A Chinese Buddhist comes up to my table early in the morning. He flashes something… here we go, I think. “Donation.” He’s trying to flog me a crappy amulet. I yawn. “Donation donation, donation.”
He’s really getting excited now and flashing the amulet in my face like it’s a must buy item. Fuck your donations, I say, and send the religious gold digger on his merry way.
It’s a quiet night at the food hall. Koon the manager puts on some rave music in an attempt to attract some punters. They make most of their money on the booze they move. I’m told by Rahim the Butcher that most of it’s bought at duty free down the road.
The television is showing W Live. Those buff head wrestlers really know how to act and the execution of their lines in a threatening manner is really A plus stuff. The myth that buff heads aren’t all there just doesn’t ring true. These guys are real performers and can execute a line better than Harrison Ford or Tom Cruise. A grade actors are overrated.
My back is fucking killing me. No pain no gain, says Rahim the Butcher. I’ve got an appointment with him tonight. I’ll hold out till 5 am and see what new pain he can inflict on me. It’s strange but I’m really getting into the pain factor but I’m not sure about the gain. To be honest, I think he’s fucked my neck up worse.
I checked out of the construction hotel today that offers free drilling sessions in your skull. I check into a cheap hotel. My room is on the fourth floor and the hotel has no lift. After I ate the Chinese takeaway with MSG I started feeling queasy. Then my throat chocked up with mucus.
I checked out the old air-condition unit. It had exposed chords and I swear it was pumping out mists of water coolant. Only yesterday an ambulance rocked up outside the hotel and I’m putting two and two together.
I forgo a nights rent and check into a really nice hotel just around the corner from my local. The Indian who sells contract band cigarettes is just around the corner and the internet is fast. I’ve paid up for a week.
I think often about traveling. If I move on, I’ve got pay for bus tickets and find a new hotel. I’ve got to uproot myself so that I can see a new wall paper in a new hotel. There will be an Indian cafe I’ll call my local and not much will change.
A trip to Malacca you ask? It’s history is about rape and pillage and should be demolished. I’ve read the esteemed Ferdinand Pinto’s accounts on Malacca. Those glory days are long gone I’m not about to start paying higher hotel prices for the sake of a few old buildings. Maybe I’m getting too old for this sight seeing shit.
At my local, the Tandoori chef, Mr. Bin Laden from Pakistan, serves me up his dish with some garlic nan bread. It’s superb. Pak Sukarno is ignoring me still, he’s pissed off I didn’t give him any hand outs or took up his advances. And Mr Burma is still good humored but doesn’t know the difference between a boiled or a fried egg. He might get it right one day. And the chef, Mr India, he only knows one word. So ordering rotis, at least I know he’s going to get that right. This might not be the Ritz or Raffles, but at least they are giving it their best shot.
I think I’ll just stay put in Grunge Town. The local glue sniffer comes up to my table to ask for a donation. No questions asked. He gets a one ringgit note from every time.