Nova Gaul
16-04-2008, 23:32
Singapore
It is always the same everywhere, thought the man, an elderly fellow, still spry. He said as much: “Goddamn rush hour, and Goddamn the fools go along with it, rushing round like rats on a racetrack.” As if two confirm his statement two Chinamen roared by on their ‘mopeds’, cursing at each other for the gain of a few feet before traffic interchanged. Out came the pudgy finger of a Sikh truck driver from his window, giving them the international sign for ‘#1’.
A shrilly honking taxicab nearly ran him down, but with old wiry muscles he dodged it. Using a polished teak cane to move himself up from the gutter where he dodged the city’s manic traffic he stepped onto the clean (well, it was clean, at one time, long ago) sidewalk. Yes indeed, Singapore was not what it used to be, under the old now broken aegis of Bonstock. Poverty was rampant, but it made a nice side-dish to Singapore’s main course, intrigue. Taken all in all, thought the man, an amateur student of history, it must be something like walking through Rome in 500 A.D.. Crumbling grandeur overshadowing unfortunates trying to eek out a living in the ruins. Yet, even in the ruins, Singapore was far more shapely and wealthy than most Asian cities.
City of the Lion indeed; the only reason this once glorious now decrepit capital maintained some modicum of success was of course its value for traders. Ironic, then, that its source of wealth, the Straits of Malacca, was the selfsame source which had brought about the collapse of one of earth’s greatest powers…the FRB, Federal Republic of Bonstock. Yes, the collapse of that mighty giant, of which Singapore was the no-more-beating heart, had served nicely as a demarcation—it separated the world’s history from current events.
Ironic, but, in the final analysis, appropriate.
The click of his cane and the subdued muffle of shoes worn out but originally expensive brought him to a busy Singapore dive. Well oiled dancers…blond Quinntonian farm girls, petit Chinese dolls, and ebony beauties… gyrated up and down equally oiled poles, flipping about to heavy electronic music. The place smelled of strong alcohol, too many cigarettes, and loose women. The clientele was sailors, mainly, as was to be expected. But I would not be exaggerating if I said that on this particular night all sorts of folks cavorted at Loli’s.
The fellow looked about, set his cane aside, and sighed contentedly. He sat down with a groan of appreciation.
He had a cigarette. He studied the loose women. And then he called for a strong drink.
One of the dozens of serving girls, by their looks those who were not pretty enough for cage-dancing, began to saunter over his way. Her smile promised more than a whiskey…if the price was right. Out stepped her mistress, a solidly built Brit. Only the Good Lord knows why some saucy dish was being served so far from Sussex, and without doubt he is not saying anything about it. Her heavy arm came down, a quick slap, sound and action lost in the flashing lights and tone-deaf song. The powerful action set the serving girl on her heels, sent her scampering back towards wherever she laired.
Over came the matron to the patron.
“Take a drink I suppose.” Her statement was flat, but her eyes were alive with inquisition.
“I will, but I need service first” said he. The accent was Hudecian, of the sort of flat mono-tonal English that can be heard in public places the world over.
Dumpling-ette gave a snort and turned to leave. He stopped by placing a hand on her arm. “Don’t be in such a rush miss. Stay a while. I am, after all, her to speak in riddles and rhymes.”
She was a piece of work, this matron, her body seemed as if it would pull away instantly, but her eyes, those bright green eyes, decalred loudly: I’ll dance, but only if you know the steps.
“What rhyme?”
“The only one worth talking about. I’m here to talk about the butcher, the baker, and the candle-stick maker.”
Her skin paled five shades, not an idle boast for a Brit. Comprehension flooded her eyes and figure now. “Why would you ever talk about that here? Don’t you know where you are, for God’s sake?” Her voice almost yelled, but the music flooded all about them. No one heard. Dread overcame her, but she asked the question she had to ask: “Who sent you?”
“The man in between.” Enough was said now.
She turned to leave, but gave him a nod first. “I’ll fetch your drink now.”
It is always the same everywhere, thought the man, an elderly fellow, still spry. He said as much: “Goddamn rush hour, and Goddamn the fools go along with it, rushing round like rats on a racetrack.” As if two confirm his statement two Chinamen roared by on their ‘mopeds’, cursing at each other for the gain of a few feet before traffic interchanged. Out came the pudgy finger of a Sikh truck driver from his window, giving them the international sign for ‘#1’.
A shrilly honking taxicab nearly ran him down, but with old wiry muscles he dodged it. Using a polished teak cane to move himself up from the gutter where he dodged the city’s manic traffic he stepped onto the clean (well, it was clean, at one time, long ago) sidewalk. Yes indeed, Singapore was not what it used to be, under the old now broken aegis of Bonstock. Poverty was rampant, but it made a nice side-dish to Singapore’s main course, intrigue. Taken all in all, thought the man, an amateur student of history, it must be something like walking through Rome in 500 A.D.. Crumbling grandeur overshadowing unfortunates trying to eek out a living in the ruins. Yet, even in the ruins, Singapore was far more shapely and wealthy than most Asian cities.
City of the Lion indeed; the only reason this once glorious now decrepit capital maintained some modicum of success was of course its value for traders. Ironic, then, that its source of wealth, the Straits of Malacca, was the selfsame source which had brought about the collapse of one of earth’s greatest powers…the FRB, Federal Republic of Bonstock. Yes, the collapse of that mighty giant, of which Singapore was the no-more-beating heart, had served nicely as a demarcation—it separated the world’s history from current events.
Ironic, but, in the final analysis, appropriate.
The click of his cane and the subdued muffle of shoes worn out but originally expensive brought him to a busy Singapore dive. Well oiled dancers…blond Quinntonian farm girls, petit Chinese dolls, and ebony beauties… gyrated up and down equally oiled poles, flipping about to heavy electronic music. The place smelled of strong alcohol, too many cigarettes, and loose women. The clientele was sailors, mainly, as was to be expected. But I would not be exaggerating if I said that on this particular night all sorts of folks cavorted at Loli’s.
The fellow looked about, set his cane aside, and sighed contentedly. He sat down with a groan of appreciation.
He had a cigarette. He studied the loose women. And then he called for a strong drink.
One of the dozens of serving girls, by their looks those who were not pretty enough for cage-dancing, began to saunter over his way. Her smile promised more than a whiskey…if the price was right. Out stepped her mistress, a solidly built Brit. Only the Good Lord knows why some saucy dish was being served so far from Sussex, and without doubt he is not saying anything about it. Her heavy arm came down, a quick slap, sound and action lost in the flashing lights and tone-deaf song. The powerful action set the serving girl on her heels, sent her scampering back towards wherever she laired.
Over came the matron to the patron.
“Take a drink I suppose.” Her statement was flat, but her eyes were alive with inquisition.
“I will, but I need service first” said he. The accent was Hudecian, of the sort of flat mono-tonal English that can be heard in public places the world over.
Dumpling-ette gave a snort and turned to leave. He stopped by placing a hand on her arm. “Don’t be in such a rush miss. Stay a while. I am, after all, her to speak in riddles and rhymes.”
She was a piece of work, this matron, her body seemed as if it would pull away instantly, but her eyes, those bright green eyes, decalred loudly: I’ll dance, but only if you know the steps.
“What rhyme?”
“The only one worth talking about. I’m here to talk about the butcher, the baker, and the candle-stick maker.”
Her skin paled five shades, not an idle boast for a Brit. Comprehension flooded her eyes and figure now. “Why would you ever talk about that here? Don’t you know where you are, for God’s sake?” Her voice almost yelled, but the music flooded all about them. No one heard. Dread overcame her, but she asked the question she had to ask: “Who sent you?”
“The man in between.” Enough was said now.
She turned to leave, but gave him a nod first. “I’ll fetch your drink now.”