God of the Game

The crunchy whiff of keropok lekor (fish crackers) wafted up my nostrils, fried and oily. Makes me miss chau taufu (fermented smelly bean curd) sold at pasar malam (night bazaars) back in Ipoh, my hometown of Malaysia.

One minute I was in Vesper’s study, the next, I’m at Petaling Street…Earth. Hawkers holler for the pockets of tourists. Petaling Street is the Chinatown of KL (Kuala Lumpur), but what’s odd and amusing is that there’re no Chinese manning the stores. Everything is run by the new wave of immigrants from neighbouring countries like Myanmar and Nepal.

The Chinese came much earlier. Now, fuelled by the economic boon of the 21st century, hordes of aliens flocked, looking for work and opportunity. To greener pastures, from poorer states.

The Chinese bosses were nowhere to be seen, only when collecting money do they show their preserved fat faces fluffed with luxury.

Ironic, that Chinatown has no Chinese. We should rename it Burmese town or something. Oh well, the price of development.

I rummaged through the goods on display, ever so often contouring my body to allow some traveller from the West or Middle East to pass by the cluttered walkway. Caucasians, golden brown and sun-soaked, in strappy tops highlighting tan lines, and Arabians in burqas, black and formless with only a slit for eyes, but inside, lingerie for their husband’s delight; they create a contrast of culture collide.

“Hi,” there was a tug at my shoulder. “We will be your guide.”

I turned to come in contact with one fat man and a little boy.

“I am Fat Man,” said the rotund, “and this is my compatriot, Little Boy,”

“We’re wanted for war crimes,” added the kid, “Between the both of us, we’re responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands in Japan.”

“And you now work for Vesper?”

“Penance.”

“So it must be kinda boring, assigned to mindless tasks as escorts in Petaling Street,” I joked.

“Esotoria Lane, you mean,” said the round one.

“Esotoria Lane? Looks like home on Earth to me,” I injected the obvious. “You must be mistaken. Perhaps a screw up with the Portal?”

“Where did the Master pick this idiot up?” asked the child who couldn’t be more than nine.

Fat Man returned an expression which made me want to smash him in. But I didn’t want to cause a scene. “Let us enlighten you,” he said, “walk to the end of the road without touching a thing.”

That should be easy.

I started my stroll, but soon the shouts of cut-throat dealers pierced my brain. It was as though someone shot a sonic ray directly into the cerebral cortex, and into the deep regions of the subconscious. The words spelled, “Rolex watch, Rolex watch. Cheap, cheap, very cheap.”

Then came, “Football jersey, football jersey,” on another frequency. Under normal circumstances in my ex-Earth-life, I would have walked on, unbothered by the calls; but this being Esotoria Lane, as Fat Man said, meant something was working against my sanity. Like the dust dancing to the puff of Vesper’s sofa, the sound waves also took a different tune. A visual stimuli. It is uncanny when you can see what’s heard. Synesthesia is the word for it, a paradigm shift imposed upon the five senses, mixing them up like a cocktail, shaking it like a bartender, leaving a tail of mayhem like a monster’s path in downtown Manhattan.

The Nepali’s broken English accent came out in letterings of blue, gold and green, as if he were blowing iridescent alphabet-bubblegums. The words slowly ascended, floating, mutating to blimps or zeppelins above KL city.

The guy from Myanmar with the fake football jerseys was now selling shape-shifting t-shirts with dimensional-gate designs encrusted below the badges of soccer clubs. You could walk into Old Trafford through the sponsor’s logo on the dri-fit replica Nikes and watch a match between MU and Liverpool, for instance.

This one got me: the Invincibles Arsenal playing Chelsea at home. A Thierry Henry number 14 provides the unsurpassable opportunity for fans to sit in his soul – unrivalled and unparalleled - offering the best seat of the stadium, the ultimate experience to share his ecstasy and frustration in front of goal.

I touched the emblazoned cannon of the Gunners.

I was back in the devil’s room.