"Neon Graveyard: A Gonzo Night in Kuala Lumpur"

"We'll have our ears on the ground," I said, as the Bornean girls I'd hired ambled in. Indonesian prostitutes, too, were carving their path from Batam amidst our ramblings. Accuse me of recklessness? Never. I've rigged trailers around Block M for these night workers, transforming them into makeshift sanctuaries.

In Brickfield, I was on the prowl for the slickest Chinese madams, the puppeteers who knew how to pull strings. The worst sight? Girls brawling before an audience of johns on opening night, spotlighted by beams fit for the grandest of stages.

The moths came, drawn to the chaos, and even the Sultan of Johor accepted our rogue invitation, beaming proudly by Cindy's two-century-old tombstone. "My great-grandfather," he boasted, a syphilitic sultan who'd scoured the earth and left two hundred of his men for dead.

Cindy spread wide, indulging the Sultan's dark desires. "Ah, screwing under the stars—nothing sweeter," he uttered, amidst a crowd of Mahathir's old cronies.

"You mean Mahathir," the Sultan chuckled, nodding toward the old man who'd just debased Candy. The night unfurled with gusto.

The DJ appeared as if conjured from the ether—rumored to be a hermit crab turned prophet or a Newcastler, depending on whom you asked. A solid hat perched on his head—a damn hard hat, no less.

The Vault was buzzing, a cauldron of Kuala Lumpur's finest, converging on this consecrated ground tonight.

Even Najib made a showing, his wife chatting away while he wandered off to a grave. Decorum and civility must extend even to fallen prime ministers.

Back to the rhythms—'Touched by a deity,' I mused.

Disco girls from Jakarta had flown in, their allure in beauty and rhythmic sway coaxing more beer from the taps.

And what of the dancers? Divine touch was not their fate but each other's.

The DJ, a septuagenarian, spun tracks with devilish prowess, his years belied by the kindness of chemicals.

He waxed lyrical about Akmid the camel herder, as the Sultan of Johor declared the tale depraved, yet damnably enchanting.

I swear his drink was laced with ecstasy.

Soon they would come, the Chinese, their yellow movement that had toppled Najib.

Setting Malays against Malays, always vilifying the Indian Malaysians, too numbed to think for themselves.

Once they caught wind of our deeds, there'd be hell to pay.

I called for a round table. "Bulldoze the damn graveyard, erect condos, lure the foreign capital," I bellowed.

It was one way to confront the ethnic Chinese quandary.

"To the premiership again?" I teased Najib.

"Too dirty," Mahathir quipped, his own skeletons buried deep.

"Fuck it," I declared to Max, "let's make the Sultan of Johor PM. Malaysia needs a thorough scrubbing."

Two weeks on, when the Chinese emerged in their yellow garb, the four-square-kilometer cemetery was no more.

The construction began in earnest, the U.S. backing another Twin Towers—a symbolic gesture of solidarity.

I thought I'd miss the graveyard, but truth be told, it never held a candle to Surabaya's rustic charm.

Wiped from the maps within months, I made sure of it—with a little help from my Google contacts. No trace, not even in the Wayback Machine. History, rewritten.

"When you're dead, you're dead," I told the ministers.

"Dead land anyway," Max chimed in.

It was the shot in the arm Malaysia needed.

Even Halliburton diversified, sinking its teeth into our city within a city.

"Just make sure there's plenty of lakes and parks," I insisted. My only demand.

It's me against my flab. Twenty extra kilos and counting.

Running, walking—ready to flee from dangers greater than excess weight.

Max and I, we did Malaysia a solid. Freed up prime land in an overcrowded city.

What would've taken years, we pulled off in weeks.

Never underestimate the power of prostitutes—a catalyst for change.

These were my musings on a six-kilometer trek, having already done ten earlier.

I was committed.

If my spare tire and I were to part ways, I'd have to cover about seventeen kilometers daily, sprinting a few in between.

I pondered a midnight flight back to Kuching, the mighty rivers of Borneo calling me.

The cross-eyed waitress was still at Long House Cafe.

Malaysian Chinese aren't fussy. Young, rough Indonesian girls serving them? More than satisfied.

I was looking forward to...