Announcement

Hi people!

It is with a heavy heart that I announce the closing of this blog. I will leave it open to access older memories, but all activities will now move to suffianhakim.com. This includes all work-related entries and my works of fiction. This, of course, includes Harris bin Potter.

See you guys at my new website!

A Harris bin Potter Hari Raya Special

(Before we go into the expository madness of Chapter 3, here is a little story from Harris bin Potter's earlier childhood. I need to thank Munira Maricar for that brilliant one-liner, and Sean Lee for agreeing to have a character styled after him. Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri everybody!)

There are several things that many Malay people do not know. That is not to say that Malay people are predisposed to not know things - that would be a horribly racist statement to make, even if the author himself is Malay. I am sure other cultures have varying degrees of ignorance in certain areas as well. The Hutu tribes of Central Africa, for example, are not well-versed in igloo construction. And ketupat-weaving, probably.

One thing many Malay people do not know is that the word they use to refer to fasting, 'puasa', is a loan word from the Sanskrit 'upavasa', which means 'an abstinence from sensual or corporeal indulgence'.

"You know what a lot of Malay people don't know?" Cik Petom was asking her family as they sat around the dining table, preparing to break fast. "That I invented the word 'puasa'."

"Wow!" her son, Dumbass, said, duly impressed. "I thought Zubir Said invented it?"

"No, son," the boy's father, Pak Pandir, corrected him. "Zubir Said invented the Shuffle, which is a kind of dance that gay people and accountants perform at night clubs."

As you can tell, Cik Petom and her family were the kind of Singaporeans whose ignorance can only be matched by their ability to draw pride from achievements that were not their own. They were the kind who would interrupt an acceptance speech by Taylor Swift and say that they had the best damn video of all time.

What you might not be able to tell about Cik Petom and her family is the secret they keep in their closet. This was literal - it wasn't that Pak Pandir was dying to bust his feather boa out for a Cher concert, or that Cik Petom too strongly related to an Icelandic prime minister whose time had finally come, and might take offence at such an obscure reference to lesbianism. No, the secret in their closet was - 

The radio played the azan, and Cik Petom and her family began to gobble their food.

"What about him?" Cik Petom asked her husband, gesturing towards the closet.

"A boy like him? Of course he doesn't fast! He's not strong like our Dumbass."

"Fasting is difficult, but I am the only 9-year-old who can do it," Dumbass proudly proclaimed as he heartily assaulted a large whole chicken with his teeth. Laid out in front of him were two plates of ketupat, two bowls of rendang, five plates of serondeng and thirty sticks of satay babat. A full tub of ice-cream awaited him in the refrigerator. It was his first meal, in half an hour.

The secret, the boy in the closet was Harris bin Potter.

The year was 2009. It was a simpler time, where nobody had to visit those damn voting booths twice in the same year - no offence to those who voted thrice in 1966. It was a simpler time for Harris bin Potter, too, for he had not yet known of his magical heritage, and had yet to enroll in the marvellous magical academy, Hog-Tak-Halal-What. For those same reasons, it was a darker, gloomier time for him as well.

Contrary to what Cik Petom believed, Harris was fasting, and right now, after 14 hours of abstaining from food and water, he desperately wanted to have something to eat. Expecting the worst of chastisements from his relatives but too hungry to care, he came out of the closet (hee hee).

"What the Joo Chiat Complex are you doing out here, boy?" roared Pak Pandir.

"I would like to break my fast," Harris said defiantly.

"And I would like to break your face," Pak Pandir told him. "Either you get back into the closet or you get out of my house!"

Angrily, Harris chose the latter and stormed out of the flat. At the void deck, he spotted a tall Chinese man studying a box of dates closely.

"Hey," Harris said to the man. "I need to break my fast. Can I have a date?"

The man smiled sheepishly. "Look, kid, I am very flattered. But I don't play for the rainbow team."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"I don't play backgammon?"

"Well, neither do I. Capteh is more my thing."

"No I mean I am not a backdoor bandit. I am not a sausage jockey. No chi chi man." The man studied Harris' confused expression before realising the 11-year-old boy was not coming on to him. "Oh my God, you're just a hungry kid! I am so sorry. Here, have my phoenix dactylifer."

"We normal people call them dates," Harris said, as he accepted the two dates, or as per its binomial nomenclature for my scientist friends, phoenix dactylifera, and quickly ate them. "I am Harris. Harris bin Potter. Thank you so much, I was really starving."

"No problem. I am Eel. Sane Eel."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sane Eel," Sane Eel repeated. "I am an analrapist suffering from arrested development."

Harris felt his butt involuntarily clench. "But...you just said that you weren't -"

"Oh, I should elaborate. I am a combination of an analyst and a therapist - an analrapist. You've never heard of an analrapist? There are a lot of analrapists in Port Manteau." Sane Eel studied Harris closely. "You're an orphan?"

"How did you know?" Harris asked, his face impassive.

"I picked it off your aura. You see, Harris, I am also a medium."

"Actually, I think you're a large. You're quite tall."

"No, kid. I mean I can communicate with the dead - I can help you speak to your parents. It's three more days to Hari Raya. I imagine you would really want to speak to them, especially now."

Harris thought about it, and the medium analrapist randomly carrying a box of dates around was right. He had only seen pictures of his parents, smiling at him from old photographs. He imagined what life would be like if they were still alive and hadn't died from food poisoning like his aunt and uncle told him. Without his realising it, Harris had began to tear, both from the gaping hole in his heart his parents would fill with love, and from the prospect of communicating with his Mama and Ayah.

"Take my hand," he said kindly. Harris placed his hand in Sane Eel's, and the medium closed his eyes for a long, long while.

When Sane Eel opened his eyes, it was glazed, and when he spoke, it was a voice that Harris had never heard before. Nevertheless, it was a voice heavy with a paternal love and affection. "Harris, I am so sorry we had to leave you in this world alone. Your mother and I love you so much," the voice said. "I don't have much time here, but there's something important I need to tell you."

"What is it, father?"

"Seriously Black is innocent!"

"Who is seriously black? Thats racist, father! Is it Wesley Snipes?"

"No, Seriously Black is - "

With a sudden jerk, Sane Eel snapped back to himself. He looked kindly at Harris, whose eyes were red and swollen from that brief exchange with his father. "I hope that helped make things easier for you," he said in his usual voice.

For the first time in the whole of Ramadhan, Harris managed a smile. It did make things easier. The mystery of this person named Seriously Black, whoever he was, can be resolved later. As he made his way back to Cik Petom's apartment, where he knew he would be punished for walking out the way he did, there was a warm sensation in his heart. It was a silent, bittersweet joy which, although it came from beyond the grave, allowed Harris to finally know what it was like to be loved.

Three days later, he had the best Hari Raya of his life thus far.

Horas Non Numero Nisi Serenas (Part 1 of 2)

In ancient Rome, a common inscription on sundials reads, "horas non numero nisi serenas." I do not count the hours unless they are sunny. The demon counting down my dark sunless hours awaits me outside.

I write this story for many reasons. One is so that you, dear reader, dear friend, dear brother or sister, would find it and never make the same mistakes I did. I am sure that by the time you read this, I will be forever lost. But for as long as your soul is yours, do not give in to the temptations I gave in to. Do not go down the paths I did. I am a weak, stupid man. I believed that my transgressions would go on unpunished. Now I know that you can never escape your sins, a lesson I learnt much too late.


Another reason why I am writing this story is so that I can distract myself from looking out the window. But it's pointless. It knows I'm here; it has stood there for days just staring back at me with those godless red eyes. Those nightmarish eyes, shining like hellfire out of grotesque, desolate sockets. I do not know what it is, but I know it has been following me for two days, and that it is not human. So please listen, for I fear I do not have much time.


My name is Suffian. I come from a country in South-East Asia called Singapore. I am in Denver on a cocaine-cloud whim to trace the path of Jack Kerouac in his transAmerican pilgrimages to the Basilica of Our Lady of Heroin, the Cocaine Gurdwara, to the Jazz Holy of Holies. His legacy was On The Road. My legacy is this; pieces of parchment, filled with overdue laments and a desperate warning, lost in an old, squalid hotel room made less lonely by an empty bottle of the Jack I was not looking for.


My journey began at New York City, but my sins did not. There, in the concrete madness of the Big Apple, where millions of many different kinds of people are squeezed into the pressure cooker that is the city that never sleeps, I was small, wide-eyed, lost - innocent.

I spent my first night in America roaming the streets of New York, cold and alone, passing old hobos leering at the bulge in my pants. I inhaled the air of dead leaves and wet grass at Central Park, stood alone in the middle of Time Square at three in the morning.

Jet lag got the better of me the next day. One moment the bus was dipping into Holland Tunnel, the next, I had a bleary-eyed, heavy-lidded trudge through Union Station in Chicago. That night, I visited The Joynt, a jazz club in North Dearborn. In between, I caught dragons drunk and made them walk straight white lines.


The next day we reached Davenport, Iowa, and I witnessed, for the first time, the Mississippi River. As a Singaporean boy, you only read about the great river in Mark Twain novels, or you hear it mentioned in American films. It was a plot tool, a mere background. But when its vast expanse filled my vision that day, I was awed by its delectable curves, the muskegs that hide its soul away and fade out for willow-lined banks too heavily invested in the nuances of the river. 'Mississippi' was no longer a spelling problem, it was an elegant word in the Ojibwe language that meant 'Great River', and indeed, the Great River lived up to its implied majesty.

That was perhaps my last good memory as a free human being.

Harris bin Potter and The Stoned Philosopher

Chapter 2: The Sorting Songkok, Part 2

The first years lined up in front of the Great Hall, staring at the songkok that would somehow be part of their sorting ceremony. Before their very eyes, the songkok twitched. A rip at the front opened wide like a mouth - and the songkok began to sing.

Oh you may not think that I am jambu
But do not judge on what you see
Besides, I’m just a freaking songkok
How jambu can I be?
I am not some random ethnic headgear
You should know this from the start
For I am the Sorting Songkok
Of Hog-Tak-Halal-What
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be
One of four houses named for
The founders of this academy.
You might belong in Fandi Ahmad,
If you possess charm and will
When it comes to void deck soccer
They rule with unerring skill.
You might belong in Sheikh Haikel
Where they are really cool
These groovy Sheikh Haikels
Are the best musicians in school.
Or yet Anwar Ibrahim
Where the clever get it on
Here the term ’smart mat’
Is not an oxymoron.
Last and certainly least
Is George W. Bush
I will be honest - if you go there,
You probably are a douche
So put me on, little one
Do not be afraid!
I promise I will not swallow
When you give me head.

The whole Hall burst into applause as the songkok finished its song - even from the neon pink of the George W. Bush table. Professor McGonnacall stopped it dead when she said aloud, "Welcome to the sorting ceremony. First-years, when I call your name, you are to sit on the stool, and place the songkok on your head. Once you are sorted, you are to sit with your respective new houses."

"I'm going to be in Bush," Harris heard the arrogant drawl he has grown to associate only with Donnie Darko Malfoy. Harris turned to see him announce his Bushy conviction to anybody who would listen to him, which was quite a few people. "Five generations of Malfoys have been in Bush. There is so much Bush in my family that we sometimes forget about Dick." Malfoy paused to clear his throat. "My cousin Dick - he went for a Brazilian." Malfoy cleared his throat yet again, giving the scene all the gravitas of a Strepsils commercial. "-a Brazilian exchange program, so he's the only one not in George W. Bush."

"Ahmad Santiago!" Professor McGogopowerrangers called.

A short, fat boy made his way to the stool, and nervously placed the Sorting Songkok on his head. "Mmm, mmm," The Sorting Songkok said. "I could do with some Maggi Goreng as well. Fine…Sheikh Haikel!"

The cool blues of Sheikh Haikel erupted into celebrations. They got onto their feet, cheering. Potpourri and blue banners exploded into the air. One Sheikh Haikel boy took out his boombox and it blasted out some celebratory, beat-manic hip-hop by Malaysian masters Too Phat. Two Bboys (or if you're too Queen Astrid Park to hit the streets, two breakdancers) among their ranks got onto the table, drifting into a fluid apache step before flipping themselves mad for a sweet one-hand planche.

"Are they going to do that for every person that joins them?" Harris asked Ron.

Before Ron could answer, Professor McGotothemall called for Howe Ahmed Yomudder.

"How about our famous Harris bin Potter?" came yet another Malfoy drawl, as the tall Howe Ahmed proceeded to get sorted. "You know, Harris, I think we would make a great team in George W. Bush. Imagine me and you in the void deck quidditch team!"

Harris was beginning to really not like Donnie Darko Malfoy. "I don't want to imagine that, Malfoy," he said. "Besides, I'm a Fandi Ahmad man."

There was a an impassioned "Yeah! Yeah!" from Ron and Herr-My-Knee behind him. Malfoy turned sharply to Harris' friends. "Red hair, pasar malam clothes. You're an Izfarq aren't you? I've had the displeasure of meeting your dad, Wadyoda Nidstudu." With an obnoxious lift of his nose, Donnie Darko Malfoy added, "Your dad calls my dad 'boss'."

Ron was too angered for a retort - for him, it was the time and place to punch a bastard in the nose. Harris saw this and quickly took a step between Malfoy and Ron. "Blond hair, dead animals for clothes. You're Lady Gaga aren't you? I've had the pleasure of meeting your mom." With another step towards Malfoy, Harris added, "Your mom calls me daddy."

There was the feisty "Oh no he didn't!" of an impending Yo Momma battle, but Professor McGottabeagolfball killed it when she shouted, "Donnie Darko Malfoy!"

As he walked towards the stool, Malfoy glared at Harris. "This isn't over, Harris bin Potter!" The Songkok had barely touched Malfoy's head when it shouted, "George W. Bush!" Loud cheers erupted from the neon pink end of the Great Hall.

A few students later, Professor McGongongcha cried, "Ali Evadass Iz - Is that really your name?"

"Yes, but you can call me Ron." Ron headed to the stool and placed The Sorting Songkok on his head.

"Ugh, you don't need a house. You need shampoo!" muttered The Sorting Songkok. "Hmm… On to business. Right, right. FANDI AHMAD!"

The table marked by the golden motifs of Fandi Ahmad burst with activity as its occupants cheered. A few people did somersaults. Some of them blew kisses to the sky. A few footballs started flying around. Happily, Ron vacated the stool and joined a pair of redhead twins, whom Harris surmised must be his brothers, at the Fandi Ahmad table.

Later, Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut was also sorted into Fandi Ahmad, more for will, Harris was sure, than for charm. Even so, it made Harris want to be part of Fandi Ahmad even more. He guessed being a member of Anwar Ibrahim or Sheikh Haikel would not be so bad - anything but George W. Bush.

Eventually, the old witch called, "Harris bin Potter!" This caused the entire Great Hall to explode into excited whispers. "Silence please!" commanded Professor McDonalddoll.

The entire Great Hall seemed to draw a collective breath of anticipation as Harris placed the Songkok on his head. "Mmm, mmm, what do we have here?" said the Songkok. "I see vestiges of the great George W. Bush in this one."

"Sweet mother of satay, please no," Harris pleaded.

"Mother of satay? Really? But why not, young one? Mmm, Fandi Ahmad appeals more to you? I see it all in your head, Harris bin Potter. Your parents were both members of Fandi Ahmad, if I recall correctly. And of course I recall correctly, I am THE Sorting Songkok."

"Please Fandi Ahmad, please Fandi Ahmad." Harris was practically begging under his breath.

The Sorting Songkok was still in the midst of an unnecessary monologue. "I wonder if anybody has noticed the inherent sexism in this system - there is no Sorting Tudung. So anyway, Harris, dear boy. I SHALL PUT YOU IN -"

Harris took in a deep breath.

The students in the Great Hall, as one, took in a deep breath.

The staff seated behind Harris took in a deep breath.

A girl in a skirt on the roof, peeping at proceedings, took in a deep breath.

I cannot explain the biology behind it, but The Sorting Songkok, too, took in a deep breath. "- FANDI AHMAD!" A deafening roar of cheers filled the Great Hall, originating from the Fandi Ahmad table. Its members were going insane dancing and punching the air. "We have Harris bin Potter! We have Harris bin Potter!" they yelled. More footballs started bouncing off the table, into the air - one of them flew to the George W. Bush table and smacked Donnie Darko Malfoy in his nose.

Harris, in the meantime, breathed a sigh of relief and started to make his way towards the welcoming arms of his fellow Fandi Ahmads.

Suddenly, he did not feel like a stranger in a new world.

Harris bin Potter and The Stoned Philosopher

Chapter 2: The Sorting Songkok, Part 1
When Harris finally reached the grand castle, he was greeted by the great Doubledoor. One might think that this is a reference to a wise, powerful wizard with a long white beard and says, "Alas!" like it's not the 21st century. One would be mistaken - Doubledoor is really just a big two-door system that makes up the entrance to the school. 

Harris knocked. 

"You're doing it wrong," said a voice behind him. Harris turned to see a tall, skinny Malay boy with a shock of curly red hair. "It is engraved here above the door: Giveth unto the portal two sharp raps, and it will unravel to a realm of unending, glorious sorcery…siol."

Harris knocked again, twice.

"Alamak, you bloody bodoh sial bro," the boy said. "Here, let me." The boy places one hand on the door, and takes a deep breath. 

"I like big butts and I cannot lie," he starts reciting rapidly, rhythmically and indeed, sharply. "All you other brothers can't deny. When a girl walks in with an itty-bitty waist and a round thing in your face, you get SPRUNG!" 

Harris stared at the boy, and then at the unmoving door. He wanted to say, "Well that's…good to know?" He also wanted to clarify what getting sprung entailed, but then the newcomer took another deep breath.

"To the window, to the wall," the boy recited rapidly again, but to a different rhythm. "To the sweat drip down my balls, to all these bitches crawl, to all skeet skeet motherfucker, all skeet skeet goddam." Harris felt like a little john being at the receiving end of such…poetry.

With the creaks of unseen mechanism, the doors slid aside to reveal a Great Hall. Everybody knows how great a hall truly is when it begins with capitals. This one was a vast, vast Hall, lit by magnificent chandeliers hanging from a high, ornate ceiling that could, at will, turn transparent to show the sky above. Girls wearing skirts would do well not to walk on the roof.

The Great Hall had four long tables with accompanying benches, and currently, they were occupied by students in brown baju kurung, the traditional costume of Malays - or in this case, the official school uniform of Hog-Tak-Halal-What. A fifth long table in front seated the school staff - including, Harris noticed happily, the Hygiene Officer Hamid.

The moment Harris walked in, the nebulous buzz of chatter ceased. They were replaced by anxious whispers, most of which Harris caught anyway.

"Is that…?" 

"No way!" 

"It's Harris bin Potter! It's the boy who tak mati siol!" 

"Do you think I can teach Snooki to weave a ketupat?"

"Ki mak, Harris bin Potter dok!"

The whispers were cut by an old witch, who said loudly, "First-years, this way please!"

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

Harris and the curly-haired boy who liked big butts followed her as she ushered them into an adjoining room filled with other eleven-year-olds also not in their baju kurung. 

"I'm Ali," the curly-haired redhead boy said to Harris, as they took seats behind a mane of bushy hair that they hoped was attached to a girl. "Ali Evadass Izfarq. But you can call me Ron."

"All He Ever Does - I mean, Ali Evadass - I mean, Ron? Why?"

"When I was younger, there was an elderly Hainanese lady who gave me Math tuition. And every time I showed her my work, she would say that everything was incorrect. But I was sure I did it right, and I insisted. And she would always shout back, 'No, I correct! YOU is ron!' And I believed her."

Harris stared at his acquaintance. For somebody who knew how to open Doubledoor, he sure was pretty stupid. 

The bushy-haired girl seated in front of them turned around to face them after Ron recited his story. "You know, for somebody who knew how to open Doubledoor, you sure are pretty stupid," she said. 

Ron whatever-ed her, but she seemed keen to make friends with the two boys. "My name's Minah," the girl said, shaking hands with both of them, and they exchanged introductions. She then pressed on, "I'm trying to find myself a new name, and I was wondering if you two can help me." The two boys looked at each other uncertainly. It was hardly the kind of thing you asked two eleven-year-olds you just met.

"What's wrong with Minah?" asked Ron, who had changed his own name from Ali to Ron at an error in pronunciation.

"Well, I am an ambitious girl whose life will take her beyond our land," she announced, not sounding like an eleven-year-old at all. "I fear my flagrantly Malay name would be detrimental to my progress in a future career. I think I should change my name to a less Malay one."

"You know, a lot of Malay people won't be too happy hearing what you just said," Harris pointed out. "Especially Malay feminists." Yes, they exist. And they wear tudungs, too.

"How about Siti?" Ron suggested. 

Minah smacked him across his head. "Less Malay!"

After several minutes of brainstorming, in which Ron suggested 'Bedah', 'Nurul', 'Babyrina' and 'Papa Jahat', while Harris suggested 'Emma Watson', Minah exclaimed, "I should take something from the Ancient Runic language!" 

Minah extracted her Ancient Runes textbook - Ancient Runes, Sial! by Wan Prataplis - and started poring through its pages excitedly. Ancient Runes was Minah's favorite subject, and you may wonder how that came to be, since classes have yet to start for the first-years. Well, I wonder the same thing. 

"I want a name," Minah said, impassioned, "that says I am an intelligent, confident, talented young woman."

"Justin Bieber!" offered Ron. Minah smacked him again.

"Well, why not have exactly that in Ancient Runes - Intelligent, Confident, Talented Girl?" Harris took Ancient Runes Sial! from her hands, and started flipping through the pages. "We'll take each word in Ancient Runes, and combine them to make your very own brand new Ancient Runic name!"

"That's a great idea, Harris!"

"Now, what's the Ancient Runic word for intelligent," Harris thought aloud as he flipped through the pages. "There we go - Herr! Confident is…Aku! As for talented it's…Punya! And finally the Ancient Runic word for girl is…Lutut! Combine them and you get -"

"Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut!" cried the girl formally known as Minah, rising to her feet. "Listen, my friends," she said in a voice that lived up to the 'Aku' aspect of her new name."Henceforth, I shall be known as Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut, or 'Girl of Intelligence, Confidence and Talent', in the archaic language of Ancient Runes."

Ron cleared his throat. "You know, in the less archaic language of Malay, Herr-Aku-Punya-Lutut translates to Herr-My-Knee," he pointed out for no particular reason.

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

The old witch from before reappeared a few moments later. "Allow me to introduce myself," she said in a voice so regal that whoever plays her in the movie should have played a Queen in an earlier film. Except Kirsten Dunst, because she was a crap Marie Antoinette. Also, except Kumar, because we do not mean that kind of Queen. "I am Professor McGongongall", she continued her introduction.

"Sorry?" asked a blond, arrogant-looking student who Harris would later identify as Donnie Darko Malfoy. His friends called him Double-D Malfoy, a name that gave Harris cringe-worthy mental images of anthropomorphized rabbits with large hooters. Sometimes, these images would morph into anthropomorphized owls with large hooters and this would amuse him for a while. Rarely, the anthropomorphized owls go on to morph into anthropomorphized hammers with large knockers and that would be the signal that Harris had taken the joke too far.

"My name," the old witch repeated, "is Professor McGungantroll."

"But you just said..."

"MY NAME," the old witch said again, "is Professor McGoingoinggone. Now, more pressing issues are at hand. You are all to proceed back into the Great Hall to get sorted."

Ron gasped - where he came from, one was told one would get sorted the same way the Italian mafia tells one that one would swim with the fishes. But of course, it was not to be the same thing.

Not long later, Harris found himself back in the Great Hall. This time, there was a stool in the front of the hall. On it sat a solitary black songkok. Maybe they had to try and pull out a kampong chicken from it, Harris thought. Or a rabbit. Yeah, maybe a rabbit.

Zapadeedumdum Shoobaloo

This is the story of a boy.

Most sentences that begin with ‘This is the story of a boy’ go on with a ‘who’, followed by further elaboration of how he is a boy worth reading about. For example:

This is the story of a boy who has a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead given to him by an evil wizard whose very name people fear to speak.

Or:

This is the story of a boy who hides away from bullies in the attic of his school, and finds himself in a fantastical quest to save the Childlike Empress with the aid of a very fucking huge dog. It is well worth noting that this dog can fly. And speak. In the language of yobs, this dog can be aptly described as ‘full of schizer’.

Well, this is the story of a boy. If indeed an elaboration is in order, then you might want to wait awhile. There are stories here that need time to come to you, like a very shy little girl tentatively approaching what seems to be her grandmother, but with larger eyes, ears and teeth. The tale of this boy needs to be coaxed out, to be told that it’s healthy to share itself for the consumption of any number of greedily inquiring minds and eyes.

Maybe it’s alright to reveal his name. It would be a good start. After all, stories are just choppy courts for a name to preside over some complicated dealings with existentialism.

The boy’s name is Zapadeedumdum Shoobaloo.

Harris Bin Potter And The Stoned Philosopher

Chapter 1:
The Boy Who Tak Mati Siol!

Harris bin Potter is not your average boy.

For one, he is an orphan. His parents, Pakcik and Makcik Potter, had died of very bad food poisoning when he was only a year old. At least, that was what his aunt, Cik Petom, told him.

"It was very bad satay from Johor," she had told Harris. "I've tried the satay from that stall before. Tak sedap lah! Tastes like pantat!"

When Harris heard this speech, he wondered two things: one, how Cik Petom even knew how pantat tasted like, and two, why she didn't drop dead when she too had eaten that infernal satay from Johor.

Indeed, Harris hated the nasi lemak out of his aunt, and not without reason.

Since the unfortunate death of his parents, Harris had been under the care of his Uncle Pandir and his Aunt Petom. In actuality, 'under the care' is a grossly inaccurate statement. Harris was more often than not under their only son, Dumbass. Literally.

And this was a particularly unpleasant situation because: one, nobody likes to be sat on, and two, because Dumbass weighed a hundred kilos.

And when Dumbass was not sitting on him, Harris was badly mistreated by his aunt and uncle. They would talk rudely to him, not let him watch television and make him do all the house chores. For a boy of eleven years, in an age of Playstation 3 and where TV no longer had Aksi Mat Yoyo, this was a foul, miserable existence.

One reason why his relatives abuse him is perhaps because Harris had special abilities. No, it wasn't that he was particularly good at sepak takraw, or could preside over a void deck soccer match, or could play the guitar particularly well.

What made Harris really special was that he was a wizard.

He wasn't exactly a full-fledged one yet, but he was learning to be one at Hog-Tak-Halal-What School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a secret school of magic situated in The PIE. Since this story is written from a Singaporean perspective, most people assume that the school is somewhere along the famed Pan-Island Expressway. The school is however, located on a real pie, called The PIE - block letters to highlight its significance as a locale. Where The PIE is, only witches and wizards would know. How a grand castle could stand erect (hee hee) on a squishy pie (hee hee), only witches and wizards would know. How nobody ever noticed a bloomin' castle in Singapore, again, only witches and wizards would know.



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



Harris' first day there was literally the most magical experience in his life, hitherto. The school had sent their janitor, the half-giant Hamid, to retrieve Harris from the residence of his Uncle Pandir's.

The above-mentioned retrieval had been a fiasco. Even that notion would be debated as an understatement in some quarters. Uncle Pandir, an air-conditioning technician (a cruder term for his job would be 'air-con repairer'), had mocked Hamid's lowly and common-grade occupation as a school janitor. Hamid furiously corrected Uncle Pandir, saying that he is a 'Hygiene Officer In A Magical School' and that his duties included 'carefully arranging the magic brooms in the right closets'.

Uncle Pandir remained lost in thought for a good two minutes before saying, "I carefully arranged my magic broom in your mother's closet last night."

Hamid had roared loudly at the insult to his mother, while Aunt shrieked even louder at the thought of her husband cheating on her with a half-giant's mother.

Hamid then withdrew a singular satay stick, pointed it at Dumbass, and waved it as he exclaimed, "Mangkuk, siol!" Harris could only watch, half in awe and half in delighted amusement, as Dumbass shrunk, and transformed into a singular brown porcelain bowl.

With that, Hamid grabbed Harris, and fled.

Harris was still laughing as Hamid reached the outskirts of the HDB estate.

"Don't worry," Hamid said. "He'll be back to normal in..." Hamid paused, and was obviously counting in his head. The half-giant finally held up two fingers - "In three minutes."

"I'm not worried about that la," Harris said, smiling. He was exhilarated at finally being away from his Uncle Pandir, his Aunt Petom and his dumbass cousin Dumbass. "Where are we going from here?"

"I'm going to send you back to where you truly belong - the world of magic. And your first stop, Hog-Tak-Halal-What."

"Hamid, I know it's tak halal. Hogs, boars - pigs. All tak halal."

"No, Harris. It's a school. Hog-Tak-Halal-What School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Well, it's a stupid name for a school," Harris muttered under his breath.

Hamid continued, "I took the liberty of getting you your school essentials. It will be waiting for you in school. I studied there too, Harris. You'd love it there."

Harris held on to Hamid as he magically teleported them away from Tampines, where his relatives had stayed, with his (Hamid's) magical satay stick. Magical teleportation was an uncomfortable experience, and Harris closed his eyes as he braced himself for the trip.

When he opened his eyes again, he was on a winding dirt path that cut into a forest and led to a grand stone castle.

Harris gazed, open-mouthed in awe, at the majestic castle. It rose high above the trees, reaching for the clouds but failing. Still, it was probably higher than Bukit Timah.

"Welcome to The PIE," Hamid said grandly. "And before you, is the magnificent Hog-Tak-Halal-What School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harris stepped toward it, but his feet sank into brown, soft, squishy soil.

"It's a mudPIE," Hamid told Harris a few seconds too late.



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



Before Harris went further, Hamid stopped him again. "I'm guessing your aunt and uncle didn't tell you, Harris. Your parents were murdered by a dark and powerful wizard."

"So he was the one who made the satay? Damn that bastard from Johor!"

"No! No! There was no satay from Johor involved. This wizard personally killed your parents!" Hamid looked kindly into Harris' face. Right now, it was a face that wore a pained expression.

"What was his name?" The words came out slowly from Harris, through a veil of controlled rage.

"Oldermat," Hamid replied.

"Which mat? Who's he older than?"

"No, that's his name. Oldermat. Thing is, on the night he tried to kill your parents, he also tried to kill you. But he failed. He failed, Harris! Like a Mat trying to do advanced Mathematics, he failed. And people say he's now dead, thanks to you."

Harris only stared wordlessly as he tried to digest all of this.

"You're the boy who tak mati, siol!"

Yours Truthfully

You know what typo error I think is the funniest?

When you mean 'HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH' but you end up saying 'GAGAGAGAGAGAG'. Because you want to laugh but you end up repeating such a coarse syllable that ends in a choke - 'GAG'. It's interesting how when you repeat 'HA', there is mirth, but when you repeat 'GA', there is unsavoury stupidity. No, no, I have a point to all this.

Dearest.

"Ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ch-ch-chi-chi-chitect," stammered Dumbass like a complete dumbass. Dumbass was a freshman in St. Jude's, and was one of the school's richest kids. Chauffeured to school, gold-framed lunchbox - still carries a lunchbox - flat,oily, preened hair that gives the face a come-hither-and-smack-my-shitface quality. Of course, his name isn't Dumbass. It's Jonathan Earl The Third. His dad's an investor who has donated generously to the board of directors and - "m-m-m-my m-m-mom's an-an-an ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ch-ch-chi-chi-chitect," he finished. Took me quite a bit of effort to not laugh.

The dark, chlorinated broom cabinet fell silent.

There was a low, snarling voice to my left, and I knew Brandon was going to have something to say. And so did I. But as you know, I have to say the right thing at the right time. All the time.

I did something horrible today.

"Your mother," began the low, snarling, voice. "Is not Theresa Watten-Earl -"

"Thursday, 13th August," interjected a gravelly, throat-block voice. Brandon was not able to hide his voice too well now, and was forced to choose his words properly. "Where were you?" He has a point. Really. You'll see.

"Th-th-th-th-that's ya-ya-ya-yesterday," stammered Dumbass.

There was this boy, and I didn't like him. At all. But he's yours.

Answer the question. Truthfully. I willed him as though I had some hitherto unknown psychic ability. Didn't work of course.

Truthfully, yours.

"I was in school," he said too fast with too little stammer, revealing more than he wanted to.

Tales From The Jansen Park Cemetery: Charms Harms Arms

There is a tombstone in Jansen Park Cemetery that presides over an old, unkempt grave partially hidden in weeds. The tombstone reads: Colin Herbert Aston 17 March 1884 - 19 April 1911. 6 feet under the tombstone, in the dull oak coffin, Colin's skeleton lay incomplete: the bones of his forearms were missing.

This is his story.

Colin was the town's Casanova, a rich, handsome, young man who was the apple of every lady's eye, and the envy of every man in New Montevideo. At 20, he had inherited his father's successful textiles business. While he was rather inept at tailoring or weaving, Colin was a shrewd judge of character and had used this talent to employ and retain the right people to keep Aston's Textiles Company the clothing juggernaut it was at that time. It was a quality he had learnt from his father - and as his youth blossomed, he used it on his premier pursuit - women. He knew what would excite them, what would make their hearts go a-flutter and anything else that was needed to bed them.

And after that, he would gently sever ties with them.

It was spring 1911, April showering New Montevideo with colours that brought the town to life. Garden flowers bestowed the eyes with bright reds and blues along with yellow daffodils, as the grass they grow with paint a fresh green backdrop that paid homage to the beauty of Mother Nature. The denizens of New Montevideo flocked to Jansen Park - they wanted to bathe themselves in spring's wondrous, coloured glory.

It was early afternoon as Colin jauntily walked into Jansen Park. Its large wrought iron gates were sisters to the gate that could be found half a mile into the park - the gates of Jansen Park Cemetary.

Jansen Park was crowded then, and Colin realised that though his pickings were hardly slim (and as he thought this, he passed by a rather rotund woman and sniggered to himself) the sheer number of human bodies that thronged the public green was not conducive for romancing.

With a sigh, Colin buried his hands deep inside the pockets of his coat, and trudged away from the crowd.

He passed by one of his employees, who took off his hat cheerfully at Colin, adding a, "Blessed day, Mister Colin!" Colin forced a smile and grunted a perfunctory reply.

Subconsciously, his feet took him towards the Jansen Park Cemetery gates, and as the darker, deadened air drew him closer, the noises from the townsfolk less than half a mile behind him faded away, muffled and forgotten.

He slumped into the bench by the cemetery's gates, amorous and alone.

A flicker of movement flashed at the corner of his eyes. He turned, and there, sitting two benches from him, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She was an Asian lady - you would see her kind every now and then, mostly stowaways in ships from the Orient. But this, Colin thought, this was a fine specimen!

She was fair, and her supple skin contrasted beautifully with her jet black hair. Her eyes were almost feline - and window to the soul my dirty breeches, Colin thought, as her eyes seemed to hide her person, shrouding her enigmatically. The young man stared harder into the lady's eyes. They were grey.

She was wearing a white dress that did not do justice to her body - it did not hug any of her curves, or exhibit any amount of tantalizing skin other than her head.

And then she was smiling at him, full, luscious lips parting sensually to give a peek of beautiful white teeth. Then she stood, and walked towards him. Colin, usually suave and calm, heard his thoughts stutter, felt his brain work faster than it ever had, and saw a slight tremor in his hands that he could not control.

She stopped before him, standing over him as he sat helplessly on the bench. They stared at one another, blue eyes yearning for the grey.

Then, wordlessly, she swept away, into the open gates of Jansen Park Cemetery.

It took a while before Colin's mind returned to his head, and with a mad rush, he followed the mysterious oriental lady.

Colin rushed up the hill, sprinted between two angel oak trees, down a short slope, past a few old benches, past the crypt, past the clearing, into the plot of land that housed the oldest dead - the burial grounds of the first immigrants to New Montevideo. The lady was standing there, next to an ancient tombstone that had already crumbled in half.

"Hey," Colin said. "You gave me quite an exercise there." He allowed himself a smile at being able to calm his previously-convulsing brain.

The lady stood there, motionless. Her beautiful face was impassive, unreadable.

The sun, that had shone so benevolently at Jansen Park, was anonymous here, shut away from this part of the cemetery by gnarled, ancient elder trees.

The full luscious lips twitched, then parted to form a smile. Colin felt his insides churn with lust.

The lady raised her hand, and Colin could only stare stupidly at it. Then she pulled her dress up quickly, and tossed it away.

It all happened in a blur, and within that blur, Colin felt intense stirrings in his trousers. And within that split second after that blur, Colin realised she was naked, and his brain immediately took in her large, pert breasts.

Then something glinted in the shade.

And Colin saw a blur that was metallic but began with the lady's hands.

And the blur flashed and careened.

Then Colin felt a sharp pain in his arms. He held up his hands, and only saw two bleeding stumps at his elbow, fountains of blood jetting violently.

He yelled, but the sound got caught in his throat; then forced back down into the depths of his being by an unknown, sinister force.

He was helpless as he stumbled backwards, and his eyes registered the woman, standing there beautifully naked, her hands clutching a long sword embellished with his blood.

"Good morrow, Colin," she said as he lost consciousness....

"Aren't you a handsome man."

Smooth Smoky Shuffles

I smelled of sex and cigarettes. Her sex, my cigarettes.

They were Virginia slims, each drag a smooth, smoky shuffle into indifference.

The events that transpired mere ten minutes ago still pounded heavily in my head, providing a potent raison d'être for the slims.

The sex was as good as casual sex could be. There was a frantic intimacy to it which I found erotically compelling.

Her kisses were slow, yet her heavy breathing betrayed her exterior calm. I inhaled those hot breaths as I kissed her - it was as though I was breathing her in. Our tongues crept out with immaculate synchronization. She tasted salty, human.

Our clothes came off with surprising ease, considering the urgent rush that coursed through the both of us.

She pushed me onto the couch, and knelt in front of me and took my member between her tender, luscious lips. I had pulled at her hair, her submissiveness fueling my sexually charged ego. Simply with her lips and her tongue, she brought me to the edge of orgasm.

We didn't make love after that - we couldn't. We fucked. I pinned her against walls, pulled on her hair, gave it to her hard and fast. To me, she was this fragile doll so beautiful in all her make-up and sculpted body. And I wanted to defile her as much as I could on this night.

Then, when I came, torrents shooting onto her stomach, the magic disappeared. There was a disagreeable, smothering silence after; you could almost hear the pop of a bubble bursting.

"There's somewhere I have to be," I told her as I got off her and started pulling on my sweater.

"Where?" she inquired, a rude, intrusive step into my personal space.

I looked down on her, lying naked on her bed. "Work," I verbalised.

"It's 2 a.m." Flat.

"You don't know my work."

She threw me a dirty look. It was dirty with contempt. "I don't know you."

"Fuck off," I said just audibly, as I walked off.

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

I stepped out into the night, leaving behind the nameless, faceless apartment I was in.

The scent of the city's night greeted me. It was an interesting mix of vehicles and industry and all the traces of four million people packed into limited square kilometres. This aroma piqued, without being pervasive.

A cool breeze rushed by, but I felt its gentle caress as though in slow motion. I took a deep breath, as though I could keep the breeze inside me, and with it I could let go of my inhibitions and float away to my whims and wanders.

But I was still here, and work beckoned.

I extracted a cigarette and lit it.

Then I took several smooth, smoky shuffles into indifference.

Tales From The Jansen Park Cemetery: Maybe I Just Want To Fly

It was a walk out in the graveyard.

Up the slope on that weathered path. Past JAMES DAVID SLOAN 11 MARCH 1974 - 31 OCTOBER 2001 "MAYBE I JUST WANT TO FLY". Past that broken headstone that could only read MARY-JANE CHASE DRA-, the rest of her name, her birthday and her death lost to the ages. Then the path meanders, weaving past the two wizened oak trees, gnarled in the night's incapacitating darkness. My heart was beating hard, an intimate, excited presence in my chest.

It was a walk out in the graveyard - familiar sensations on a familiar night.

The door to the crypt was ajar, and that well-acquainted, dull joy crept into my being.

I stepped into my destination, and was immediately greeted by a hulking, dark figure sprawled on the floor. By moonlight, I discerned the visage of Crankwood, eyes unfocused and jaw slackened. He grunted a hello that told me that, unlike me, his journey was incomplete.

I snapped my glowstick alight, and stepped over Crankwood, deeper into the crypt.

By the wall to my right, I made out three figures huddled together. They turned toward me, their faces eerie in the sickly green light.

I did not fear, for these were familiar faces.

There was Alientorque, his skinny, pallid hands clutching his personal goblet.

With a hand around Alientorque's bony shoulders, Hotwired smiled at me. It was an unfocused smile that made him look absolutely crazed.

Accompanying the two of them was Cityagent, still sober, standing upright. His straight hands held his full goblet close to his waist.

"Artdirector!" a low voice called from further inside the crypt. I walked past the three, as Cityagent took a gulp of Liquid from his goblet.

I wasn't surprised to hear my Name called, given the occasion. As I walked towards the voice of my summoner, I withdrew my own goblet from inside my jacket, its obsidian blackness lost inside the gloom of the crypt.

Moments later, the glow of my lightstick fell upon the handsome features of Armand. As soon as it did, I replaced it in my jacket.

"Hello Armand," I greeted our Giver.

"Bonjour mon ami," replied the Frenchman. I could hear Liquid being poured into my goblet. "Le poudre?"

The powder. Something so insignificant in the daily clockwork of life, yet something so powerfully influential in its slow trudge towards twilight. "Yes please."

I heard and felt the faint fizz that effervesced in my goblet.

"Monsieur's room is behind me."

"Merci, Armand." He could not possibly see my smile in this dark, but I consciously gave him one anyway.

I felt my way past Armand, groping in the dark with my left hand until I could feel the rusty door handle. I pushed it, opened the portal, went through it, and closed it behind me. I retrieved my glowstick and threw it on the floor.

My private domain came alive with light. The walls were lined with human skeletons, desecrated remains from my first days here. From my jacket's breast pocket, I withdrew my M:Robe, and stuffed my earphones into my ears.

I drank from my goblet.

And then I pressed play.

My M:Robe blasted Ibi Dreams Of Pavement. Broken Social Scene.

One of the skeletons came alive, and told me of winding avenues whose bricked road led to a man named Muriel.

I felt a sensation much like a bullet lodged into my back. But there was none.

Red triangles invaded my vision and blurred.

One of the triangles became maroon squiggles. The difference was subtle, and I could not spot it.

A rapid percussion beat crept into my head.

I vomited.

And then I flew.

A man saw Gaza turn into light, and I was there, I was there.




I found myself the next morning outside the rusty gates of Jansen Park Cemetery. The padlock on the gates were heavily cobwebbed.

Vaishakenamanamana And The Cupcake of Dhoom

Many thanks to my good friend Doralin for helping in the conception of this story

It is 10:21 am in Mumbai.

The Sun was starting to impose itself on the day, and it burned down on Dei, Building Da Building. As its name suggests, Dei, Building Da Building is... well, a building. Numerous offices are housed in it, including Papa's Papadum, an international papadum conglomerate, and the Indian Privateers, Mercenaries and Agents Network (better known as IPMAN) headquarters (better known as HQ).

In the IPMAN's director's office, their head honcho and their best agent were conversing.

"I have a huge mission for you," said the director. He was a stout, thickly-bearded man. His name struck terror in his enemies. It was Arghabubu, or Bubu to his friends. "A very huge mission," Bubu emphasised.

"HAH!" came the cocky reply. Cocky replies were the trademark of Vaishakenamanamana - IPMAN's best agent, a tall, skinny mass of street smarts, arrogance and all-round cool, along with a thick moustache that curls at one side. It was like a very deformed Nike Swoosh, but not. So no legal trademark issues there. As if to prove his cockiness beyond any doubt, Vaishakenamanamana proudly proclaimed, "Dei Bubu, I already have a very huge mission in my pants da!"

Bubu ignored this comment and pressed on. "The Cupcake of Dhoom was stolen!" Bubu had said this with much gesticulation and dramatic effect.

Obviously, this was done to evoke some sort of dramatic, surprised response from Vaishakenamanamana, but he stood there, unblinking. "You know if it's just a cupcake, you can always get a new one. I know of a lot of bakeries in our district - "

"NO! NO! NO!" Bubu interjected. "You pandi! It's not just any cupcake! It's the Cupcake of Dhoom!"

That was when Bubu broke into song and dance.

"The Cupcake of Dhoom is not just any cupcake," Bubu sang. "It's not something your average Indian baker can bake." He did an intricate dance move that mimicked putting bread into an oven. Then he started shaking his hand, as though he accidentally touched the metal grill of an oven. "The Cupcake of Dhoom gives great power to he who owns it." At that moment, several female back-up dancers appear out of nowhere, making the director's office awfully crowded. They stomp towards Bubu, looking incensed. Bubu quickly sang, "Or she who owns it, to be politically correct and non-sexist."

The back-up dancers dispersed, and Bubu was free to sing to Vaishakenamanamana again. "Oh Vaishakenamanamana, listen to me," Bubu sang with pleading voice and eyes. "If he who has it consumes it, tomorrow afternoon at three; Then the world will be in a situation worse than Pooja's Chapati." This was indeed a bad situation. Pooja's Chapati was a restaurant that was dank, run-down, unlit (they were unable to pay 4 months' worth of utilities bills) and infested with vermin. Its chapatis had a flavour and look that was in sync with the general theme of the restaurant.

"And the person who has it is..." Bubu made a dramatic dance move that exuded a dark, sinister element. "Uner Arinum!"

Vaishakenamanamana held back a yawn. "You couldn't have just talked this out with me?" And after a pause, "So where can I find Uner Arinum?"

And Bubu told him.

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

It was 30 minutes to three in the afternoon the following day. I could have said it was 2:30 pm, but that wouldn't be staying true to the long-winded Bollywood nature of this text now would it?

Look.

Vaishakenamanamana was hurtling towards a door that led into the interior of a warehouse. He found himself in a wide storage room. In the middle of it, he saw Uner Arinum.

Uner Arinum was a criminal mastermind unrivaled in all of Mumbai an in parts of New Delhi. She - yes Uner Arinum was a woman! Who said Indian women couldn't be criminal masterminds? Sexists, all of you!

I digress.

Uner Arinum was a tall, thin woman with piercing eyes, clad in a purple saree. She was famous for The Indian Job, a heist similar to The Italian Job. Only, instead of being set in Italy, it was set in Calcutta. And instead of millions of dollars being stolen, millions of muruku were stolen.

When Vaishakenamanamana barged into the warehouse, she was sitting, staring intently at the cupcake she would consume in half an hour.

"Ah, Vaishakenamanamana," she said, rising from her seat. "I was wondering when you'd drop in."

"Ah, Uner Arinum," Vaishakenamanamana said, matching his nemesis' tone. "I was wondering when you'd get plastic surgery." Indeed, Uner Arinum had a face only a blind mother would love.

"Mock me all you want, Agent Vaishakenamanamana - God your name is a mouthful - but you can't stop me once I eat the sacred Cupcake of Dhoom!" As the sareed woman said this, she held the Cupcake of Dhoom aloft, her expression haughty, as though she was carrying a cupcake of immense power.

"The only thing you'll be eating is my crap!" exclaimed Vaishakenamanamana.

The IPMAN agent then started dancing, accompanying it with a song of deep and subtle meaning.

Vaishakenamanamana put his fingers together, and brought his hand up towards his mouth - the Indian gesture for eating.

"Hey you," he sang. "Eat my crap."

He then swiftly leapt towards Uner Arinum and grabbed the Cupcake of Dhoom. Doing so, the Cupcake fell to his lap. He gestured to the cupcake and sang, "Cos I got the cupcake here on my lap."

He repeated his first dance move. "So eat my crap," he repeated in sing-song.

Suddenly, a large group of Indian women in sarees appeared behind him, mimicking the eating gesture/dance move. "So eat his crap," they chorused.

Feeling indignant about being told to eat someone else's crap, Uner Arinum tried her best to come up with a comeback, but it wouldn't come. She moved her feet as though to begin a dance, but she accidentally stepped on her saree and fell forward.

"Argh, fuckface murtabak!" she cursed as she planted her face into the floor. The poor Indian criminal mastermind (not so) subsequently fainted.

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

"Vaishakenamanamana, I want to congratulate you on a job brilliantly done," said Arghabubu to his best agent when the latter got back to HQ.

"It was nothing," came the trademark cocky reply. "I turned Uner Arinum upside down. All in a day's work."

"Not really," Arghabubu corrected the younger man. "You still have to write the report. That is part of your day's work."

"Dei! Fuck da!"

Little Red Riding Tudung

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a void deck in Geylang. Whenever she went out, the little girl wore a red tudung, so everyone in the village called her Little Red Riding Tudung, or Siti, for short.

One morning, Little Red Riding Tudung asked her mother if she could go to visit her Nenek (grandmother) as it had been awhile since they'd seen each other.

"Baik siol! You haven't seen Nenek since Hari Raya," her mother said. So they packed a nice basket for Little Red Riding Tudung to take to her grandmother. It had a lot of things that Nenek would love: ketupat, satay, and sambal.

When the basket was ready, Siti put on her red tudung and kissed her mother goodbye.

"Remember, go straight to Nenek's house," her mother cautioned. "Don't gelek along the way and please don't stop to listen to the guitars! The void decks are dangerous."

"Don't worry, ibu," said Little Red Riding Tudung, "I know silat."

"Little Red Riding Tudung Binte Songkok! You promise me you'll go straight to Nenek's house! Or I swear to durian I will make you do Maths!"

Little Red Riding Tudung was alarmed at this threat. She gripped her baju kurung at the horror of what her mother said. "Fine, ibu. I promise."

But when Little Red Riding Tudung noticed some handsome mats in the void deck, she forgot her promise to her mother.

One of the mats stopped playing his guitar to look at Little Red Riding Tudung. He then made a weird kissing sound with his lips. "Eh you jambu sial!" he said.

Little Red Riding Tudung was very flattered by this, and asked the mat for his name.

"My name is very long siol. But I made it shorter. To Robert," he replied with a void deck accent.

Little Red Riding Tudung was intrigued. She had never met a void deck mat named Robert! "Oh what's your full name? I really want to know," she said sweetly.

"Jamal Samsuddin Bin Ali," the boy replied sheepishly.

"And you shortened it to...?"

"Robert."

"..........."

"Jamal Samsuddin bin Ali.... shortened to Robert," Jamal Samsuddin bin Ali shortened to Robert said patiently.

Little Red Riding Tudung finally nodded vigorously after a long while and said, "Oh yes, I see the link. Very creative sial you!"

Little Red Riding Tudung and Robert continued conversing from there, talking about libraries, outside jail and other places they were unfamiliar with.

She was enjoying the company at the void deck so much, that she didn't notice a dark shadow approaching out of the pillar behind her...

Suddenly, the wolf appeared beside her.

"What are you doing out here, little girl?" the wolf asked in a voice as friendly as he could muster.

"I'm on my way to see my Nenek who lives a few blocks away," Little Red Riding Tudung replied, turning away from Robert. "I brought her the best ketupat in Singapore, Terengganu and Eastern Java sial!"

"Sounds delicious!" exclaimed the wolf. Then he added in an undertone, "Just like you... Heh heh heh."

"What?"

"Oh nothing, nothing."

Little Red Riding Tudung suddenly realized how late she was and quickly excused herself, rushing down the path to Nenek's house.

The wolf, in the meantime, took a shortcut.

A little out of breath from running, the wolf arrived at Nenek's and knocked lightly at the door.

"Oh thank goodness dear! Come in, come in! I was worried sick that something had happened to you in the void deck. I haven't been this worried since that time you passed Maths!" said Nenek thinking that the knock was Little Red Riding Tudung, better known as Siti for some illogical reason.

The wolf let himself in. Poor Nenek did not have time to say another word, before the wolf gobbled her up!

"Mmm sedap siol!" it enthused.

The wolf then poked through Nenek's wardrobe to find a baju kurung that he liked. Yes, the wolf was metrosexual and was cool with wearing women's clothes because it was not insecure about its masculinity. The wolf added a frilly sleeping cap, and for good measure, dabbed some of Nenek's perfume behind his pointy ears. It was Chanel Nº5, from the nearest pasar malam.

A few minutes later, Red Riding Tudung knocked on the door. The wolf jumped into bed and pulled the covers over his nose. "Who is it?" he called in a high, makcik voice.

"It's me, Little Red Riding Tudung." Little Red Riding Tudung added, "I brought your favourite ketupat, Nenek! And I also brought....the sambal!"

"Oh how lovely! Do come in, my dear," croaked the wolf.

When Little Red Riding Tudung entered the little cottage, she could scarcely recognize her Nenek.

"Nenek! Your voice sounds so odd, sial. Did you eat something that was not halal?" she asked.

"I had some nasi babi," the wolf confessed untruthfully and sadly, adding an 'oink' at the end to prove the point. "At least it was airpork! Flown from Australia."

"But Nenek! Your ears... Besar siol!," said Little Red Riding Tudung as she edged closer to the bed.

"So I can listen to dangdut better la," replied the wolf.

"But Nenek! Your eyes... Besar siol!," said Little Red Riding Tudung.

"So I can read Berita Harian better la," replied the wolf.

"But Nenek! Your teeth...Besar siol!," said Little Red Riding Tudung her voice quivering slightly.

"So I can eat satay better la," replied the wolf.

"Huh what?"

"I mean... So I can eat you better la," roared the wolf and he leapt out of the bed and stood menacingly in front of Little Red Riding Tudung.

"Huh what?"

"So I..can...eat...YOU..better!"

"Oh!" said Little Red Riding Tudung. "HAHAHAHA I thought you said so you can eat ME better! HAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHAHA!"

The wolf allowed a good minute for this to sink in. After a minute, Little Red Riding Tudung's realised what the wolf meant and shouted , "ALAMAK! You want to eat me sial! AAAARRRGGGGHHHHHHHH, sial!" After a good two minutes of screaming, she stopped, and said, "Oh! No wonder you leapt out of the bed and stood menacingly in front of Little Red Riding Tudung, a.k.a me!"

Almost too late, Little Red Riding Tudung realized that the person in the bed was not her Nenek, but a hungry wolf.

She ran across the room and through the door, shouting, "Help! Wolf, sial!" as loudly as she could.

A Chinaman who was counting money nearby heard her cry and ran towards the flat as fast as he could.

Seeing the situation, he turned to the wolf and shouted, "ONE PLUS ONE IS TWO! Just like the number of minutes you have left to live!"

The wolf, who was part-Mat on his father's second cousin's side, was disgusted to hear such accurate Mathematics. The Math hurt his head horribly.

The Chinaman pressed his advantage. "THE SQUARE ROOT OF NINE IS THREE! Just like your IQ!" The wolf howled in pain.

"EIGHTEEN MINUS FOURTEEN IS FOUR! JUST LIKE THE NUMBER OF WIVES YOU HAVE!!" The wolf finally crumpled to the floor, with a terrifying cry of pain, defeated.

The Chinaman made the wolf spit out the poor Nenek who was a bit frazzled by the whole experience, but still in one piece.

"Oh Nenek, I was so scared!" sobbed Little Red Riding Tudung, "I'll never talk to Mats or gelek in the void deck again."

"There, there, child. You've learned an important lesson. Thank ketupat you shouted loud enough for this kind Chinaman to hear you!"

The Chinaman knocked out the wolf and carried him deep into the void deck where he wouldn't bother people any longer.

Little Red Riding Tudung and Nenek had a nice lunch of ketupat, satay and sambal and had a long chat, incapable of seeing the incredulity of a wolf appearing out of a pillar under a void deck.