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It was that old geezer again. I remembered him. He was the one who asked all those dumb questions. He pulls me on the street. “Where are you from. How long have you been staying here. Where is your hotel.” Too many questions to put question marks here.

I told him the usual bull. He still didn’t recognize me. I excused myself. “Come back here. Please come back here. I must talk to you,”  he shouted. He only wanted to ask me more questions. I had a lovely walk and gave the knees a good workout. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to a guy with advanced stages of Parkinson.

He started following me. He hobbled towards me. Fuck, he’s a bit too old to be police or intelligence.  Now I was just waiting for him to start sprinting after me as I turned my head and watching him implore for me to come back.  He seemed determined. He was just an old Malay who wanted to practice his English.

I didn’t want to be rude so that’s why I waved him off. Maybe it was the Malaysian tracksuit pants that caught his attention. I’m really glad I didn’t put on my “I Love Johor’ T-shirt. Who knows what his response would’ve been then.

Who knows, the old geezer could have been the Sultan of Johor for all I fucking know. Weirder things have happened on the big open road.

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