process the ticket in the computer.

“Senyum you manis la,” Mike said as he handed over the money. The two other guys in the car were dead silent. Mike enjoyed doing idiotic things like that because he liked to see people’s reactions.

But everyone else just thought Mike did idiotic things like that because he was an idiot.

Aisyah giggled the most demure little laugh, face half covered by her tudung. She keyed in the amount and the metal bar in front of the car went up. She tried hard to stifle her almost perfect smile, but she couldn’t.

“Thank you, Aisyah.” Mike sang as he put the white Proton Saga into gear and drove off. Still not a word from either of his passengers. It had been a long drive.

Nik Amir stared blankly out the passenger side window. Shazni Hafizi in the back had his Alien Workshop cap pulled low over his face. Mike knew better than to force his way out of an awkward silence.

Sometimes Mike hated himself for being 22 and still boyish, unclear of where his life was going. Most people at 22 are already set on their life path and taking strides. An insurance agent Mike used to date was now a manager and earned a five-digit monthly salary. His cousin in the navy was currently the navigation officer of a Laksamana class warship. And now, Nik was getting engaged to the girl of his dreams, ready to start a family of his own.

The journey to Nik’s house would be another half hour. And Mike needed a break, not just from the driving, but from the sudden block of ice that seemed to have formed between the three of them. He spotted a stall by the road, where an old lady was frying kuih while her husband made drinks.

“Bros,” Mike had to be the one to break the silence after all. “Kita berenti sat, pekena Nescafe tarik ngan cekodok.”

The words hung there in the air, waiting to be acknowledged. Mike pulled up at the stall.

Nik was the first to get out, and shut his door with a loud ‘ka-thunk’. Yes, I know, ‘ka-thunk’ – it’s a Proton, what do you expect?

Mike figured the guy must have had a lot going through his mind. After all, tomorrow would be the day he would promise a girl and her parents that he would take care of her for the rest of his life.

As Mike got down and stretched his legs, Shazni Hafizi shoved him hard.

“Weih,” Fizi hissed between clenched teeth. “Ngko giler aper?”

“Apahal?” Mike asked, puzzled.

“The girl at the toll.” Fizi said.

“Aisyah?” Mike recalled. “Apahal ngan dia?”

“Bukan ko dah pernah tengok muka dia kat Friendster ker?” Mike froze. “That’s the girl Nik is getting engaged to la!…Bodoh!”

If Mike could have laid his head down on the road and driven the car over it at the same time, he would have.

The English Teacher

Jerry Seinfeld once pointed out:

“According to most studies, people's number one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two. Does that sound right? This means to the average person, if you go to a funeral, you're better off in the casket than doing the eulogy.”

Mike however, would never miss a chance to speak in front of a crowd. He could look the room in the eye and bullshit, while looking good doing it. Although he denied it when I pointed it out to him, it was obviously a skill he inherited from Papa Stone.

Mike’s fondest memory of being called on his BS was from back in school, for English presentation. Everyone had been given seven minutes each to deliver a speech on any topic they chose. Mike doesn’t really remember now the content of the speech he gave, but he sure didn’t forget the conclusion:

 “I’ll end my speech with an old Sanskrit proverb my grandmother used to say to me when she was alive,” Mike paused for effect. “Don’t go looking for snakes, young man… You just might find them.”

 The entire room of 40 people who had silently given Mike their undivided attention for the past seven minutes broke out in applause. Lauren Tan in the front row was already giving him puppy dog eyes.

 Puan Zarina however, was sparse with her show of admiration. The English teacher tilted her head forward and looked over her glasses at Mike.

 “Sanskrit proverb, Michael?” she asked.

 Mike sighed. She doesn’t miss a thing, does she?

 “Those are the lyrics to a Metallica song,” she said. “but excellent effort anyway.”

 The class erupted in laughter. To this day, the class clown still asks Mike if his grandma was secretly a heavy metal fan.

The Orientation (Part 2)

Showing up at a massage parlour at 4am carrying fishing equipment is not the most bizarre thing Mike has done. But it certainly ranks in the top 3.

 The motorcycle ride there had been refreshing. The cold night wind blowing against his face helped clear some of the alcohol in his head. He began to wonder why a massage parlour in a small town would see the need to be open at 4am. How many people actually wake up in the middle of the night and decide to go get a Thai massage?

 “Senior,” he yelled to Sureish up front. He could hardly hear himself over the revving 2-stroke engine and the beating wind. “Is this a real massage place… or something else?”

 Sureish looked backwards at Mike and laughed. He patted Mike on the knee. They pulled up outside the tallest building in the town – a 3 storey motel beside the railway tracks. Mike went pale.

 “Why pucat already, macha?” Sureish chuckled. They parked the bike and made their way around to the back of the complex.

 Sureish led the way, with Mike following closely behind, carrying fishing rods and a pail. The entire premise was dark except for the moonlight. Like mice in the night, they found their way to a shop lot attached to the back of the motel.

 Something definitely smelled fishy. And it wasn’t Mike.

 Sitting on a wooden chair outside the shop lot was an old Indian man. He greeted Sureish by name and they exchanged pleasantries.

 “Who’s the young man?” the old guy asked in Tamil.

 Mike felt his blood freeze at Sureish’s answer: “Fresh meat.”

 The old man laughed as he let them both in. Once inside the shop lot, Mike was surprised to find what appeared to be a cosy living room. Sureish plunked himself on the leather couch while Mike awkwardly looked for a corner to lean the fishing rods. 

 A Chinese man with a horse-like face came out from one of the back rooms and loudly greeted Sureish. Then began a friendly conversation between the 2 of them in fluent Mandrin. Mike, already like a deer in the headlights, stared with his mouth gaped wondering just how much more about Sureish he didn’t know.

 Then a Thai girl in an orange tank top and hot pants appeared with a tray of hot beverages. Her skin seemed as if it were made of marble and her long black hair came down to her waist. Her poise was demure, but there was something very sensual about her.

 Mike’s heart began pounding. It was his first week away from home and already he found himself in a prostitution house. His girlfriend back home would not be happy. Let alone his mother.

 The girl in the orange tank top kneeled and poured tea for all of them. When she made eye contact with Sureish, he smiled at her and she blushed. It was the same smile Mike would learn and replicate successfully years later, once even with a stubborn young lady doctor.

 But right now, Mike was too sacred to be in the mood for any of this. However, he didn’t want to look like a wussy in front of the coolest Indian guy he had ever met, so he decided to bite his tongue and see where the night would lead him.

 “Oil massage” Those were the only words Mike understood in the stream of Mandrin that followed.

 “Macha,” Sureish called out. Finally someone acknowledged Mike being there. “you go in the room there and get ready, your girl will come… And relax, da!” He chuckled.

 Get ready? Girl will come?

 It wasn’t a room really. It was more of a ceiling height cubicle with a curtain instead of a door. Inside was a rubber mat, and on top of it were a pillow, a towel and a pair of knee-length cotton shorts. Looked like a real massage area. Maybe he was getting antsy over nothing after all.

 Mike stripped down to his underwear and put on the shorts. On the other side of the plywood wall, he heard the muffled sound of Sureish’s voice. Then the voice of the girl in the orange tank top. She giggled. Mike folded his t-shirt and jeans neatly in a corner and sat on the mat, waiting for ‘his girl’ to show up.

 He breathed a sigh of relief when she appeared. Instead of being a sultry young thing, she was a huge Thai woman in her late thirties. She had the arms and calves of a female weightlifter. This was definitely not a hooker. A bull farmer? Maybe.

 “You wan oi masat?” she asked.

 “Yes, oil massage,” Mike answered.

 “Oi masat no shorts,” she said. “Tower only.”

 “Towel only?” Mike had confessed to me before that he had a paralysing fear of being naked in awkward situations. “Nothing inside?”

 “No.” She left so Mike could change.

 He figured she must be a professional, so when she came back she found Mike wrapped in the towel sitting cross legged on the mat. She instructed him to lie down on his belly and relax.

 From the moment she started vigorously thumbing the soles of Mike’s feet; he knew she was an experienced masseuse. Mike smiled at how silly he was, getting worked up over nothing earlier. The massage was very relaxing as she made her way up to his back and neck. Then she asked him to turn over and began massaging his front from the toes up.

 As she massaged his shins and knees, Mike had forgotten that he was half naked and being squeezed by a strange huge woman. Her hands kneaded his thigh muscles like they were bread dough. Then suddenly, without warning she pulled off the towel, leaving Mike in nothing but his birthday suit.

 “You wan masat tees?” she asked, pointing between Mike’s legs.

 If Mike’s mind was a computer, at that moment the screen displayed only one thing over and over again: WTF?! WTF?! WTF?!

 “Wha…?!” Mike scrambled to cover his nakedness. “NO!”

 “Very nice…” she cooed. “Fifty ringgit only…”

 *   *   *   *   *

 Daybreak was less than an hour away. Mike sat alone on the motorcycle outside the motel. He was tired, hungry and freaked out of his mind. Sureish showed up carrying the pail and the fishing rods, laughing.

 “What happen da, macha?” he clapped Mike on the back. “So fast you finish already?”

 Mike didn’t find it funny at all. In fact, it was scary to think that this was his first week of university.

 He had four years to go.

The Orientation (Part 1)

The rows of old shop houses were pitch dark and dead silent except for the sound of crickets. The sign by the bridge clearly said: 

Dilarang Memancing Di Atas Jambatan.

Amaran Keras Daripada Majlis Daerah. 

But two figures stood perched over the railing with their fishing lines in the water below. Beer bottles stood in a black plastic bag beside their feet. 

Mike looked at his watch. It was 2.15am. It had been his first week of university life and the earliest he had gone to sleep was at 4.30am. With his elbows on the railing, he rested his chin in his palms and tried to sneak in a nap. 

Mike had been warned about the ragging among Indians in government university hostels, but he never expected it to be this horrible. Every night it was a different group of seniors, being told to perform acts which no parent would want to see their son doing. 

Memories of stripping down to his underwear and dancing to the percussion-heavy Tamil hit ‘Pokkiri Ponggal’ the night before came to mind. Mike shuddered. 

“Sleepy already, macha?” Sureish asked in Tamil. 

“No, senior.” Mike stood up straight. 

Macha?. For the past week, Mike and his fellow freshies had been addressed simply as “dei p*ndek” (and no, it’s not ‘pendek’). It was either that or their customized nicknames (which for the sake of common decency and Mike’s dignity, I will not reveal here). Looked like Mike was starting warm up to Sureish. 

Sureish was a final year Mechanical Engineering student. When Mike had first seen him on campus, his first impulse was to turn and run the other way. Sureish was tall, had shoulder length hair and a goatee. Plus he was from Klang. Those are enough signs to know this was an Indian dude you should avoid at all cost. 

“Your Pokkiri Ponggal performance yesterday was the bomb, da,” Sureish said. “I haven’t seen a freshie that sporting since… my first year.” 

They both smiled knowingly. 

“You can ngam with me, macha. We same kepala.” Sureish continued. After a week of ego abuse, Mike felt his smug self again. “If in KL you wanna go clubbing next time, gimmie a call. I know people in Bangsar.” 

“Thanks, senior.” Mike replied sheepishly. He knew better than to spoil that moment of male bonding with chatter. He took a swig of Heineken. And so did Sureish. 

The night had begun with Mike and two of his friends being ‘orientated’ by second-year seniors. Mike was doing the breast stroke on a concrete floor when Sureish barged in and told Mike to come with him. Turned out one of Sureish’s many hobbies is fishing and he decided to hire a sidekick that night to keep him company. 

Sureish reeled up his line to reveal an empty hook. The bait was gone. 

“Stupid fish,” he chided. “They’re fucking with us tonight.” 

“Wanna leave ah, senior?” Mike was really hopeful. Three hours on their feet and all they had to show for it was an empty pail and half a plastic bag of worms. And his head felt like it weighed a tonne. 

“Your fathers are all hookers! (it sounded cooler when he said it in Tamil)” Sureish yelled into the water below. He dumped the remaining worms into the river. Through sleepy eyes Mike watched and wondered what must be going through the worms’ minds. He was getting tipsy. 

He reeled up his own line and finished off the rest of his beer. Finally, another day of this week in hell was coming to an end. Or so he thought. 

Sureish kick-started his Yamaha 125Z. Mike picked up the fishing rods, the pail and his helmet. In his state of mind, took him a moment to figure out which one was supposed to go on his head – the helmet or the pail. He staggered over and hopped on the bike behind Sureish. 

“Let’s go for a massage,” Sureish said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do in a dodgy small town at 3am. 

“Massage?” Mike chuckled. He thought Sureish was pulling his leg. 

“Yeah, it’s open 24 hours.” Mike’s eyes widened. “The tauke is a cool fella. I’ll introduce you.” 

Moving at 90km/h, Mike wondered if he could jump off the motorcycle and make a run for it. 

*   *   *   *   *

to be continued...

 

The Lonely Cruise

Enjoying the shade under the suspended emergency escape boat, Mike took a long drag of his Gudang Garam Nusantara cigarette. If it's one thing Mike appreciated about the Indonesians, it's the kick in their cigarettes. Malaysian smokes are for pussies.

It would be at least an hour before the helicopter was due back on the ship's deck. Until then, Mike and the rest of the Ground Crew would have some idle time on their hands. As the sea effortlessly swayed the 8000 tonne warship back and forth, Mike's mind began to wander to thoughts you'd never hear him speak about.

He wondered if Jessica Ching remembers him fondly, if at all. She was his teammate in their university's debate team. Mike had a monster crush on her at the time, but was too chickenshit to act on it because he used to think she was out of his league.

He remembers one debate tournament where their team had lost the make-or-break round which would decide whether or not they would qualify for the octo-finals. As they left the hall after congratulating their Filipino counterparts, Jess suddenly broke down in tears.

A guy can have nerves of steel and remain unfazed in any situation, but the moment a girl starts crying, he loses all sense of what to do. So Mike asked himself the same question he always did when he found himself in a sticky situation: What would James Bond do?

Mike put one arm around her and cradled her drooped head in his other arm. He didn't say a thing, he just let her sob in his arms.

The reason that memory in particular stood out was because that was the only time he had ever seen her like that. Most other times, she was a wiseass to Mike. At one tournament held at a local university, they had lost their way in the maze of corridors and courtyards. Mike, despite having no clue where they were, had insisted they were not lost.

"Trust me," he said. "I'm sure this is the way. I was born with a compass inside my head."

"Makes sense," Jess quipped, rolling her eyes. "Who else could go on  functioning with a chunk of metal lodged inside his brain?"

Mike couldn't recall the last time he had heard from Jess. He wondered what she was up to, wherever she was.

He also wondered if Mr Stanley Lim still remembers him, or if Mr Lim was even still alive. Mike had met Mr Lim at an investment fair at PWTC years ago. Mike at the time was a dynamic young investment salesman, although still wet behind the ears. 

The rich taukes who frequent these fairs to scout for new investment opportunities tended to avoid Mike. He was a boy with a killer smile wearing a sharp suit. Which is also why he usually went home with the contact details of more young women instead of their fathers.

Mr Stanley Lim, however, stopped to listen to Mike. He had all the signs of a big time investor: cheap t-shirt tucked into cheap slacks, belt line under his chest, cheap PVC sandals on his feet, and of course a 3 thousand dollar Cartier watch on his wrist. Ka-CHing!

Mr Lim was a man who had been battered around by life quite a bit, one could tell. But there was no bitterness in his eyes, just a strange brew of warmth and loneliness.

The bond that Mike and him developed was not really friendship initially. Mike was just being nice to the old man, building plastic rapport so that Mr Lim would feel confident enough in Mike to invest with him. Whether or not Mr Lim saw through this scheme, I don't know. But he enjoyed Mike's company and liked having him around because for a 19 year old, he was a patient listener.

He would tell Mike all sorts of interesting stories from his youth: high stakes gambling losses at Genting, how the miscarriage of his first child led to the failure of his marriage, the disappearance of his wife, starting up his catering business, being bullied by Australian customs officers when visiting his sister in Perth.

Mike grew fond of the sad old man. He visited Mr Lim at Plaza OSK in Jalan P.Ramlee every Wednesday morning, bringing with him 2 packets of tau-foo-faa. Mr Lim spent every weekday at Plaza OSK. He didn't work there. Heck, he didn't work anywhere - he had all his money in the stock market.

So it came to be that every Wednesday, Mike and Mr Lim would sit in front of 8 giant TV screens eating tau-foo-faa and watching the stock prices fluctuate as they chatted about anything and everything. Then, Mr Lim would take Mike out for banana leaf lunch at the cafeteria.

From these weekly conversations with Mr Lim, Mike learnt a lot about the value of youth and what it means to be a man in this world. Mike knew full well that Mr Lim was not going to invest with Mike's company. Mr Lim had been a victim of the overnight stock market crash that year and spent his days waiting to recover his losses.

Mike lost contact with Mr Lim when he left KL that same year to further his studies. Now Mike doesn't even remember if he had said goodbye before he left. Or even if he'd called the old man to say thanks for all the shared wisdom.

Sitting on a floating structure of steel in the middle of the sea along with 250 other men, why was Mike suddenly missing these random people from his past? He couldn't tell.

From the horizon came the high-pitched purring of twin turboshaft engines, followed closely by the distinctive thud-thud-thud of rotor blades. Mike crumpled the empty cigarette packet into his pocket and got to his feet.

The Awkward Encounter

"Hi, I'm Michael." he flashed his killer grin. "Nice to meet you."

"Dr. Suganthi." she said, accepting his handshake. She didn't seem too big on smiling.

DOCTOR Suganthi? Mike wondered if he should have introduced himself formally as well.

Sub Lieutenant Stone, Royal Malaysian Navy. Bachelor of Mechanical Engineering, 501 Air Squadron.

"So, tell me, Doctor," Mike lowered his tone. "What are you up to this weekend?"

"I'm on call," she said as if she had just been asked about her choice brand of toothpaste.

This was a tough nut to crack. Mike would have to pull something out of his ass real quick or this was going to be chalked up as another snub-off.

Mike squinted his eyes at her like he was reading fine print on her face. He did it just long enough for it to start being awkward. Then finally he said, "Your favourite flavour of ice cream is durian."

"No, it's strawberry," she said. "Why?"

In his head, Mike pictured a fisherman slowly reeling in his catch.

"Well, you see people who like durian ice cream are few and far in between," Mike said. "They are usually the ones who are different from the rest and they're not afraid of being that way. I thought you looked the type, that's why I asked."

"Really?" her eyes widened.

The fisherman started to reel faster, his rod beginning to bend.

"I tell you what," Mike said. "I've got a hectic Monday to Friday coming up, but we'll talk about it over ice cream next weekend."

She was taken aback, certainly not expecting Mike to cut to the chase so soon. She tried to think up a response while keeping her poise, but Mike could tell she was fumbling in her head. He wasn't gonna wait for her reply.

He drew his handphone and punched in '01' and handed to her. She instinctively accepted it, looked at the screen and looked up at Mike's face to see if he was serious. He smirked. There was so much coyness in his demeanor, he was practically doing the backstroke in it.

For the first time since they had met, she broke into a smile and proceeded to type in the rest of her number.

The fisherman's rod curved wildly, drawing his catch out of the water and into the air.

"Give your phone a missed call," Mike said, as if it was so that she would have his number as well, but it was really his way of making sure that her number wasn't a dummy.

She complied. As she gave Mike his phone back, she checked hers and read Mike's number back to him. It wasn't a dummy.

"Hey, I gotta run, Suganthi, but I'll talk to you real soon, ok?" Mike said, extending his palm. "It was great meeting you."

She blushed as she took his hand.

Mike was about to leave when she called out, "Durian is my second favourite flavour."

The fisherman posed for a photo with the fish in both his arms.

*     *     *

As they walked past the endless rows of stores, Suganthi once again - accidentally, of course - bumped shoulders with Mike. For a girl whose job involves working with blood and pus, she certainly smelled fruity.

"Woi, apa langgar-langgar orang nie?" he elbowed her playfully.

She giggled and smacked his arm repeatedly.

"Wah, gangster ah you." Mike teased.

"Hey, I have a black belt in Shito-Ryu Karate, ok?" Suganthi said. "I got a silver medal in women's sparring at national level once. Don't play-play."

She seemed to have the habit of reciting her resume a lot. Mike couldn't really tell if she was trying to intimidate him by showing she was out of his league, or maybe she was trying to qualify herself to show that she was good enough for him.

"Hey, my kid sister is also in karate," Mike said. "I bet she could kick your ass."

They chatted about their families and what it was like growing up. Like Mike and I, Suganthi was also the eldest kid from a suburban family. She had 2 younger brothers - one, who was Mike's age, was training to be a Sub Inspector in the Singaporean Police Force. The other was doing his Pre-U in their hometown in Johor.

"Does your family observe the caste system?" she asked.

It was an odd question, but Mike didn't think much about it.

"Nope." he said. "In fact, I don't even think my parent's are of the same caste."

Suganthi looked surprised.

"Heck," he continued. "If you were to ask me what cast I was, I'd prolly need to go ask my grandparents."

"You don't know your caste?" there was disbelief in her voice.

"Nope." Mike went on, oblivious. "Think about it: in this day and age, do we really need more imaginary barriers to draw us apart? I think it's really silly how seriously some people take that rubbish."

Suganthi furrowed her eyebrows, teeth clenched. She took a while to try and digest Mike's point of view - and failed.

Mike finally realised he was prolly gonna need another doctor to surgically remove his foot from his mouth.

"I need to go to the washroom," she blurted after an awkward silence. She took off and never came back.

The way Mike stood there blinking, he could have gotten a part time job as a hazard light at a JKR road construction.

The Hari Raya Card

Aidilfitri season sure brings back memories for Mike.

Back in Standard 1, the desks in Mike's classroom were all arranged in columns of 3. Mike sat at the back of the class, next to Ruzaina. Beside Ruzaina was Dhevan Kumar. Due to the boy-girl-boy seating, Ruzaina was flanked by two guys whom she would proudly proclaim as her boyfriends.

"Ni dua pakwe aku," she would tell the other girls.

For all Mikey knew, pakwe prolly meant 'bapak tua', so he took it as given that Ruzaina and he were makwe-pakwe.

Around the time of Hari Raya that year, Mikey and Ruzaina got into a fight over whose rubber was the strongest (don't laugh). Ruzaina's eraser was black and pink striped, which she fondly named 'Si Lembut'. Mikey's eraser was of the same brand, only black and green striped, which he christened 'Robot Jox'.

What had happened was, Robot Jox had defeated Si Lembut in a 'lawan rubber'. And Ruzaina wasn't too happy about Mikey's taunting song-and-dance celebration routine, that she started poking him with her pencil. A long story short, things ended with Robot Jox delivering a flying dropkick right in Ruzaina's face, leaving her yelling between tears, "Kau bukan pakwe aku lagi!"

Back then, as far as Mikey knew, 'taknak kawan' was the father of emotional blackmail. But 'taknak jadi makwe kau' took things to a whole new level. Besides, he couldn't lose his girl to Dheena-friggin-Kumar!

Now, bear in mind, this was when it was normal for kids to expect a little extra something for every piece of crap junk food they bought. Bubblegum came with a lick-on tattoo. Tora and Ding Dang came with flimsy plastic toys and Mamee came with shiny stickers.

Now that it was Hari Raya Season, the mak cik selling junk food in front of your school gate would give you a Mamee Hari Raya Card for every packet you bought. Each card was 2x3 inches small and on the front had the Mamee Monster (who looks and talks surprisingly like the Cookie Monster) wearing a songkok.

Since the 'Maaf Zahir Batin' spirit was in the air, Mikey decided to seize the opportunity to win back Ruzaina's adoration by giving her a cheapo Mamee Monster Raya Card. After dinner that night, Mikey thought long and hard about what to write in the card.

It already said 'Maaf Zahir Batin', so half the work was done. The only thing to add was:

"Saya nak jadi pakwe awak... Michael"

Ruzaina looked at Mikey. Then at the card. Then back at Mikey. Then at the card again... And she ran out of the class - Not the response Mikey was looking for.

Next thing he knew, he was sitting on the bench outside the Penyelia Petang's office chewing out his nails like they were Twisties. Inside was Puan Zaharah the Penyelia Petang, Ruzaina's parents, and Papa and Mama Stone.

"Ini bukan masalah kecil," Puan Zaharah insisted. "Pihak sekolah mesti ambik tindakan." Puan Zaharah was a T-Rex of a lady. Taller than the average woman and with osteoporosis creeping up her spine, she had a towering, lurking presence about her. She was the wicked witch of the school - for the afternoon session, at least.

Mikey had seen enough Tamil movies to know what would happen next. Whenever the village chief had a serious discussion with the parents of a boy and a girl, it means they would have to get married to make up for the mistake the boy had made and to save their families' honour.

"Please don't make me have to marry Ruzaina," Mikey said a silent prayer. "I like Julia Juremi from Satu Tanjung more."

Ruzaina's father was a stout man with a handlebar moustache. Dude was a policeman. When Mikey found out, a cry ball rose in his throat. If he didn't marry Ruzaina, he would get his sorry ass thrown in jail - Quite a dillema for someone whose biggest concern two days before was what he would be getting for his 7th birthday.

"Cikgu, they are just kids," Papa Stone said. "I don't think they understand what it means,"

"Tapi ini sudah bertulis," Puan Zaharah held up the Mamee Monster Raya Card. "Kalau lisan takpe. Skarang ni dah ada bukti bertulis. Saya sebagai wakil Guru Besar mesti ambik tindakan."

The room was silent for 3 whole seconds before Ruzaina's father cracked up. Papa Stone broke into a snicker. Both mothers couldn't help but grin. The wicked witch didn't look pleased at all.

* * *

"The last I heard from Ruzaina," Mike recalled, "She's an ustazah and engaged to a police lance corporal."

I raised an eyebrow. An ustazah?

"Yup."

Geez, bro. you sure know how to pick 'em.

The Boot Camp

I've heard that in the Navy, the lowest from of life there is is the cadet. Followed closely by that stuff that grows under the ships. Then flies, cockroaches, etc.

Cadet life is governed by a strict regimental routine. You wake up when you're told. You iron your shirt the way you're taught. You move as a platoon. Even at mealtime, there's a protocol in place.

Being an officer in the Navy Reserve, Mike vividly remembers his first boot camp. Sweaty, stressful and sleepless. Tho now he smiles to himself when he recalls the experience, it was definitely two of the worst weeks of his life.

Mike's cousin who is an officer in the Navy Regular had told him about the horrors of mess etiquette before, but that didn't prepare him for that Monday afternoon. It was the first official day of boot camp, and the Red Division arrived outside the dining hall in orderly rows of three after a whole morning of drills and classes. They were informed that lunch that afternoon would be conducted in mess etiquette.

Mess etiquette is a naval tradition which both Mike and I agree is like walking on eggshells. As if it weren't bad enough that you were tired and hungry, you had to observe a strict set of rules and protocols from before you enter the dining hall right up to the point you leave.

You request to the senior officer to enter the hall. You request to take a seat. Your chair does not make a sound when you sit. You request to say a prayer. You request to start eating, but you don't move a muscle until the senior officer touches his food. You eat in pin drop silence. If your cutlery makes a noise, not-so-nice things happen to you.

The 1pm sun was vertical in the sky. All 42 cadets of the Red Division were shiny and dripping with sweat, their feet steaming up inside black leather shoes on the scorching hot tar road. They were six minutes late, so the Officer On Duty had them do six push ups and remain in the push up position until he said.

You know the feeling when you unknowingly touch a hot iron? Before you even feel the blinding flash of heat, your hand pulls back. Now imagine having to keep your hand on the iron for a whole minute. Mike could feel the skin on his palms cooking.

Once back on their feet, they could proceed with the mess etiquette lunch. Mike was the squad leader for Red Division that day, and it was his duty to do all the requesting on behalf of his division.

Mike had read through the mess etiquette script in the training manual (yes, there's a script), and being relatively good in English (or 'speakang' as the others would call him), he had no problem carrying out his task in textbook fashion. The OOD even wordlessly clapped him on the shoulder as a silent congratulation.

Eating was still an ordeal. Not making a sound is unbelievably complex when you are using stainless steel fork and spoon on a porcelain plate. And for dessert, which I think is the mother of cruel jokes, you are served with half an apple which you are supposed to consume noiselessly with your fork and spoon.

Seated next to Mike was Azie, a girl from Kemaman, Terengganu. She sat looking at her apple halve like it were a Rubik's Cube. Still smug from his stint as squad leader, Mike gladly offered to help her with the fruit.

He had transferred it to his plate and was cutting it down with the meticulousness of a French chef when *Ptinnnng!* The entire room froze.

"Haa! Sape tu?!" the OOD demanded. He was a square-jawed six-footer with a body like a young Malik Noor. And his shiny name tag broadcast his name: 'RADZI'

Every cadet's head was bowed, but all eyes scanned the room for the culprit. If nobody confessed, they would all get it. Mike raised his right hand.

"Excuse me, sir." Not a hint of fear in his voice. Under the table, he could feel his leg twitching.

"Engkau?!" Radzi yelled. "Kau makan bawah meja!"

Mike's heart sank into his stomach. He picked up his plate and crawled under the table. This was embarassing. He looked at the food on his plate. Then at all the black leather shoes around him, smelling of scorched shoe polish and sweat.

Two minutes later came another *Ptinnnng!*

"Eks-kews me, sir." a familiar voice squeaked.

Azie with her plate joined Mike on the floor under the table. Looks like her mastery with the fork and spoon couldn't overcome the intricacy of the chicken wing, either.

"Saya tak lalu makan la, Mike." she whispered.

"Weih, air hang tak bawak skali ke?" Mike remembered he had left his glass on top of the table. His thirst was catching up with him.

"Amboi! Syoknya dating kat bawah meja!" A box shaped head peered under the table at them. "Korang dua makan kat luar!"

Sitting cross-legged on the hot tar road, plate in one hand, apple halve in the other, sun mercilessly beating down, Mike looked over at Azie. He wished he had signed up for the Air Force Reserve instead.

The Lab Report

"I want your lab reports handwritten and submitted today," Professor Jabir said, wrapping up the lab session.

There was an uneasy silence among the five sweat-drenched figures standing in a semi-circle in front of Prof Jabir. They had spent the last two hours on their feet, taking data off a steam power generator. The system occupied half the lab and had been a bitch to work with, considering that it was a hot afternoon to begin with. Nobody told the poor sods that studying Mechanical Engineering was gonna suck this bad.

The five guys looked at each other, each expecting the next guy to speak up. Finally all eyes turned to Mike.

"Aw, crap." Mike thought to himself. He was the most diplomatic of the group, and besides, even if he did get shot down, it would be okay cos he didn't really have much dignity to lose anyway.

"Uh, Professor," Mike broke the tension. "Would it be possible for us to hand in our reports tomorrow? It's going to take a few hours to do the necessary calculations and plot the graphs for an accurate report. We really wouldn't want to keep you waiting."

Prof Jabir looked at his watch with the expression of an art critic examining a painting. It was 5.15pm.

Prof Jabir was a small man - a whole head shorter than Mike and I, in fact. But what he lacked in height, he made up for with the intimidating way in which he carried himself. He was extremely brilliant and dedicated to his work - prolly picked up from eleven years of study in Japan - and he made sure everyone knew it. He was in his mid-30s and still a virgin, I'm pretty sure.

"I tell you what, Mr Stone," Prof Jabir looked up at Mike. "When I step into my office at 7.30 sharp tomorrow morning, I expect to see five lab reports of quality that's worthy of my time - ready and waiting for me."

More than once, Mike had caught himself wondering how far this man would fly if Mike dropkicked him. 

* * *

"14 hours to go, bro. All the time in the world!" Shazni Hafizi was Mike's lab mate and brother from another mother. He was the quintessential Malaysian frat boy.

"And you know what's even better?" Mike said. "My seniors handed me down samples from previous years' lab reports!"

"Caya lah, Mike!" Fizi's eyes widened. "We do together. And no wasting time. Focus is the key."

But of course, since it had been a long and tedious day, they both rationalised that it was important for them to unwind first and start work after dinner. So much for 'no wasting time'.

It was 10.05pm when Mike showed up at Fizi's hostel room. No sign of the guy - must be on a park bench somewhere feeling up his girlfriend. He had left his laptop running, so Mike figured he'd do something productive with his time while waiting. 

He picked up one of Fizi's plug-in game controllers and turned on Pro Evolution Soccer 2008.

* * *

"Hang main cam haram la, Mike." It was almost 11.30pm when Fizi showed up. "Aku rasa hang lawan kambing rumah nenek aku pun boleh kalah."

Fizi picked up the other controller and pulled up a chair. Mike switched the option to 2-Player mode. So much for 'focus is the key'.

"Lab report aper citer?" Mike asked, eyes still stuck on the screen.

"Alaa... 8 hours to go, bro." Fizi said, selecting his team. "All the time in the world!"

* * *

"Screw this." Mike finally said, putting down the controller. His eyeballs were numb and the muscles in his thumbs felt like they were pumping acid. Fizi strained his eyes to read the clock at the bottom of the screen.

"6 and a half hours to go, bro." Fizi quipped. "All the time in the world!"

"Screw this game and screw you," Mike got up. His ass was numb too. "I'll get started on my report first. Come get it from me at 4 o'clock."

Fizi was a black belt at plagarising without making it look like it was plagarised. So much for 'we do together'.

"Aiya, playing against the computer sucks la,"

"Then call your nenek's kambing to come play with you,"

* * *

Tyra Banks moved like a python in heat, doing her belly dance routine. She made her way towards Mike and slowly unzipped his jeans, never once breaking eye contact. As her hand boldly ventured in, there was a sound of knocking wood.

"That's odd." Tyra said.

Mike awoke. The knocking at his door got louder. In the darkness, he groped the bedside for his handphone. The LCD clock showed 5.23am. Somebody had better be dying.

He opened his room door to find Fizi standing at attention.

"Comrade Mikhail!" Fizi saluted.

"This guy's the biggest jabroni I've met in a long time," Mike tought to himself, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Finished." Fizi held up both his report and Mike's. Mike was temporarily rendered speechless. He couldn't believe he got woken up for this.

"Oh, wow! That's just amazing! I'm so happy for you!"

"Come on, laa. Let's go slip it under Jabir's door."

"You woke me up for this? Why don't you go yourself?"

There was a pause. And Mike knew what was coming.

"Aku takut la bro." Fizi pleaded. "Even during the day I'm afraid of going near the guy's office."

Mike took a moment to confer with his Jiminy Cricket.

"I could tell this clown to bugger off and go back to my warm mattress. Tyra Banks. Belly dancing. But that means neither mine nor his report report is going to get handed in."

"However, this clown is after all my bro, and this is his darkest hour. It's my duty to stand at his side through this. It's Spartan Law!"

"Tyra can wait another half hour, I guess." Mike thought to himself as he picked up his helmet and put on his slippers. "And I need to stop watching 300 so often."

By the time Fizi's motorcycle pulled up outside the Faculty of Mechanical Engineering, Mike was kicking himself for not putting on a sweater. The early morning air was moist and freezing cold, his lungs felt heavy when he inhaled.

The entire building was pitch dark inside. You can make fun of Asian horror movies all you want, but put in a situation like that, you catch your mind mentally bracing yourself in case you see a pale girl with long black hair levitating in the long windowless corridor ahead.

Mike and Fizi whipped out their handphones to light their way. As they made their way to the stairway that leads up to the lecturers' offices, Fizi asked: "Mike, you know Kak Fira, the admin clerk?"

"Who doesn't?" Fira was a demure looking kampung girl who wore the kebaya in such a way that it let your imagination do the work. Definately a head turner.

"Late one evening," Fizi said, "She got assaulted by a hantu pochong on this very stairway."

Mike closed his eyes. Warm mattress... Tyra Banks... Belly dancing...

The Roadblock

The traffic policeman waved them to the side. Mike slowed down his black Modenas Kriss 100 and stopped at the traffic roadblock. In the state where there are more motorcycles than any other vehicle - and where Mat Rempit is a way of life, not a social fad - traffic road blocks are the norm.

Mike and his passenger instinctively got off without being told. The policeman eyeballed them both from head to toe. Without missing a beat, Mike popped open the seat to reveal his laminated road tax bolted underneath.

The policeman peered at it. It was good for another 3 weeks. As he was inspecting the road tax, Mike whipped out his wallet and handed over his driver's license. The policeman stared at Mike again before accepting the license. This kid was no newbie.

"Ni dari mana ni?" the policeman asked, looking at Mike's license. It was the first time any of them had spoken.

"Tengok movie tadi, cik." Mike replied. Nonchalant.

"Tengok movie?" There was a hint of something sinister in the policeman's voice. "Number plate kamu ni tak ikut peraturan. Kesalahan besar tu." 

"Fuck" Mike cursed in his head. "No fuckin' way I'm gonna beg,"

Both Mike and I had seen our share of dudes begging traffic policemen to let them off with a warning. It's never a pretty sight. Anyone who tells you  they 'kautim' with the cops to let them off is not telling you that by 'kautim' they mean putting their cool aside and putting up a sorry face, going "Tolonglah cik" over and over again.

The policeman waited for a response. Mike nodded without saying anything. Like a kid who knows he did wrong, accepting a scolding from his parent.

The policeman was in his forties. The patch on his arm ranked him as a corporal and his name tag read SUHAIMI. It must have been a busy day for Korperal Suhaimi cos he smelled like cigarette smoke and dried sweat. But his shirt collar was plywood stiff and his PVC boots still showroom shiny. 

"Bila kamu buat ni?" Korperal Suhaimi asked, eying the front number plate. The characters had to be block shaped, but instead they were rounded at the edges.

"Ni motor second hand, cik." Mike said "Masa beli memang dah macamtu."

"Dah tahu salah, apasal tak tukar?" he prodded.

"Baru dua minggu beli ni."

He'd had that bike for close to 7 months.

"Lagipun ni first time kena tegur. Tak tahu pulak ni salah besar."

This was the third time it had been pointed out to him at a traffic road block.

"Semua dah buat makluman dah. Takde alasan tak tahu." The corporal was getting agitated "Ni kena saman ni."

"Aiseh, kalau saman, leceh cik" Mike lowered his voice but kept his cool. " Kami studen lagi, duit biasiswa belum masuk."

They had got their money at the beginning of the semester, a good month and a half before.

Korperal Suhaimi hesitated when he heard 'studen'. An almost unnoticable smile creeped across Mike's face in the akward pause that followed. Being a student means you get pity points from the police. And the government university sticker on the side of his bike almost always got Mike off scott free.

"Tu kamu boleh buat rayuan kat mahkamah nanti," Korperal Suhaimi broke the silence. "Sini IC kamu." he demanded.

"Goddamnit!" Mike thought to himself. But he kept his poise. This man he was dealing with is an unshakeable rock, and Mike was gonna pull all the stops on this dude's ass, without having to resort to begging. He had one last card to play, literally in his pocket.

He took out his MyKad and his BAT C20 along with it. BAT C stands for 'Borang Angkatan Tentera C". It was his reserve military identification card. If this didn't do the trick, nothing would.

The corporal looked at both, looked at Mike, and gave him back the BAT C20. He went to get his summons pad.

"God's last name really must be Damnit" Mike thought. He felt cold sweat on the back of his neck watching Korperal Suhaimi write the summon. 

"Three hundred ringgit is a lot to pay for keeping my dignity," Mike figured. "I was hoping it would cost a bit less."

Looking back, Korporal Suhaimi wasn't an unreasonable man. I bet he's prolly a decent dude, just that he wasn't feeling particularly gracious with Mike that day.

And the fact that it was 3am and Mike's passenger was a demure looking Malay girl prolly didn't help much.