"We'll keep our ears to the ground," I said, assuring him, "we'll sniff out any terrorist plots before they can even light the fuse.
Langley inked his name on the dotted line and barked at us to make haste. Max, the eternal showman, declared he’d play the part of the barman.
We set up a caravan circle at block M, a makeshift home for the ladies of the night we rounded up. In Brickfield, I hunted down the slickest Chinese madams to keep our new recruits in line—nothing spoils a party like a catfight in front of the clientele.
The opening night was a blast, lit up by the limelight. The moths came fluttering, and even the Sultan of Johor couldn't resist our call.
The Sultan from Kuala Lumpur graced our grand opening, breaking into Cindy's tombstone, two centuries old. "That was my great-grandfather," he said, beaming with pride. No need to explain the syphilitic Sultan who left 200 of his men poxed and dead.
Cindy spread her legs, letting the Sultan retrace his wicked ways.
'Ah, screwing under the stars, it doesn't get better than this,' proclaimed the Sultan, surrounded by Mahathir's old guard.
'Are you saying Mahathir,' the Sultan gestured to an old man who had just defiled Candy, 'was involved?'
The night had kicked off magnificently.
The DJ emerged from the abyss. Some say he was from Newcastle, others, a hermit crab turned prophet whenever the mood struck him.
He wore a hard hat.
A damn hard hat.
The Vault was electric, teeming with Kuala Lumpur's crème de la crème, all drawn to the graveyard tonight.
Even Najib showed up.
I chatted with his wife while he sauntered off to one of the graves.
Decency and courtesy, even for an ex-PM, always.
Back to the beats.
'God fingered me.'
The disco girls flew in from Jakarta, their allure in beauty and seductive dance, coaxing patrons into buying more beer.
And what did the dancers do then?
They weren't fingered by God, but rather by each other.
The DJ spun with demonic skill, seventy years etched on his face, but kind chemicals preserved him.
He started rambling about Akmid the camel herder.
The Sultan of Johor called it despicable, 'but I bloody love it.'
I swear someone spiked his drink with ecstasy.
It was a Chinese cemetery.
They would come soon.
Their yellow movement toppled Najib.
Pitted Malays against Malays and, as always, vilified the Indian Malays, mostly too dopey to think for themselves.
When they learned of our shenanigans, hell would have its due.
We had a round table.
'Bulldoze the damn cemetery, build condos, and draw in foreign dough,' was the plan.
One way to deal with the ethnic Chinese.
'This could be your shot at the PM seat again,' I told Najib.
'He's too filthy dirty for that,' Mahathir retorted, 'I buried my atrocities well.'
To hell with it, I said to Max, 'Let’s make the Sultan of Johor PM, Malaysia needs a good spring cleaning.'
Two weeks later, when the Chinese came out in droves in their yellow shirts, there was nothing left of the four-square-kilometer cemetery.
Construction began in earnest, and for good measure, the US backed another Twin Towers, a symbolic act of solidarity.
I was going to miss the cemetery, but really, it never came close to the one in Surabaya.
You just couldn't beat the rustic feel of the place and how the Indonesians handled their business.
Four months later, the cemetery was wiped from all maps.
I had contacts at Google, ensuring it wouldn't appear even in the Wayback Machine.
We had altered history.
'When you're dead, you're dead,' I told the ministers.
'It was dead land anyway,' Max added.
This was the stimulus Malaysia needed.
Even Halliburton diversified and heavily invested in our city within a city.
'But make sure you have lots of lakes and parks,' was my only condition.
It’s me against my fat.
I’ve been lugging an extra 20 kilograms of it.
I'm running.
Walking.
Never know when I’ll need to really run from something more dangerous than extra lard.
Me and Max had done Malaysia a big favor.
The city was crowded and land scarce.
We had freed up a large slab of prime real estate.
What would take years in negotiation, we accomplished in weeks.
Never underestimate the power of hookers.
They are a catalyst for change.
A good change.
These are the thoughts I pondered on my six-kilometer walk.
I had walked ten kilometers earlier in the day.
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