---
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.
-----
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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