Lance: Hey, no obligation, Wilde. You come, you check her out first. Watch and listen to the others. If you want to join the party, then we’ll talk biz. OK?
With that, I saw an offer of Friendship appear on my screen. I had a choice to click Yes or No. This was the moment. At last, I would be able to confront Indigo.
I clicked his offer.
Lance: OK! Now we’re moving. Look I’ll meet you this time tomorrow. Come online and get in touch, then I’ll take you to my girl, alright?
Wilde: OK. Tomorrow then. Goodbye.
posted by Wilde Diabolito at 10.30 a.m.
* * *
‘SOME DO THE DEED WITH MANY TEARS’
21 JUNE 2010
I prepared the following e-mail from an anonymous account and saved it. I would send it at the right and appointed time. Or maybe I wouldn’t.
Dear Indigo,
This is my first and last letter to you. I am both saddened and mortified at the kind of life you have begun to lead in your online world. I had no idea that such dirty smut filled your heart and that you could whore yourself so willingly for a few DL dollars. Had you cooperated better, treated me with due respect and honoured my good name, we might have had a beautiful life together. However, there is nothing more to say. Goodbye.
posted by Wilde Diabolito at 3.29 p.m.
* * *
‘AND SOME WITHOUT A SIGH’
22 JUNE 2010
As Ecclesiastes says: There is a ‘time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.’ Today was a time to hate dispassionately the act of bought love. It was a time to go to war and then experience the carillon sound of peace ever after in this cyber life and in my own house. After closing the door of my study, I ceremoniously took a sword and placed it on the table, then picked it up, touched my forehead to its jeweled hilt, bowed my head to the west and put it down again. Then I went to my computer, powered up and logged on to Double Life. I put on the headphones and sent a private message to Pumason.
He came back almost within the count of three, as if he was a retriever bringing back a bird in his mouth to drop at my feet.
Lance: Hey! Glad you could make it. Sending you a transfer.
With that, I saw the transfer window pop-up and accepted the offer to visit ‘My Nest’. Suddenly I was travelling and arriving in my white materialising particles, then forming a greyish body putting on clothes in Indigo’s special apartment. I recognised the big bed, the penis sofa, the erotica on the wall and the transparent sculptures. Then, there she was in skimpy virtual underwear that one could easily see through, sitting on the sofa with a man on either side. Both were naked. I switched on the audio chat and heard soft music in the background and heard her voice. There was no doubt: it was my wife. She was giggling and joking with one of the men. Suddenly, I saw Lance was also in the room, standing behind me.
Lance Pumason: Hey! Wilde. You won’t be disappointed. She is a real professional.
Indigo stood up at that moment, and I saw her underwear disappear and the emergence of a voluptuous, full-bodied nude woman with dark curls falling on her neck and legs designed to be spread-eagled. She was rosy and roomy. Now, the men on the sofa also stood. Their shirt and pants evaporated into cyber air and then a penis appeared on each and became immediately erect. Was this the best they could do with 3-D animation, I thought? One decided to play the erection game, flicking his animation switch off and on. His member drooped and stiffened, drooped and stiffened until I heard Indigo’s audio chat voice.
Indigo Wishpool: OK, Mr Summertime, are you going to fuck me?
Two small balls, a pink and a blue, were suddenly floating just above the penis sofa.
Indigo Wishpool: You get on the blue one.
He obeyed and soon his avatar was sitting on it while Indigo’s nude avatar was mounting the pink. In another few moments, they merged in cyber intercourse on the penis sofa.
Indigo Wishpool: Hey, don’t you want to join in, Wilde?
Lance Pumason: What do you say? This is your chance. See that other blue ball near her face? That’s the blow job animation.
Through my stereo headphones, I now heard the moans of simulated sex frenzy coming from both Summertime and Indigo. Hannibal Wormal, the other man, had decided not to wait and must have pressed the ‘sit here’ command on his own module, as now he was receiving fellatio from Indigo while she was getting ass-fucked by Summertime on the penis sofa. This all looked and sounded quite ridiculous to me. I looked on, wondering how on earth people could get any thrill from this pretend sex, unless they were masturbating themselves in front of their computer screens.
I could understand friendship and talk chat, but to try and re-enact 3-D cybersex like this seemed not just sordid, but disturbing in its implications. How far had we come with all this, living vicariously in our own home spaces, but enacting fantasy lives when one could go outside? What’s more, they all seemed to be enjoying it immensely. Yet none of it touched me at all. In fact, it repelled me.
Here was my wife selling her body online to all comers. I knew it was like a spreading cancer in the world, and here were the sick results of what was happening to my own wife right in front of me. It was unnatural and she would not be able to stop it. She would become more and more sex-addicted. Some say this is all just role-playing and fantasy, but did that make her betrayal any less real? Betrayal is betrayal, whether online or off. There was nothing left to do but to end this twisted business now, and perhaps even save my wife’s perverted soul.
Lance Pumason: Well? Are you in or not? I think you’ve seen enough to make a decision.
Wilde Diabolito: Yes, I have. More than enough. Each man kills the thing he loves.
Lance Pumason: What? What did you say?
Wilde Diabolito: You will see soon enough. And you too, Indigo.
I said this with a cold and chilling ring to my voice, allowing the anger and disgust to rise up. I did not care whether or not Indigo recognised my voice over the sex sounds of the fornicating threesome.
With that, I unplugged my headphones but let my avatar stand there to watch on. I turned around to my sword table and picked up the blade. It was the short samurai sword. I had selected it for this purpose, suitable for use in a small space. I unsheathed it and tested the air with two swallow-swift cuts in opposite directions.
Sword in one hand, I opened the door and ventured into the hall outside Baby’s room. I could hear her side of the sex orgy going on. I turned the door knob, entered and there she was: sitting in her flimsy nightie, one hand on the cursor, another in her groin, touching and stimulating herself. She was too absorbed to see or hear me as I stalked in and took the high raised killing position behind her. Suddenly, I could see my own reflection in the computer screen lifting the short samurai blade, ready for decapitation. If she couldn’t see me before, she certainly could see me now. Trying to turn, she screamed so loudly and differently from her sexual moans, yet the avatars on the screen did not shift or budge from their acting as I swung the blade with all the force of my position, my training, and all the sense of righteousness I could muster, then separated her petite head from those slim shoulders with one clean, irrevocable swipe.
It was done. Justice had been served, honour restored.
Her head hung a moment in the air and then dropped suddenly, relieved of its kicking body like a bloody soccer ball onto the ceramic tiles. The headphones were still on, cut from their cord—a grotesque and fitting emblem to the end of a cyberlife, severed not just from her body, but the emotional life line of a computer. I switched off the screen, not wanting to see any more of this simulation, and then sat down on the floor with the sword across my knees and wept.
posted by Wilde Diabolito at 10.25 p.m.
* * *
‘YET EACH MAN DOES NOT DIE’
23 JUNE 2010
It is True, Dear Blog Companion, what Oscar Wilde once said: ‘Yet each man does not die.’ Each of us lives on in another form—cyber
or other. What is it that we are made of? Whizzing particles, antimatter, vibrations of syllables? At least my blog counter proves that I am truly worthy of being called a writer, as the total tally of visitors has reached the 100,000 mark in ten days and I know it will increase exponentially. Perhaps I should consider syndicating The Murder Blog as living proof that a crime can be committed in full public view and no one can stop such a thing from happening. Will there be a sequel? Who can say? Having committed one brilliant murder in such a unique and original way, I am charmed by the idea, Dear Reader.
As for the case of the woman in the story, you will never know what her fate was. Did I cut her body up into little bits, put them in a truck and throw them off the prow of a hired fishing vessel into the South China Sea?
Last clues, dear Sleuths. For those who fruitlessly went on Double Life in search of Wilde Diabolito or to warn Indigo Wishpool directly before her impending execution, the incidents depicted did not happen within the stated time frame. You have been duped in time as well as place.
No such characters exist now in that 3-D playtime realm. Did they exist at all? Do any of us exist for that matter? I write, therefore, I and you, Blog Reader, are. But now everyone is logged out on this matter.
In any case, I was not so stupid to have let anyone interfere in such an important incident. Maybe what you witnessed happened in the past. Recently, perhaps? Or three years ago? You will never know whether the particulars of this chronicle are true as stated, or just shaped from vague imaginings into playful fiction.
One thing is certain, the country in which this tale is set is that tiny city-state in Southeast Asia with its red and white flag wilting in the humid breeze. This is the unimaginative land known as Singapore. Am I living there? Perhaps. But it is unlikely. Maybe I have migrated to greener pastures or prairies like so many of this nation’s citizens have.
Why am I divulging this? Because, Blog Sleuths, even an online murderer needs a back story, just as a budding writer needs a by-line. But that is all you have to go on. All the rest must remain a vague and airy set of cyber question marks stamped on your brain.
posted by Wilde Diabolito at 3.30 p.m.
CHRIS MOONEY-SINGH is a full-time writer, teacher and publisher and co-edited The Penguin Book of Christmas Poems (Australia). Two of his stories were featured in Best of Singapore Erotica and and another in Best of Southeast Asian Erotica. He is presently doing his PhD in creative writing at Monash University, Australia.
‘A Sticky Situation’ by Alaric Leong
Theodosius Kwan was very glad it hadn’t rained as promised that morning. He had asked the taxi to drop him off four streets short of his final destination, and he hated walking in the rain. Especially when he was so unfamiliar with the area and had to search out the address scribbled on the small scrap of paper he was holding.
The address he was seeking was in the sleazy area of MacPherson. The buildings all looked as if they had not been cleaned or even dusted in years. Finally, he was close to his target. Number 27, 23, 19. He frowned when it became obvious that not every building here had a house number posted. No major calamity though; he was close, he knew that, and was only a little late.
He looked down at the address again, just to be sure. Right at that moment, something tugged at the sole of his foot. He smiled. This must be the place. He turned and looking up, saw a big, green number 15 facing him. Yes, this was the place.
He opened the tall front door painted in four totally incompatible colours and walked in. Several steps in, he saw an open door from where, a moment later, a man in a security guard uniform jumped up from a desk.
‘Yes, sir, can I help you?’ asked the uniformed man. Kwan replied with the code he’d been given. He hoped this fellow would recognise it.
‘I’m here to see an old friend from an old, old story.’
The ‘security guard’ flashed a smile that wrapped all the way across his thin face and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Oh yes, sir. Yes, indeed. The train you want is waiting for you upstairs.’
‘Room Number 18?’ Kwan replied.
‘That’s right, sir. Second door to the right after the stairs.’
Kwan thanked him and headed up the steps with a slow but determined stride. As he approached the landing, he saw two other men standing guard at Room Number 18. These men were not wearing security guard uniforms. In fact, they were dressed in well-tailored dark suits, but it was clear that they were also serving as guards. Neither budged an inch as Kwan approached.
‘I’m Mr Kwan. Theodosius Kwan. I believe someone inside is expecting me.’ The guard on the left nodded to the other, who then nodded at Kwan and they both stepped aside. One of them even opened the door and held it for the new arrival.
As he walked in, Kwan saw an unexpectedly large number of men sitting at a round table. In the middle sat a man who was obviously the leader of this group. This was the man who spoke.
‘Mr Kwan! How nice to meet you in person finally. Please take a seat.’
Kwan nodded, smiled and started looking for an empty chair. At the outer edge of the circle, he saw a long-time associate, Krishnan Nurdi. They exchanged smiles.
‘Theo. How are you today?
‘I’m fine; how are you, Krishnan?’ Nurdi nodded and then indicated an open seat near him. As this seat also directly faced the man Kwan had come to do business with, he accepted Nurdi’s suggestion.
Kwan turned and looked directly at the man directly in front of him. ‘Mr Lok. I also find it a pleasure to meet you finally. I have heard you are a man to be respected and even admired.’
‘And I have heard the same of you, Mr Theodosius Kwan. That’s why I thought you were a man I should be doing business with.’ Lok then noticed that Kwan was furtively casting looks at the other men around the table. ‘Oh, I hope you don’t mind that I asked a number of my close friends and some of my interns to join us. I always get a little edgy at business meetings, so I like having people who like me to be there when I conduct business. Especially with the kind of business I do.’
Kwan nodded to show he understood Mr Lok’s situation. He then glanced at the men lending moral support to Lok. Two of them were actually not sitting, but standing against the wall. Like the two doormen, they wore well-fitted suits. With arms crossed tightly across their torsos just south of the diaphragm, they displayed slight bulges on their upper chest, right side.
Kwan’s gaze lingered a bit longer on these bulges: these men either both had some strange abnormal growth, or they were both keeping some kind of weapon there. The way they held their arms so tightly and the defiant looks on their faces told Kwan that they were intentionally making no secret of the fact that they were packing weapons.
At first, Kwan found this thought disconcerting, intimidating even. But very quickly, he smiled and relaxed. Of course, that’s why they were there … for intimidation’s sake. But to intimidate others: maybe other gang members, or the police, or the border guards. Intimidation would be counter-productive with Kwan himself. After all, Lok needed him more than he needed Lok: Lok had to find someone reliable and reasonably safe to distribute his goods. Kwan could just walk away from this meeting and not be any poorer; he would certainly be in less danger from the police if he did leave with no more than he came in. The more he considered this, the better he felt. This was a buyer’s market, even if Lok didn’t care to admit it yet.
Kwan decided that the two men standing against the wall looked like they might be from Myanmar, though he wasn’t quite sure what Myanmarese were supposed to look like. He also thought that two of the five men sitting with Lok—three to one side, two to the other—might be from Myanmar. He wasn’t even sure where Lok himself was really from. Though he claimed to be from northern Malaysia, a full Peranakan, Kwan had severe doubts about that.
Lok was conversing with two of the men flanking him at the table in a language Kwan was unfamiliar with while Kwan and Nurdi exchanged a series of meaningful looks. Finally, Lok turned back
to his two guests.
‘So, gentlemen, shall we be getting down to business? It pains me that we can’t be making small talks and get to know each other better, but I have other appointments today.’ He nodded. ‘Other business partners coming to see me.’ He smiled, with that smile which tries to convey layers of meaning it just can’t bear.
‘Yes,’ said Kwan. ‘We can now discuss all the details and try to close the deal.’ Krishnan nodded and turned to Lok with a smile to match Kwan’s. He wanted to show that they formed a united front.
‘I had actually started discussing matters with your friend, Mr Krishnan, before you arrived. He told me that you will be responsible for most of the finance on this deal.’
Kwan threw a quick sideways look at Nurdi. ‘That’s right. I think I can handle most of that part of the transaction.’
‘Yes, my … sources tell me that you are a man of some means. They also have informed me that you have this vast network of outlets where you can distribute our product.’
Kwan shrugged and gave a smile that feigned modesty. ‘I don’t know that I have a vast network. But I do have a large number of customers in small shops all across Singapore. And my friend Krishnan has a good-sized network himself.’
‘Mainly Indian and Malay shops, but I have quite a few Chinese customers as well.’ Nurdi was thoroughly proud of the multiethnicity of his customer list.
‘And many of those customers would be interested in offering their special customers something like what you offer.’
‘And now you can provide it to them,’ Lok said with a proud nod. ‘Which is why we’re here, of course, Mr Lok.’
‘And you won’t have any difficulty seeing that this particular product gets to your customers?’
‘It shouldn’t be any great problem really. After all, your product is small and easily transported. We can squeeze several packets into one of our regular, legal deliveries.’
Crime Scene: Singapore Page 10
