All That Alcohol Will Kill You

------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was Tony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, help!

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

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

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

Oh God save me, Tony thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

It's Just The Matter Of Making The Right Choice

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

---

Kasandra hated office buildings after hours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No", she said. Zakaria laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

"Yes what?"

"Yes he is"

"Is what?"

"......"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"See that. Do you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now get up"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Dogs

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

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

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

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

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

Until the dogs came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They never saw it coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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