 
Occupy Movement Singapore: Three Complete Novels

  1. Philippore Land

In the middle of the Great Depression in Singapore in 2020, Occupy Wall Street Terrorist (OWS) Kwek Chee Meng and Tham Shin Yi meet when Chee Meng tries to steal Shin Yi's mother's car.

Shin Yi, who is bored by her job as a jobless university graduate is intrigued with Kwek Chee Meng, and decides to take up with him and become his partner in crime.

They do some holdups, but their amateur efforts, while exciting, are not very lucrative.

Chee Meng and Shin Yi turn from pulling small-time heists to robbing rich foreigners. Their exploits also become more violent until it reaches the point of Chee Meng murdering and robbing the rich to help the poor.

  2. The Mortgage Arrears Forgiveness Project Murder: From Dark Journey to Deep Grace

On Nov 5 2013, one man left an indelible stamp on the Singaporean psyche. His goal was simple: to blow up and murder and to leave "a lasting impression on the world."

Lieutenant Marcus Tang, a militia movement sympathizer, sought revenge against the federal government for their handling of the Mortgage Arrears Forgiveness Plan, which ended in the scrapping of the project in Singapore Parliament. Marcus hoped to inspire a revolt against what he considered to be a tyrannical federal government. He was convicted of eleven federal offenses and sentenced to death. His execution will take place on Dec 4, 2015, at the Changi Correctional Complex in Singapore but with one wish – he wants to be baptised.

  3. The Tan Cheng Juan Story: From Systems Analyst to Security Guard

Tan Cheng Juan is a loner. He's a vigilante. He's fed up with his unemployment. He was retrenched as a systems analyst and seeks a security guard to pay his bills.

And he carries a three-gun arsenal:. 44 Magnum, .38 Smith & Wesson and a little palm piece, a.25 Colt. He spends his nights working the shifts as a security guard. He meets someone with a similar fate as him and desperately wants to save him while redeeming himself. Someone strange is a hero. How many wrongs to make it right?

Philippore Land

The times were hard in 2020. The great depression lay across Singapore and suffering spread and many lives were shattered. Businesses failed, factories closed down and multi-national corporations left Singapore. The unemployed Singaporeans are now pointing the finger of blame at successful employers and foreigners under the guise of fairness. Men were thrown out of work and despaired of ever finding jobs. Public housing apartments were repossessed by banks and Singaporeans were left to find lower quality jobs.

Singapore politicians, well fed and addicted to platitudes, foretold a corner around which prosperity waited. Few people every turned that corner. Anger and bitterness intensified. Dry-eyed Singapore parents could do nothing to ease the hunger of their children or the torment of their chronic unemployment. Families went on austerity drives to save money. Others spilt up, never to be reunited and young men frequently went out on their own, taking what they could find out of life. It was 2020. Times were hard.

The land baked under a hot white sun. All existence slowed, the juice of life running slow. In Toa Payoh, the air was thick and oppressive, an infectious stillness that stretched to the horizon and put Shin Yi in mind of the mournful cadence of a funeral.

Singapore was a place dying without hope. Shin Yi wanted to scream out in protest. It wasn't fair. She was young, good-looking and her brain and body, fresh out from Nanyang Technological University with a Bachelor of Banking and Finance, craved excitement and adventure.

Singapore universities had barely begun producing their own graduates when Singapore received its large influx of foreigners from India, China and Philippines to compete with them for jobs in the banking, healthcare and computer engineering sector.

Armed with their Bachelor's degree, some of these graduates are learning the truth of unemployment the hard way. Others find themselves completely out of the field and settled for jobs in McDonalds, Crispy Kreme and Starbucks.

Somewhere outside of her mother's old frame house, beyond Singapore, beyond Singapore itself, perhaps there existed a world rich and full of rewards for a girl with her gifts. How? She asked herself. How could she find that world, become a part of it? There had to be a way.

Her brown eyes raked swiftly over the small, second-story bedroom in apartment block 193 Lorong 6 Toa Payoh. There was shabbiness about it, a shabbiness she had sought to disguise with new curtains and a collection of porcelain figurines. She signed, patted a bead of perspiration from her upper lip, and gazed at herself in the full-length mirror.

The naked image she saw in the glass pleased her. Her body was properly round but satisfyingly lean, the skin smooth and taut. Her breasts were high, glowing and no girl drew more admiring glances from the young men in Toa Payoh than Shin Yi.

And some of the older ones, too, the ones who had wives. A slow smile turned the corners of her rose-bud-painted mouth; she appreciated young men with their strong arms and flat bellies.

Resentment flooded her memories and she pivoted away from the mirror. Damn. She was already unemployed for more than six months since graduating from Nanyang Technological University with a banking and finance degree. It was getting very frustrating as she stashed a few letters of demands from Standard Chartered Bank about the tuition student loan. The last one was in red and demanded that she start paying her installments or risk being sued for bankruptcy.

The men of Toa Payoh, dull, soft with surrender, accepting without protest the fat dealt them. She could marry any one of them, bear him a little of squawling brats and become old before her time. Become a duplicate of her own mother, weary and dried out, never smiling, never knowing any fun, finding no pleasure in life.

Not for Shin Yi!

She heaved herself onto the bed and pounded the pillow with her fist. There had to be a better life than this. She was after all, made it into the Dean's List once and started off with big dreams and a full banking career. With her looks and charm, she could land a job as a banking relationship manager. But somehow, things just didn't work out for her after graduation.

Something different, something exciting, rewarding that could shake up her system. She rolled onto her back, breasts slightly flattened, ribs cording the pale skin, her belly a gentle rise. Narrowly, she eyed the painted bedstead, so like a cage. She struck it with her fist. Again, harder. Harder still. A sharp pain stabbed through her hand and she sat up, swearing softly at the brass bars.

Somehow, she told herself. Somehow, she would find a way and get out. Out of this dinghy apartment, out of Toa Payoh, out of Singapore, out of this empty life. Still naked, she moved purposelessly across the room and stood at the window, looking out.

Everything was the same. The same deep sky, cloudless and hot, the same empty street, dusty and still, the same dirty white wooden taxi cabs. At first, she didn't notice the man in the dark suit as he strolled up to her mother's car, parked in the driveway below. When she did see him, she was unimpressed. His clothes owned no special style, the padded shoulders too wide, the jacket sack-like, the trousers baggy and dusty. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face.

What would he be thinking, she wondered, if he were to look up and see her standing jaybird naked in the window?

That would give him a thrill, something to tell his buddies below.

She frowned. What was he doing around her mother's car? She watched him peer through the open window at the dashboard and at once remembered that her mother's purse were in the drawer near the front seat. A flash of apprehension.

The man straightened up and glanced in both directions and in that microsecond she knew that he planned to steal the old car. He reached for the door handle and Shin Yi filled her lungs with air.

"Hey, you!" she called. "What you doing with my mother's car?"

His head swiveled around and he looked up squinting against the glare. He was younger than she had imagined, no more than twenty two for sure, fresh out from serving the nation in the army. There was something in his face, an intensity, a recklessness etched into the crinkles around his eyes, in the set of his mouth. She watched the first flush of fear wash away, replaced by an expression of delight at what he saw.

Let him look, she thought, an impudent half-smile angling across her full mouth. Give him a good look. A knowing smile spread his lips and at once she enjoyed his seeing her this way, naked, and she knew that there was something special about him, some private element in him that was also in her that made it possible for her to understand him, to know what was in his brain almost as soon as he did. Her grin broke open.

"Hey!" she called. "You wait there!"

She dashed across the room to her closet, shoved her feet into a pair of shoes and draped a white dress over herself, buttoning it as she hurried down the stairs and into the carpark.

He was waiting in the street. An arm's length away, she stopped short, staring at him. He started back.

"Aren't you ashamed?" she challenged provocatively. "Stealing a car?"

He grinned, "Been thinking about buying one."

"Bullshit" she laughed. "You have no money for dinner, let alone buy a car."

He shrugged exaggeratedly.

"What do you think I am?" she blurted out, flaring briefly.

"An unemployed university graduate who is now a waitress temping around," he said quietly.

"Well, yes," she said, wondering how he knew. "What line of work are you in? When you're not stealing cars."

"I tell you," he said mysteriously. "I am looking for suitable employment right at this moment."

"What did you do before?"

He let the words out with contrived casualness. "I was from the army until I was injured at my foot."

"Guess someone can't tolerate the rigors of a military regimental life." she said mockingly.

He stared at her coldly. "It was an open wound fracture." He lifted the front part of trouser leg and showed his 4 inch scar on his shin. "Got it from jumping from a two storey high obstacle course. Served the nation and look how I was repaid. An honourable discharge."

They were in Toa Payoh town now, on the main street, between facing rows of flat-fronted shops and stores and a couple of cafes. Except for themselves, the street was deserted. A scraggly dog shuffled across the street, tail tucked between his legs.

"What do you do for a good time around here," he said, "listen to the grass grow?"

"Not really. Still applying for jobs to repay my tuition loan....." Shin Yi trailed off and rolled her eyes up. "Until the bank sends me their final warning next month and I will file for bankruptcy."

He laughed and pointed to his right foot. "Guess I was lucky. I was really good in my academics. But I didn't see a need to get into university even though I could do so."

"Why?"

"Guess I didn't need to spend money for a university education only to graduate into unemployment when all foreigners take away our jobs."

They began walking again, not speaking. After a while, Shin Yi said, "Boy, did you really do that?"

"Do what?"

"Wanting to steal my mother's car or purse?"

"Yes. If I don't get caught......"

"You must be crazy."

At the gas station on the corner, he bought each of them a Coke. They leaned against the soft-drink cooler and sucked on the bottles, letting the fizzy liquid cut the dust in their throats. She watched as he removed the hat and rolled the cold bottle across his forehead. She liked his face, and the quick, uncertain way he grinned.

"What's it like?" she said almost shyly.

"Army?"

"No, stealing things."

He shrugged. "It isn't like anything. I rob people too, especially those foreigners who are in Singapore out to steal our jobs and create tension among Singaporeans."

She considered that. It sounded wrong to her, as if he were making it up trying to impress her.

Annoyance crept into her voice. "Hah! I knew you never robbed someone, you faker."

He stared down into her eyes and she felt something else. The cold strength of him, a threat as if he might do something. Do anything.

A shiver rode down her spine.

A quick movement, reaching under his jacket, and when his hand reappeared there was a .38 revolver in it, glinting blackly in the sunlight. There was a special quality to this gun in his hand and she touched it with the tips of her fingers, gently, lovingly, stroking softly. She wet her mouth and looked up at him.

"Yeah," she murmured. "Well, you got one all right, I guess. But you wouldn't have the gumption to use it."

He searched the street, settling on the 7-eleven grocery store across the way. "You just keep your eyes open." He strode up onto the wooden sidewalk and disappeared inside the store, never looking back.

Shin Yi waited, a new excitement pounding along her nerves, a thickness in her throat, a sick-making anticipation in her middle. It was difficult to breathe.

He backed slowly out of the store after a couple of minutes, the revolver in one hand, a fistful of money in the other. Halfway across the street he looked at Shin Yi and smiled and she couldn't help but smile back, pleased and warmed by his presence, charged by him and what he had done. She yearned to launch herself at him, to roll in the dusty street with him, to feel his strong arms around her to taste his mouth.

Suddenly the grocer appeared on the sidewalk, shouting for help in a Philippines accent. Shin Yi saw the young man raise the pistol and an icy chill took hold of her. A shot crashed out and the bullet smashed into the sign, above the store. The Pinoy grocer retreated out of sight.

Shin Yi's new friend watched him go, laughing; then he turned and held out his hand to her. Together they ran down the street to the edge of town. A car was parked in the shade of the last building. A gesture sent Shin Yi into the front seat while he swiftly and efficiently lifted the hood and found the proper wires to cross.

"Hey!" she called. "What's your name, anyway?"

The wires joined, he slammed down the hood. "Chee Meng." He got in beside her and started the car, racing the motor.

"I'm Shin Yi," she shouted, in order to be heard. "Pleased to meet you."

Chee Meng grinned and gunned the car into motion, accelerating swiftly to ninety, speeding them on their way together.

She couldn't wait. The excitement stabbed deep into her bowels and she was all flesh and desire and only he could fulfill the strange dark cravings she felt.

She was all over him, mouth working fiercely across his flesh, onto his ear, his neck, hands reaching under his shirt, feeling the tight flesh of his belly, moving lower. He twisted and squirmed under her, fighting to control the car, foot heavy on the accelerator.

She grabbed for the steering wheel and yanked hard, sending the car off the road among some trees. He hit the brake and the car jolted to a stop.

She was at him again, unintelligible sounds rasping back in her throat as she plunged herself atop him, forcing him backward, reaching, searching, straining to find and take what he alone owned for her.

"You," she got out. "You ready?"

"Wait..."

"Aren't you ready? Well, get ready."

She fumbled with his clothes. "C'mon, honey. C'mon, boy... let's go... let's...."

"Hey! Hey, wait . . . quit that now, cut it out. I said, cut it out!"

He shoved her away, abruptly and painfully, slamming her against the car door. She glared at him, fighting for breath, saw him adjusting his trousers. He climbed out of the car.

What happened? she asked herself silently. What went wrong? The way she felt! It couldn't have happened if he hadn't felt that way too. She fumbled in her purse, found a cigarette, hunted desperately for a match. Chee Meng leaned through the open window and extended a light.

"Look," he said with forced casualness. "I don't d that. It's not that I can't, it's just that I don't see no percentage in it. I mean there's nothing wrong with me." he ended defiantly.

"Damn" Shin Yi said, trying to pick out her thoughts. Her brain was a whirling sump and she wasn't certain of what she felt; rejection, disgust—both, perhaps, and a great deal of fascination. She'd never met anyone like Chee Meng.

She hesitated, "You better take me home now. My mother should be home by now from work."

He slid behind the wheel and closed the car door. "Wait." He reached for her.

She jumped out of the car. "Don't touch me!"

"If all you want is a stud service," he shouted after her, "then get on back to your job hunting as a bank relationship manager and seduce all the men and stay there for the rest of your life."

She stopped running and listened as the words poured out with almost evangelical fervor. "You're worth more than that, a lot more, and you know it, and that's why you come along with me. You could find a lover boy on every corner in town and it doesn't make a damn to them whether you're waiting tables or picking cotton, so long as you cooperate. But it does make a damn to me."

She turned to face him. "Why?"

"Because you're different. You're like me and you want different things." She took a step back toward the car and the words came out of him faster now, more intense. ' 'You and me traveling together, we could cut clean across this country and Malaysia, too, maybe dip into Thailand or whatnot."

Again that craving was upon Shin Yi, now stronger, more intense, crazily swinging, a weird dark tempo beating in her chest. "When'd you figure that all out?" she said huskily.

"First time I saw you."

"How come?"

'"Cause you may be the best damn girl in Singapore." She stared at him. "Who are you, anyway?" she said softly.

He opened the car door. "Get in." She did.

They drove in silence until they came to a roadside McDonalds. Once inside, and settled in a corner, Chee Meng began to talk about himself, not for long, but enough so that she understood who he was and where his roots found nourishment.

He had been born in 1999 in Bishan, Singapore, another mouth to feed in a large family of poor factory workers. Just folks. He had begun stealing in his teens even though he was eligible to make it to Nanyang Technological University, and it was while robbing a gas station that he was caught and the University rejected his application. It meant the penitentiary for two years, to be released for good behavior but on the condition that he must finish his military conscription. Finished, he pointed a finger at her.

"Let me take a guess about your background," he said.

"I'll bet," she challenged.

The grin came and went. "Let me see . . . You were born somewhere around 1999 . . . got a small loving family, right? . . . You went to school, o' course, but you didn't take to it much 'cause you were a lot smarter than everybody else anyway. So you were deceived that there were good jobs after graduation so you studied really hard and graduated with good second class upper honours........ Now ..." His brow ridged as if he were deep in thought. "When you are sixteen ... no, make it seventeen, you decided to study hard to get into the course you think could make you a lot of money."

"Banking and finance," she put in quickly.

"Right. Banking and finance. And you liked banking and finance because you thought that Singapore politicians won't privatize our own state assets and won't open up our sector to the global market."

"Wall street." Shin Yi said it matter-of-factly.

"And the politicians opened up the banking sector and created mass unemployment by attracting foreign banks like Citibank, Standard Chartered or UBS who would only hire 10% of their staff from Singapore, the rest being from other countries. And they ask you for job interviews and sometimes you go and all they ever do is hire more cheap foreign labour and depress our salaries - . and you go home and sit in your room and think, and how will I ever get away from this?"

And now, she told herself silently, measuring him closely. Now she knew how and when. Chee Meng was the answer and the time was now. Now.

"And then our President tells us to be a hawker, to be a crane operator and that there is no need to study so hard to achieve success in our career........" Chee Meng spouted.

The McDonalds waitress came over with their food. Chee Meng looted up at her, gaudy with makeup, spit curls plastered to each side of her forehead. His gaze went back to Shin Yi, to her golden spilt curls. He said nothing until the waitress was gone. Then, pointing at the curls, "Change that. I don't like it."

She nodded once, reached for her hand mirror, and brushed the curls back into her hair. Chee Meng nodded approval and she smiled and began to eat ravenously.

"God," Chee Meng said. "You're a knockout."

Dusk was settling over the countryside when they emerged from the cat e. Shin Yi followed Chee Meng towards the car they had stolen. He walked past it to a newer, more colorful model, a greenish-yellow sports coupe.

"Hey," Shin Yi said, pointing. "This is the one we came in."

"Don't mean we have to go home in it."

Shin Yi woke alone and frightened. For a long, terrifying moment she didn't know where she was. Then it all came flooding back. The night before she and Chee Meng had come across an abandoned farmhouse and decided to sleep there. She glanced around the room. No Chee Meng. Where was he?

"Chee Meng . . ." She came to her feet, panic welling up in her throat, "Chee Meng.. ." "Hey, lady."

She swung back, to see his grinning face peering in at her through a broken window. There was a pistol in his right hand.

"Where have you been keeping yourself?" she said, ashamed of her fear and still gripped by it.

"Slept out in the car," Chee Meng replied casually.

"Oh. These accommodations aren't deluxe enough for you?"

There was that quick grin and she felt reassured. "If police are after us," he said, "I want the first shot. Come on, you got some work to do."

She joined him outside. On the dilapidated picket fence that ringed the house, six old bottles had been propped up. Without a word Chee Meng turned and rapidly fired six shots. The bottles exploded, one after another.

"You're good," Shin Yi said.

"The best. Once a sniper in army, always a sniper in civilian world."

"And modest, too."

"Come on," he said. "Got you all set up over here." She trailed after him around to the side of the house where an old automobile tire was suspended on a rope from the limb of a big oak tree. He handed the gun to her and indicated the tire. "Set her spinning," he said.

Shin Yi nodded. She extended her right hand, bracing it with her left.

"One hand"

She set her lips determinedly and obeyed. She pulled the trigger. The shot went wild and the kick of the revolver sent her reeling backward.

"That's all right," Chee Meng said. "Again. Come down slow with it," He demonstrated, bringing his empty hand as if aiming, leveling off, clicking off an imaginary shot. "Now you...."

Shin Yi followed his instructions, squeezed off a shot. This time the tyre whirled around as the slug tore into it.

"Aren't you something!" Chee Meng exulted.

Grinning happily, Shin Yi blew smoke from the barrel in exaggerated self-mockery.

"I tell you," he went on, "I'm going to get you a Smith and Wesson, it'll be easier in your hand. All right now. Try it once again."

Shin Yi sighted on the tire, raised the revolver, and brought it to bear.

At that moment a man appeared behind them.

"How do you do?" he said.

Snatching the pistol out of Shin Yi's hand, Chee Meng whirled, sighting on the man's middle, ready to shoot.

"No sir," the man said, suddenly full of fear. "No sir. Now you go right ahead with what you're doing. Just go right ahead."

Chee Meng eyed him warily, assessing.

The soiled shirt and wide-brimmed hat, the worn overalls, the weatherbeaten face. A taxi driver.

"Used to be my taxi," the driver said pointing to his taxi parked a few feet away. Chee Meng straightened up and lowered his weapon. "Not any more. Company will take my taxi away tomorrow after I was unable to pay the daily rental."

The driver moved off toward the front of the taxi, Chee Meng and Shin Yi close behind. There was a decrepit car parked on the road, bulging with household belongings.

"Well, now," Shin Yi said, "that's a pitiful shame."

Chee Meng shook his head sympathetically. It was happening all over, back home in Singapore, in Malaysia and Thailand, banks, big corporations, foreigners taking over, putting them out as if they were less than livestock. Not the proper thing to do to Singapore citizens. He began to load his revolver.

"You're damned right about that, ma'am," the taxi driver said to Shin Yi.

From behind the Ford, another woman appeared, an old woman, and she stood some distance away waiting.

"Me and my mother," the driver said. "Me and her put in our mortgage loan in this apartment up there." He pointed to his apartment block a few stories up.

"So you all go right ahead. We just come by for a last look."

Chee Meng and Shin Yi watched him go. A growing anger rose in Chee Meng, a deep urgency to strike out, to inflict pain. He whirled and pulled three times at the trigger. Three slugs tore into the foreclosure sign that was pasted on the pillar of the apartment block.

The taxi driver looked back.

Chee Meng offered the gun. The taxi driver looked at it and almost smiled. He hefted the pistol in his hand, slowly brought it to bear. He fired and hit the sign. He glanced over at Shin Yi and Chee Meng, who smiled their approval.

"Hey, Ma," he called to the old woman. "Come on over here."

The woman came closer and Shin Yi took the second gun from Chee Meng and gave it to her. The woman looked at Shin Yi, at her son, and finally at the house. The taxi driver turned and snapped off another shot. A window shattered above it. He nodded and his mother raised the gun she held and aimed carefully before firing. Another window crashed into shards. The taxi driver seamed face broke into a pleased grin as he returned the weapon to Chee Meng, nodding his thanks.

"Much obliged," the taxi driver said. He offered Chee Meng his hand and they shook. "Chan Ah Heng is my name. And this here's my mother Doris."

Chee Meng acknowledged the introductions. "This is Miss Tham Shin Yi and I'm Kwek Chee Meng" He hesitated, an idea leaping vividly to life in his frontal lobes, the excitement of discovery throbbing in his chest. It was right, perfect, and he rolled it around his brain joyfully.

"I rob foreign infested entities and companies and am a terrorist from Occupy Wall Street movement" he added.

Shin Yi and Chee Meng about it a lot during the rest of the day and into the night. Both of them felt the same surging desire, the same awareness that this was for them, that this was what they wanted, that this was right. Right in every way.

"Where is the money nowadays?" Chee Meng asked.

"In the banks," Shin Yi answered, giggling with anticipation. "Both Singapore local banks and foreign banks."

"Right. And that money truly belongs to the ordinary folks, folks like us, right?"

"Right."

"And the banks go round foreclosing on people like Ah Heng and that just isn't fair. "

"Not a bit."

"If a man's going to make a Iiving these days, and all the jobs are being taken up by foreigners, and all the profits go to corporate shareholders and bankers, he's just naturally got to go where the money is."

"That's right, Chee Meng."

"And it's in the banks."

The logic was unassailable and all that was left was to choose their first target and do it. Just do it. They would simply walk in to Changi Business Park, a location where all the foreign banks are located and where all the foreigners from India would be working as software and computer engineers and analysts. Chee Meng would wave those revolvers around a little and take some money and scuttle out of there. Nobody would be hurt. Not one single solitary soul. They were very firm about that.

"No shooting," Shin Yi said a number of times.

"Hell, no," Chee Meng agreed. "Won't... no need to. Nobody's fool enough to kick up a fuss about money belonging to a bank, so it'll all be peaceable and friendly like."

There was one more problem to be settled. "It'll be fun," Shin Yi said, "scaring those Indian foreigners and giving bad public relations to the image of Singapore so that these foreigners will be scared to work and taking their money. I'm just hankering to see the expressions on the faces of them bankers when we come walking in on them......"

Chee Meng stared at her stiffly. "We aren't walking in on nobody. Least not this first time. I am going to do this by myself."

"But why?"

"Because I say so is why. And because somebody's got to stay in the car so we can make a fast getaway. Right?"

Shin Yi could not argue with that and said so. When she went to sleep finally her disappointment was tinged with anticipation for the experience the new day would bring. They slept in each other's arms like two children, brother and sister, innocent and untroubled.

Chee Meng had selected the town to be hit, and the bank. He had seen it once and recalled thinking that it would be an easy job. The bank was on a corner with little automobile traffic, which would make for a swift escape after the job. All that was needed was a single determined man with good nerves. And Chee Meng was such a man.

By midmorning they were on the road. Shin Yi drove, Chee Meng beside her, hat pulled low over his eyes, hunched forward, staring at the long ribbon of road ahead.

"You just stay in the car and watch and be ready," he said, certain that Shin Yi was frightened, thinking to strengthen her resolve.

Shin Yi gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles white, her face set and tense.

"Right," he said. He took a gun from the glove compartment and put it on the seat next to Shin Yi. "You just be ready if I need you," he said, voice flat and meaningful.

"I'll be ready."

They drove without saying anything for a while.

"Scared?" Chee Meng asked.

"Me?" she said quickly. "No, not me. I have six months of unemployment anger to take out the whole of Singapore."

They drove on.

"Say," Chee Meng said, breaking the silence. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing"

"Oh."

Shin Yi slowed the car at the outskirts of the Standard Chartered Bank in Changi International Business Park, negotiating carefully. The bank appeared.

"There," Chee Meng said. "There's the bank."

"I see it."

She eased the car up to the curb in front of the bank and braked to a stop.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. In one corner, the food court had a sign that said "Indian Prata Set Lunch at five dollars". Even the café had to make adjustments to its menu to cater to the Indian foreign nationals working in Standard Chartered Bank.

Shin Yi worked her hands over the wheel. She glanced over at Chee Meng.

There was no mistaking the stiffness on his face, the tightness of his mouth, the glazed look in his eyes. He was frozen in his seat, as terrified as she was.

"Well," she managed. "What are you waiting for?"

One short glance and Chee Meng was out of the car, hurling himself at the bank entrance. Inside, gun in hand, he allowed a beat or two for his eyes to become adjusted, to pick out the lone teller in his cage. The man seemed drowsy, half-asleep over his ledgers. And there were no customers.

It was all wrong, but there was no time for Chee Meng to think, to sort the jumble of impressions that crowded his brain. He strode aggressively toward the teller who was an Indian national, gun out-stretched. Once again Chee Meng conjured up an image of a gangster, glared at the man in the window, turned his lip in a snarl and growled out the words.

"This is a robbery. Just take it easy and nothing will happen to you. Gimme the money."

The teller raised his head lazily. There was no apprehension on his face and his voice, when he spoke, was easy and conversational. He almost smiled.

"How do.........."

"Gimme the money!" Chee Meng snapped.

This time the teller did smile. In a heavily scented Indian accent, he said, "What money? There isn't money here, mister."

Chee Meng swallowed. What did this mean? His eyes raked the empty cages, again noting the absence of customers, the abandoned executive desks. "What do you mean there ain't no money?" he said, voice growing shrill. "This here's a bank, ain't it?"

"This was a bank," the teller said. "We failed three weeks ago. I am going to be retrenched soon."

"What? What?" A rising panic gripped Chee Meng.

What would Shin Yi think? She'd mark him down as a failure, a man who couldn't finish what he started, whose nerve went when the going got rough. She would never believe this story unless she heard it for herself. He should have brought her along. Perhaps he should get her, let her talk to the teller herself. There was no time for that. Rage began to build in him. He ducked behind the dividing partition and grabbed the teller by his shirt front, then twisted him around and shoved him toward the front, gun prodding his back roughly.

"Move, dammit man. Move." The words came from between gritted teeth. "Outside."

Shin Yi saw them and stiffened with fear. What did this mean? What had happened to make Chee Meng bring back a hostage? Nothing had been said about taking captives. She saw the anger on Chee Meng's face, the dark, smoldering look in his blue eyes. He jabbed the stranger with his gun, sent him tripping toward the car.

"Tell her!" Chee Meng commanded. "Tell her!"

The man blinked, eyes darting nervously, certain he was in the hands of a pair of lunatics. "As I was telling this gentleman, ma'am, our bank failed last month and ain't no money in it. I sure am sorry about that."

The fear drained out of Shin Yi at once and almost hysterical relief took its place. It was funny, all of it, two Singapore Occupy Wall Street terrorists making like bank robbers and ending up with a bank that was flat busted just like themselves. She began to laugh. Louder and louder.

Chee Meng glared at her, his anger mushrooming, a torrid, frustrating thing. With one swift motion, he knocked the teller to the ground and dived into the car.

Shin Yi released the brake, still laughing. Chee Meng wanted to strike out with words, with his fists. He thrust his gun arm out the window, aiming at the café sign with the "Indian Prata Set Lunch"

Four shots rang out and a small hole appeared in each of the zeros. Seconds later the entire window came crashing down.

The car roared off across the plain, Shin Yi still laughing.

Shin Yi couldn't stop laughing for long. Every time she managed to quell the laughter the scene outside the bank came back to her, the sight of Chee Meng angry and brandishing his pistol, herding that frightened little bank clerk in front of him, a bank clerk with no bank, with no money. It was funny. A giggle sputtered across her lips.

"Go ahead," Chee Meng said thinly, his anger close to the surface. "Laugh more."

"I can't help it."

"We got $1.98 and you're laughing. I ain't Iaughing.' There's nothing funny from where I sit."

She tried to stop and succeeded for a while. The car sped along the road past mile after flat mile of empty fields, of burned-out corn fields, past deserted farms, through villages that seemed uninhabited.

Now, as they went through one town, Chee Meng checked the main street. There was no one in sight. Up ahead a Pinoy grocery store came into view.

"Pull up," he said brusquely.

"What for?" Shin Yi asked.

His eyes were cold when he spoke. "2 Million Pinoys working in Singapore and a Pinoy shop opened for them to cater for their needs. Sure to have money. Pull over, I said, and keep the motor running."

She did and watched nervously as he climbed out of the car. She had never seen him in this mood before and it troubled her. Like this, he was capable of anything. She wished she hadn't laughed at him. Well, not really at him. Just at the way their first bank holdup had come so undone, nothing about it right. She exhaled softly. Maybe Chee Meng wasn't cut out for this kind of work. Maybe both of them weren't. She glanced at the grocery store. What was taking so long?

When Chee Meng entered the grocery, he had eyes only for the clerk. He failed to see the butcher in the back of the store.

"Afternoon, misterrrrr," the clerk said, letting the "Rrrrs" roll over her tongue in a thick Pinoy accent. "What'll it be?"

"A loaf of bread, I reckon, and a dozen eggs."

"Yes sirrrrr." He fetched the order. "Anything else?"

"Some butter, I guess, and some sliced ham and some sausages. And some vegetables and canned fruit, too." The clerk assembled the items and bagged them, toting up the cost.

"You are not a Pinoy? Not asking for any Pinoy tidbits? How about Sinigang? The butcher can help you prepare it....."

He punched open the cash register and looked up, smiling, about to ask Chee Meng for the money. The smile froze on his face as he saw the black revolver gleaming in Chee Meng's hands.

"This is a robbery, misterrrrrrr" Chee Meng said, imitating the Pinoy accent back to the clerk. "I'll take all the money in that cash drawer."

The clerk hesitated and Chee Meng reached across the counter, grabbing for the bills. He came up with a handful and grinned happily at the immobilized clerk. This was more like it easy pickings.

Chee Meng never saw the butcher, huge and thick-bodied, coming at him with catlike silence, brandishing a meat cleaver. The cleaver came slicing through the air, barely missing Chee Meng, lodging in the wooden counter. Chee Meng leaped backward, protesting.

"Hey, I don't mean to hurt nobody!" The butcher moved with incredible swiftness for a man of his size and bulk, enveloping Chee Meng in a bear hug around the chest, pinioning his arms, lifting him off the ground.

Fear was a living thing in Chee Meng's gut and he struggled to free himself, to loosen his gun hand. The clerk fought fiercely, making thick grunting noises, ignoring Chee Meng's protests that he meant no harm, bearing him over backward. They crashed to the floor and the bread: whooshed out of Chee Meng. He gathered all his strength for one last attempt to free himself. No use. The butcher tightened his grip. They rolled over and Chee Meng tried to raise the barrel of his pistol to an upward angle. His strength and determination were fast draining away and he grew terrified at the thought of capture, of being returned to prison.

He braced himself against the floor and forced his arm loose and swung hard at the butcher. It did little good. The butcher fought harder. The two men went tumbling across the floor, knocking over a display of canned goods, sending a standing shelf to the floor, breaking bottles.

"Let go!" Chee Meng cried hysterically, struggling wildly. Momentarily he broke away, only to trip and go to the floor, the butcher on him at once. The great arms tightened until Chee Meng feared his chest would burst.

Summoning all his strength, Chee Meng staggered erect, carrying the other man with him, striking out with pistol. He felt the butt crash against the other's face, heard the soft squish of bone and gristle, saw blood spurt out of his forehead. Chee Meng broke for the door, the butcher hanging on desperately.

Both of them went tumbling onto the sidewalk. Frantic now, Chee Meng struck out hard, pistol-whipping the butcher, turning his big fleshy face into a crimson pulp. For a long interval nothing happened; then the strength went out of the big man's hands and he slumped to the ground.

Chee Meng tore away, shouting at Shin Yi as he ran for the car. "Get the hell out of here! Get the hell out of here!"

Shin Yi stepped down hard and the car leaped ahead. A moment later they were tearing off across the flatlands again.

"What happened?" she said.

"I didn't want to hurt him," Chee Meng gasped. "I didn't. It was only money. Why'd he have to get in it? Why? It was only some money."

Shin Yi concentrated on her driving.

"Damn him, the big son of a bitch Pinoy. He tried to kill me. I have no eyes in back of my head. What he want to do a fool thing like that for?"

Shin Yi fought the wheel as they made a curve on two wheels, rubber screeching.

"A man trying to get a little food around here and some dumb son of a bitch tries to kill him. It wasn't even a real robbery. Just some food and a little bit of bread. I'm not against him. Didn't he know that? I'm no different than him, just folks. I might've killed him and I didn't want to kill no one. I'm not against him. I'm not."

He looked over at Shin Yi as if expecting her to speak, but she made no reply.

"Damn," he said. "Damn dumb son of a bitch."

After a while, Chee Meng lapsed into a brooding silence that went unbroken as they sped across the seemingly un-changing landscape. Once he dozed and his head sagged forward, only to jerk upright. He glanced sidelong at Shin Yi as if fearing some criticism, wary of sleep as he might have been wary of an enemy. It was the sound of the engine that snapped him back to full alertness. It began to cough.

"What's that!" he muttered. "What?" Shin Yi said.

'The motor. Listen. There. There it is again. There's something the matter with the damn thing."

She listened and frowned. "I didn't hear nothing."

The hoarse sound came again and quickly repeated and the car stopped again before continuing ahead.

The motor continued to give voice to its affliction and there was intermittent stopping in counterpoint.

"You see! You see!" Chee Meng said excitedly, focused entirely on this mechanical problem, and grateful for the diversion. "There is something the matter."

"Can you fix it?"

He glared at her as if about to speak, then fell back in the seat, expression mournful. "We better find us a good garage someplace. Keep a lookout."

Shin Yi looked over at Chee Meng at frequent intervals. The last time he grinned at her and she understood that his usual good humor had returned. The misadventure in the grocery was behind him, almost forgotten and of little consequence. She returned his smile and turned her attention back to the road.

It was just a filling station at a crossroads, ramshackle and in need of a painting. There was no sign of life but as they rolled up a figure stepped out of the doorway of the tiny office, wiping his hands with a dirty rag. Shin Yi stopped the car.

The black sedan drew to a stop in front of the cabin in the motor court. Chee Wee turned off the ignition.

"Ain't going to be a mechanic here," Chee Meng complained. "Not in this off beat-up place."

"Maybe this fellow can help. Or direct us to a first-rate garage." Shin Yi was hopeful, but even her optimism paled at the sight of the man approaching. There was nothing about him to inspire confidence.

He was small, made up of a succession of round protrusions. His bottom was round as if in counterweight to his thrust of chest; and his face was cherubic, pink and gloving. His eyes were circular and large, unblinking and his nose was a red button. His dirty yellow hair was curly and thick and he had needed a haircut many months before.

"How do you do?" he said in a high-pitched voice. 'There's something wrong with the motor," Chee Meng said. He got out and stretched.

'What?" the little round man said.

Shin Yi gave him one of her sunniest smiles. He was not very bright, she decided, hut he was all they had and right now they needed his help.

"We thought you could tell us," she drawled softly. "And put it right, too."

"Well, I don't know." He scratched his head. "What's been happening'?"

Shin Yi mentioned the coughing.

He nodded and opened the hood of the car. "Turn on your engine, please, ma'am."

Shin Yi did. The little round man listened with interest A nervous smile came and went when the motor sputtered, missed, ran on uncertainly.

"You can turn off the engine now, please, ma'am."

Shin Yi did so.

The little round man reached and they saw him disconnect the fuel line. He leaned forward, sucked air deeply into his lungs, blew hard into the fuel line. Chee Meng and Shin Yi exchanged a look of dismay. This bov wasn't going to be of any help, not this way, for sure.

The little man took another breath and blew again, his little round cheeks growing redder. For a moment Chee Meng was convinced he was going to inflate himself and float away and he was struck by the weirdness of the situation. A dull flat noise in the fuel line interrupted the thought. The mechanic straightened up and screwed the fuel line back into place, his round head gently bobbing up and down. He slammed the hood down and locked it.

"You can start up your engine now, ma'am," he said.

Shin Yi did and exclaimed delightedly as it purred smoothly.

Chee Meng slapped his hands together. "Hey, what was wrong, anyway?" he asked.

The other man shuffled his feet shyly. "Air bubble-clogged up the fuel line."

Chee Meng moved around the car so that the mechanic stood between himself and Shin Yi. He stared down at the smaller man. "Air bubble," he repeated softly.

"That's right." The mechanic looked from one to the other with uncertainty. He ducked his head. "I just blowed her away, you see."

A pleased but disbelieving grin broke across Chee Meng's face. "You just blew it away."

The mechanic nodded and belched. An embarrassed blush spread across his cheeks. "Excuse me, ma'am." He looked from under his brows at Chee Meng. "Anything else I can do for you folks right now?"

Chee Meng looked across the top of the round yellow head to where Shin Yi sat in the car. He jerked his head vigorously. Shin Yi got the message and directed her attention back to the mechanic.

"Well, now," she murmured, smiling softly. "I am not sure. . ." She let her eyes ride with no-particular hurry nround the premises. "Say," she went on. "The little red things there, sticking up? Are they gas pumps?"

The mechanic followed her eyes. "Sure," he said soberly.

"Isn't that interesting?" She turned her most brilliant smile on him. "How does that there gasoline get in my little old car?" '

The mechanic stepped forward, anxious to be helpful. He gestured toward the pumps. "Well, ma'am, you see, there's this tank under the ground, and the gas comes up this rube into the pump and into your car, ma'am."

"My, " Shin Yi said throatily. "You are surely a smart fellow. I mean, you sure do know a lot about automobiles, don't you?"

The round man nodded vigorously in assent. "Yeah," he said proudly. "I reckon I do."

"That's a fine thing," Shin Yi said.

"Yes, it is," Chee Meng put in. "A fine thing. A man could he owned a talent for automobiles like you have."

"Well, now," Shin Yi said. "Would you know what kind of a car this is?"

The mechanic considered the question. A pleased smile turned the bow mouth and he patted the hood of the car. "Yes, ma'am. This is a Hyundai cylinder coupe'

Shin Yi shook her head. "No, it isn't"

That drew a quick worried frown. "Sure it is."

Shin Yi leaned forward, eyes fastened to the mechanic. "No," she said with no special emphasis, "this is a stolen Hyundai cylinder coupe."

The mechanic's hand leaped off the hood as if it had suddenly been scorched by the devil's inferno.

Chee Meng took a single step forward and the smaller man stepped back, eyeing his two customers warily, curiosity and fear alternating on his features. He wiped his hands on his greasy blue Levis and ducked his head. The round eyes blinked and looked away, came quickly back to Shin Yi, to Chee Meng, trying to perceive if he was being mocked. He kicked dust and stared at a pebble he had never before seen.

"You ain't scared, are you?" Chee Meng said.

The little man shrugged and didn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

"No, I ain't scared. I am more scared of my boss. She's not in today but located at another place selling second hand cars. My boss is a tyrant. It is time we stand up to oppressive bosses."

"I believe he is scared," Chee Meng said to Shin Yi.

"What a pity," she said.

"Fuck," the mechanic muttered, not looking up. "We sure could use a smart boy who knows a lot about automobiles," Chee Meng said to no one in particular. "You are a good driver, boy?" Shin Yi said.

"I guess so."

Chee Meng measured him. "No, I don't think so. He's better off here where it's quiet and there ain't no trouble,"

"What's your name, boy?" Shin Yi asked quietly. "GC" "What's the GC for?" "Guan Chen"

Shin Yi nodded gravely. "I'm Miss Shin Y and this is Mr. Chee Meng." She paused and almost smiled. We are the terrorists from Occupy Wall Street and we rob foreign assets and terrorise foreigners." He pointed a gun at GC.

GC's little round eyes widened and a nervous laugh trickled across his lips.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with that," Chee Meng said, making his voice hard. "Is there, boy?"

"Uh, nope..."

Shin Yi gave an exaggerated sigh. "No, I reckon he is too good a boy."

"Unless, boy," Chee Meng said, "you think you got enough guts for our line of work?"

GC felt a twinge of resentment. These two, with their big talk questioning his courage, his nerve. A man might be only a filling-station mechanic burnt that didn't mean he didn't know his way around, hadn't done things.

"Look here," he said, displaying his displeasure. "I served a year in the reform school."

"A man with a record!" Shin Yi said.

Chee Meng laughed, a scornful sound, full of doubt and insult, a sound that penetrated to some dark, vulnerable place in GC

"Now look," Chee Meng said. "I know you got the nerve to short-change old ladies who come in for gas, but what I'm asking you is have you got what it takes to pull terrorist related activities with us?"

GC's eyes went from her to Chee Meng and back again.

"Sure I could," he said hurriedly, anxious to gain favor with this beautiful girl, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. "Sure, I could. I am not scared, if that's what you think. I would love to get back at my boss who pays me peanuts for the hard work I did."

''Prove it," Chee Meng said without expression.

They watched him carefully. There was the fleeting whine, the uncertain lowering of his eyes, the toe of his feet scratching earth, and a quick turn.

He walked back inside the office and they saw him open the safe and reached in, to come out with a handful of keys.

Seconds later he was back outside, face giving no indication of his thoughts. He walked up to the car, thrust his hand with a key at Shin Yi, and motioned her to the black sedan car parked a few metres away.

"If you could," GC said. "Just pay me a few thousand dollars for that black car....... In return, I will make a police report to say that I have been robbed....." He reached under the table and grabbed a hard disk recorder that connected the closed circuit camera. "Take this with you and make sure you pump a few bullets into it before you discard this recorder away. Just don't tell my boss."

Chee Meng let out a long rising whoop of pleasure, pulled open the rumble seat of the coupe. He was more than happy to let GC have the money from Pinoy grocer.

The taxi cab bounced along the narrow dirt road past green slopes and brown fields. Its tires were worn and caked with mud and the body of the car was layered with dust, indicating that it had traveled far and over many unpaved country roads. A main highway appeared ahead and the driver straightened in his seat and squinted anxiously before allowing his scowled face to relax into a pleased grin.

"Won't be long now, Mui Teng. Not long at all."

The woman sitting beside him, the residue of a girlhood prettiness still on her face, made a small sound of assent and continued to study a well-worn copy of 8 Days magazine. Vaguely one hand rose to finger the brown curls that had escaped from under her new hat, a close-fitting helmet of tan straw.

It didn't take much to make Chee Wee happy. He was a big man, strong, inclined to fat, with a roll around his middle and the beginnings of a second chin. And anticipating the reunion with Chee Meng filled him with an immense joy. Chee Wee and Chee Meng had always had this strong sense of family, knowing that they belonged to each other, that no matter the distance between them they were irrevocably joined, part of the same flesh, the same blood.

A short happy laugh erupted out of Chee Wee's fleshy mouth. He began to sing,

"What a beautiful thought I am thinking Concerning that great speckled bird, Remember his name is recorded on the pages of God's holy word."

There was something about that hymn that moved Chee Wee, that took him back to his childhood, that filled him with awe for the meaning of life—and death—that made him feel kind of strange and . immortal. He continued to sing.

"Chee Wee," Mui Teng said, not looking up from her magazine. She had been reading a story, with pictures, about Fann Wong and how hard she worked to polish her dancing for the moving pictures so that everything she did would be perfect. Mui Teng admired that in a person, especially a woman, because she knew how difficult it was to be perfect, even if you did try all the time. She raised her head and looked at her new husband and smiled kindly. That was one of the things about being a church-going Christian—you learned to forgive people who weren't absolutely perfect. "Chee Wee," she repeated, an almost nagging lilt in her voice.

He patted her knee. "What's that, my darling wife?"

"I want to talk to you."

He nodded vigorously but with no anticipation, Mui Teng, he had already learned during the brief span of their wedded life, was a persistent woman with a strong sense of right and wrong and a pervading desire to keep their lives on the straight and narrow. Well, all right, Chee Wee told himself silently.

"All right," Mui Teng said, her manner broadly coquettish. "Now you did foolish things as a young man which got you fired from your last job, honey-love, but you went and paid your debt to society and that was right. But now you are just getting back in with the criminal element."

Chee Wee frowned. "Criminal element! This is my brother. He isn't no more criminal that those big heads in the corporate buildings there". Chee Wee pointed to Development Bank Building far on the horizon on the lonely stretch of road.

"Well, that ain't what I heard or read in the papers."

Chee Wee reached out to pat her knee but she moved and his hand came down on the gearbox that rested on the seat between them. He stroked it affectionately.

"Now," he said, "word of mouth just don't go, darlin', you gotta have the facts. Fuck. Chee Meng and me growed up together, slept and worked side by side." He laughed loudly at the recollection.

"Goddammit. I just not gonna work as a security guard because I am an advanced degree holder ... that's final "

"No need to use the Lord's name in vain, Chee Wee," she remonstrated.

"Sorry, darling"

After a minute, she spoke again, keeping her eyes fastened to the road ahead. "The thing is, Chee Wee, your brother's a crook."

Chee Wee filled his lungs with air. Two loyalties were in conflict within him: he loved Mui Teng, loved her dearly, but he also loved Chee Meng, and they'd been family a lot longer time. Why couldn't Mui Teng understand that?

"Now you stop bad-mouthing Chee Meng" he said chidingly, as if speaking to a child. "We're just gonna have us a little family visit for a few weeks and then we'll go back to my humble roots and I'll get me a job somewhere." He hesitated and his voice firmed up. "I just need a stable job so that I can sustain our livelihood."

She looked up at him. "However you want it, lover-man." This time she did not move her leg when he reached for her knee. She lifted the movie magazine and began to read about a new actress named Rui En, who, the article insisted, was destined for quick stardom.

Chee Wee put his hand back on the wheel and began to sing again.

"You sure this is the place?" Mui Teng asked petulantly, hoping it wasn't.

"Sure. Chee Meng don't make mistakes like that."

"It's awful quiet."

Chee Wee grinned and winked broadly. "But not for long, darling" He punched at the horn in a military rat-tat-tat. Then again. The harsh blare cut through the still air.

The door to the cabin was flung open and Chee Meng was framed in the opening. A wild cry of joy broke out of him and he ran for the car. Chee Wee heaved himself from behind the wheel to meet his brother. Arms opened wide, they closed forcefully around each other, and each pounded at the other's back with what seemed like crippling force to Mui Teng. She grimaced.

"Chee Wee!" Chee Meng crowed.

"Chee Meng! You son of a bitch!"

Mui Teng tried to close her ears to that kind of language. She intended to break Chee Wee of that nasty habit as soon as she could. She watched without enthusiasm as the two brothers began to spar with each other, faking punches, blocking shadow blows, striking out in exaggerated slow motion, jabbing at each other's shoulders. Men, she thought, were so physical about so many things.

The sparring ceased, both men sucking air, laughing in short, almost reflexive bursts. "How's Ma?" Chee Meng got out.

"Just fine, just fine."

"How's sister?"

"Just fine, just fine. Send their best to you."

They stood a stride apart, studying each other. Chee Meng patted Chee Wee's paunch. "Hey, you're filling out there. Must be that food."

Chee Wee guffawed happily. "Hell, no, it ain't! It's taxi driving, brother. You know what they say, long hours of driving a taxi can make you fat." A noisy explosion of sound erupted out of Chee Wee, pleased with his own joke, and Chee Meng joined in.

"Hey, Chee Wee, you are something, the best joke-teller I ever did know."

Chee Wee swung a low roundhouse at his brother's middle. "Hey! You just gotta meet my wife. Hey, honey, c'mon out here now and meet my baby brother." —

Mui Teng climbed slowly out of the car, shielding her eyes from the sun with the movie magazine. She assessed Chee Meng obliquely and her mouth twitched in what might have been a smile.

"How do you do?" she simpered.

Chee Meng reached out for her hand, shook it athletically. "Sure is nice to know you."

Mui Teng rescued her hand just as Shin Yi appeared in the doorway of the cabin. A single glance, then she stepped outside, the screen door slamming behind her. All heads swung in her direction and for an extended interval there was no movement, no sound.

It was Chee Wee who interrupted the tableau. He bounded toward Shin Yi, beaming and jolly, arms outstretched, voicing his pleasure.

"Well, now! You must be Shin Yi!" His arms encircled her in a gentle bearhug, then stepped back. "Now I hear you been taking good care of the baby in the family. Well, sis, I'm real glad to meet you." He hugged her again and Shin Yi submitted. "Say," he said, releasing her. "I'd like for you to meet my wife, Mui Teng."

Shin Yi stared stiffly at the other woman. "Hello."

Mui Teng was equally formal, equally stiff. "Hello," she replied. Mui Teng took one look, averted her eyes, and backed off.

There was a silent moment, awkward and unfilled, and a sense of hostility rose up around them all. It was Chee Wee who shattered the frozen scene.

He shook hands with Shin Yi. He took her hand.

"Well, how do, Mrs. Kwek Chee Wee," Shin Yi finally said happily. "Or can I call you Mui Teng? I sure am pleased to meet you."

Mui Teng rolled her eyes, seeking some avenue of escape from this wild-looking creature.

Mui Teng shook her head in short, quick jerks, edging over to where Chee Wee stood, trying to quell the panic that went seeping into her limbs. This young woman so strange, wild-looking and -sounding. She troubled her. Frightened her. She clutched anxiously at her husband's arm and held on tightly.

Chee Wee noticed none of it, grinning openly, his little eyes glowing in friendship. But Shin Yi missed nothing and decided that there was a lot about Mui Teng she didn't like.

"Hey!" Chee Wee cried. "How about us taking some photographs? Let me get my phone.

Chee Wee hustled over to his car to return in a moment carrying a phone. He busied himself opening it and extending the bellows.

"We're gonna get us some fine snaps," he boasted.

Chee Meng fired a cigar and puffed contentedly

Chee Meng guffawed and faked a roundhouse at his brother's jaw. "Man, Chee Wee, you are too much. Too much."

Chee Wee grabbed Chee Meng by the arm and pulled him over to where Mui Teng stood. He guided Chee Meng's arm around her, pushing them close together.

"Now," he said. "Lemme get one of my bride and my brother."

Mui Teng giggled cutely, too cutely, Shin Yi thought. "Chee Wee! Don't you dare take my picture. I'm just a mess from driving all day."

He reassured her. "Oh, honey, you look real fine."

"You really think so?"

"Sure. Doesn't she look fine, Chee Meng?"

"That's a fact, Mui Teng."

Chee Wee snapped the picture.

"Did you actually take my picture?" Mui Teng said, feigning girlish outrage that somehow failed to enhance her appearance. "Oh, Chee Wee, I declare..."

Chee Wee laughed and went over to Shin Yi, guided her into position next to Chee Meng and Mui Teng. He stepped back and looked into the view mirror.

"Let's have some big smiles, now."

Neither Shin Yi nor Mui Teng softened her expression; Chee Meng alone smiled for the camera.

"Hey, Chee Wee," Chee Meng said, pulling out his revolver and doing a pose. "Get one of this."

"Hold that," Chee Wee said, snapping. "Chee Meng, now you do one of me and my missus."

Chee Meng aimed the camera while Chee Wee put his arm around Mui Teng. "That does it," he said. "Now let me take one of Shin Yi."

She grinned at him and took the cigar out of his mouth and thrust it between her own teeth at a rakish ankle. "Okay, how's this?"

Chee Meng laughed.

Chee Wee laughed.

Mui Teng watched coldly.

Chee Wee appeared in his jeans and jacket. "That's terrific, Shin Yi," he said.

Chee Meng handed the camera to Shin Yi "Here you take some pictures."

"That's right," Chee Wee said. "It's time me and my baby brother had us a little talk."

"Don't be long, now, Chee Wee," Mui Teng called after them. "You know how I hate to be alone without you."

The two men went into the cabin and Chee Wee closed the door behind them. Here it was dim and conspiratorial, the only light seeping from around the edges of the drawn shades. The two men stole looks at each other, swung half-punches, and toed the floor.

"Hey, Chee Meng."

"Yeah..."

"Chee Meng." Chee Wee kept his eyes averted. "It was you or him, wasn't it?" "Huh?"

"That guy you killed. I mean, you had to do it, didn't you? You had to."

There was no disguising the anxiety in Chee Wee's tone. He was telling Chee Meng clearly what he wanted to hear, what he wanted the truth to be.

Chee Meng ducked his head. He wanted to please his older brother, to protect, him. He made a deprecatory gesture.

"You know me, Chee Wee. He put me in a spot, so I had to. The Pinoy didn't have a chance."

"But you had to," Chee Wee insisted.

"Yeah," Chee Meng agreed.

"I had to. Besides he is a foreigner. Sometimes we do these to send them a strong message."

Chee Wee punched Chee Meng's shoulder lightly, pleased with the explanation. Then, confidentially: "There isn't no need to say nothing to Mui Teng about it."

"Whatever you say, big brother. Hey, she talk you into going back to a job after you left army?"

Chee Wee couldn't conceal his embarrassment. He had hoped Chee Meng hadn't heard about that. "Yeah, but how to find a job in such hard times?"

Chee Meng shrugged it away. "There are jobs but strictly meant for foreigners. Our politicians do nothing to help us."

"I appreciate it."

"Yeah ... say, what do you think of Shin Yi?"

"She's a real peach."

"Yeah ... so's Mui Teng."

"Yeah. She's a City Harvest Church pastor's daughter but she's okay and I love her a lot."

"Sure. You married her, didn't you?"

"That's right."

There was an extended pause and they gazed at each other, then turned away, each trapped by his own emotions, his own melange of thoughts that refused to be isolated and spoken.

For each of them there were words best buried and forgotten, best not voiced, and each wore his inhibitions like a suit of armor. The silence continued, thick, ponderous, a strain, too much to bear. It was Chee Wee, the natural enemy of silence, who destroyed it, clapping his hands together and letting out an Indian war whoop.

"Whooeee!" he yelled.

"Whooeee!" Chee Meng echoed.

"Whooeee!"

Again the silence and again it was Chee Wee who ended it,

"Yea." he said, supporting the words with all his energy. "Boy, are we gonna have us a time!"

"We surely are!" "Yessir. A good time."

"Yeah."

Chee Wee hesitated. "What are we gonna do?"

"Well, how's this ... I thought we'd all go up to Malaysia. The police looking for me there. We'll hole up someplace and have us a regular vacation. All right?"

Chee Wee looked up. "No trouble, now?"

"No trouble," Chee Meng said soberly. "I am not looking to go back to army."

"Hey," Chee Wee said, his high spirits returning. "What's this I hear about you joining the Occupy Wall Street movement?"

"That ain't the truth but half of it. I did it so I could get some justice done to us. The headquarters phoned me up last week about organizing a global wide protest next month to teach those corporate greedy pigs a lesson or two about human suffrage and dignity."

Chee Meng went to the door and opened it. "Isn't life grand?" he laughed over his shoulder, before ducking out into the sunlight.

It was a good day, bright Chee Meng and Chee Wee agreed that life was fine and that they didn't intend to be separated again. At least, not for a while.

About fifty feet back, trailed another second car with Shin Yi, Mui Teng. They drove off, laughing, all four of them.

The days and nights passed swiftly and unmarked as they spent most of their time driving along back roads or in dingy rooms in motor courts. The three of them slept in the same room and at first it was fun and comfortable, sort of family like, until Shin Yi began to grow tense.

It wasn't that she didn't like Chee Wee.—she did. But his snoring kept her awake and besides she wanted to be alone with Chee Meng, to be able to do those things a real woman did with a man, to a man, to make him want her the way she wanted him.

She couldn't understand that about Chee Meng, about his not craving her, her body in the same way all the boys did back in school. She remembered how it was when she was studying and mugging in the library and all those big old rough boys coming in and funning with her, laughing all the time, their eyes saying what it was they wanted, what it was she had for them, and some of them said it with their hands and with words. And sometimes.

But it was Chee Meng now, only Chee Meng. She loved him fiercely and desired him more than she had ever desired anyone or anything. To look at him evoked longings in her she had never before known and she ached, ached, to be filled with him, to give him everything that was hers to give. It was important, she told herself, that they be alone, that they begin to live in a natural way for a man an. d a woman. She would talk to Chee Meng, explain how she felt, and he would understand. Chee Wee would simply have to sleep by himself and with Mui Teng.

Her chance came sooner than she expected, the next day when they stopped off in a roadside cafe for lunch. The two of them were seated in a booth in the rear, Chee Meng able to watch the door from his position. But he and Shin Yi were concentrating on Chee Wee instead.

Chee Wee was industriously preparing his food. With methodical thoroughness he sprinkled sugar over everything, spreading a thick layer of the white granules over the beets, the potatoes, the meat. Shin Yi could remain silent no longer.

'Chee Wee, what are you doing? Why do you do that?"

Chee Wee put the sugar shaker aside and began to eat.

"Why not?" he said.

"It's just disgusting, that's why."

Chee Wee chewed with great relish. "Not to me it ain't."

Shin Yi grimaced. "But . . . but it makes everything sweet"

Chee Wee grinned up at her. "Yeah, I know." Shin Yi leaned back in her seat, an expression of despair on her face.

"Oh, damn!" Chee Wee exclaimed. "What's wrong?" Chee Meng said. "No mayonnaise."

Chee Wee slid out of the booth and went down to the far end of the counter. Shin Yi waited until he was beyond hearing before speaking.

"Chee Meng," she said, "why does he have to stay in the same room with us?"

It was as if Chee Meng failed to hear the question. His face remained concentrated, his eyes narrowed in thought. He reached for the sugar shaker, spread a thin field of white

His brow ridged in tight focus.

"Why, Chee Meng?" she persisted.

"What?"

"In the same room with us?"

She took his hand and lifted it to her cheek, cuddled her face against his palm. "It's just that I love you so much, Chee Meng."

"You're the best damn girl in Singapore," he murmured, meaning it.

Just then Chee Wee returned, a jar of mayonnaise clutched in one first. He looked down at the table in dismay. "Hey, you spilled all the sugar."

Chee Meng began to eat. "This is the layout for tomorrow Thailand."

"Thailand!" Chee Wee said, sliding into the booth. "Gosh, that's four, five hundred miles from here!"

"'So what! Thailand might have been any one of a hundred similar towns but still...... "

People were talking about the political posters that were beginning to go up around town, photographs of President Tan Jin Yang and there were even some Philippines born Presidential candidate Marvin Arroyo; no Pinoy with a way of talking with an accent was going to get many votes in Singapore, that was for sure, people said. But about the 2 million Pinoys in Singapore may vote for him and it may just be enough to swing him into power.

No one paid much attention to the big touring car that rolled down the street and stopped in front of the bank. Nor did anyone take notice of the young couple who got out, no different from the folks living around Toa Payoh.

Chee Meng bent and looked through the window at Chee Wee who was behind the wheel. "Keep it running and be ready to go."

"Yeah, Chee Meng." Chee Wee smiled.

Shin Yi and Chee Meng moved off toward the entrance of the Biopolis, a brown mosaic tiled building with research offices on the floor above. Biopolis is an international research and development centre located in Singapore for biomedical sciences. The building is dedicated to providing space for biomedical research and development activities and promoting peer review and collaboration among the China born researchers who are on foreign talent visitor passes to work in Singapore.

Chee Wee didn't watch them. He was too busy looking for a convenient parking space. There, exactly what he wanted. A car parked halfway up the street behind him and pulled out. Chee Wee shifted into reverse and gunned the touring car back.

He eyed the space and decided that it was just large enough to accommodate his car. It was a tight fit, but he maneuvered skillfully until he was in place. Once parked, he leaned back, satisfied with his effect, eyes glued to the research institute's entrance, waiting for Shin Yi and Chee Meng to appear.

Inside the research institute, matters were proceeding smoothly. When Shin Yi and Chee Meng appeared they saw that only one Singaporean guard was on duty, a scrawny little man whose best years were behind him.

Chee Meng very calmly shoved his pistol in to the guard's face and relieved him of his weapon.

"All right, folks," Shin Yi announced in a friendly voice, "All you PhD holders listen up. This is a holdup so put up your hands, please, and do as you're told."

Arms shot skyward and eyes widened and one woman dropped her purse in fright and another uttered a small muffled shriek.

"Dig into your pockets and throw towards us your wallets and purses. No one would get hurt."

The lady researchers were speedily accommodating, shoving stacks of purses towards Shin Yi.

The men dug deep into their pockets and began to throw their wallets to the front so that Shin Yi could fill the sack she carried.

"That's it, Chee Meng," she announced finally.

"Right." He smiled. "Now you folks just stay calm and quiet while we leave. Once we get out of this foreigner infested building, why, you can make all the fuss you like."

He motioned for Shin Yi to precede him, then ducked after her into the street. Squinting in the bright sun, they ran for the spot where they had left Chee Wee and the touring car. Neither driver nor car was in sight,

"What the hell. . . !" Chee Meng broke out. "Where's the car?"

Shin Yi's eyes darted about anxiously. "There! Down the street!"

"Let's go!" Chee Meng shouted to Chee Wee "Let's go!"

Chee Wee slammed the car into gear, twisted the wheel, and struggled to shoot out of the parking space. There wasn't room enough. He slipped into reverse, backed fast, turned hard on the wheel, and shot forward again. He was jammed in tight. Back and forth he went now, banging bumpers with the car in front and the one in back, struggling frantically to wheel the touring car out into the roadway.

"Come on!" Chee Meng bellowed, waving frantically, looking back over his shoulder at the bank, expecting armed pursuit at any moment.

"Come on! Get it out!" He gestured to Shin Yi and they broke for the car and dived into the back seat even as Chee Wee struggled to free himself from the parking space.

"Come on!" Chee Meng cried. "Get it out of here! Let's get moving before the police show up!"

Chee Wee swung the wheel hard and bore down on the accelerator. The big car lurched forward and there was the sound of scraping fenders.

A security guard came running up to the bank and the guard pointed to the car up the street. The blue-clad officer went for his gun, began shooting.

"Get out of here!" Chee Meng screamed.

The car swung into the middle of the street and careered wildly, Chee Wee fighting for control. As they came alongside the road, a dignified, white-haired man in his shirtsleeves and a celluloid collar leaped onto the running board, pounding at the closed window. Chee Meng recognized him as one of the security guard from the building.

"Stop!" the man cried. "Stop this car!"

"Get off!" Chee Meng shouted. "Get off before you get hurt! Whose side are you on? Singapore or China?"

"Oh, my God," Shin Yi gasped. "Why is this Singaporean security guard protecting all these foreigners in Biopolis?"

"Chee Meng, do something."

"Get away!" he shouted, voice crackling. He brandished his pistol. "Get off!"

The man pounded at the glass with his fist and in punctuation a shot whizzed overhead. From behind came the wail of a police siren. They were being followed.

It was too much for Chee Meng.

The oppressive sound swelling inside his skull, the rising excitement and terror, the distorted face on the other side of that glass, so close and threatening recalling another face from deep in his past. A thin scream of despair broke out of Chee Meng and he turned his pistol on the man and fired.

An exploding sunburst of glass and the face turned into a horrible bloody mask. For an endless moment it hung there, a disembodied apparition, terrifying, the end of life, the violent visage of death. The face disappeared and Chee Meng fell back, moaning.

Behind the wheel, Chee Wee fought a continuing battle with the car and with his nerves. He hadn't expected anything like this. And it was all his fault, putting the car into that too-small space. What had he been thinking about? He glanced up at the rear-view mirror. A police car was careering after them, red flashes marking gunshots. All at once none of it was fun, none of it glamorous or exciting. But there was no time for such thoughts. Not now. Now was the time to escape, to elude their pursuers, to find some sanctuary. Somewhere.

They had no more than a few minute's lead over the police as they raced through the town. It was Shin Yi who saw it first, realized that this was their chance to escape.

"Turn off, Chee Wee!" she cried. "At the next corner."

He did and Shin Yi led the way out of the car.

"Come on. Follow me."

Without question, they accepted her authority, hurrying back around the corner to the moving-picture theater in the middle of the block. The marquee read, "Jack Neo's Army Daze"

"We're going inside," Shin Yi said. "They'll never think to look for us here."

"Fuck," Chee Wee mumbled. "I have seen this picture in the army before. Not a great picture."

They found seats in the rear of the orchestra, Shin Yi on the aisle, Chee Wee one seat away, Chee Meng in the row behind. Chee Wee scrounged down and attacked the candy bar he had purchased from the vendor in the lobby.

"We're lucky," he announced in a hoarse whisper. "It just started. You didn't missed much."

Shin Yi focused on the black-and-white shadows on the screen, a row of dancing girls in white shorts on a lush set, tapping their way up and down a curved staircase. And Zoe Tay was singing, "We're in the Money." Shin Yi hummed along with her.

"I just love musicals," she tossed over her shoulder at Chee Meng.

He shook his head nervously, his eyes drawn back to the entrance doors. He felt for his pistol, jammed down in his belt. If anything happened. He changed his position and glared at the back of Chee Wee's head.

"Fuck," he said, voice tight with rage. "You gotta be poor in the head. You know what you did?"

"I wasn't thinking right, Chee Meng."

"You almost got us all killed, you know that? Killed."

Chee Wee turned and smiled what he hoped was a winning smile. "That security guard was the only one that got killed, Chee Meng. You sure did him good."

"You. . . !" Chee Meng struggled to keep his voice down. "Count of you.... I killed a man. Murder. .. you too. And he's Singaporean!"

"I'm sorry, Chee Meng. He deserves to die to. We told him to get off. And he risked his life to protect those China born PhD researchers."

"Dumb ass stupid."f

Chee Wee turned again, nodded in full agreement. "Dumb ass stupid, that's right."

Chee Meng lifted his hand as if to strike him, slapped limply at the back of Chee Wee's head. "Ever do a dumb thing like that again, and I'll kill you, boy!"

"I mean it, boy," Chee Meng added.

"Hush up," Shin Yi said to Chee Meng. "You boys want to talk why don't you go outside?"

They had gone out of their way to reach this particular motor court, and Chee Wee wondered about that. Generally they took a room at the first one they came to toward dusk. Not this time. This time Chee Meng had known exactly where he wanted to go, had brushed aside all objections.

Once they were situated, Chee Wee wondered some more why it had had to be this motor court. There was nothing special about it.

Just a collection of nondescript cabins around a parking area. And the rooms were no different, the same unpainted walls, the same cheap furniture, the same hard beds. Of course, this one did have a radio, which he supposed was something.

He wished Shin Yi would change the station though. She was listening to Taylor Swift and Chee Wee got nothing out of those romantic ballads sung in that kind of reedy voice.

"How come we come to this place?" he asked.

Chee Meng looked over at him and grinned. "Because I said so."

"Oh. But why?"

"Because I'm going to meet my big boss here, is why. She is on his way right now. I told him where I'd be at and said to come on along."

"Suppose she doesn't come?" Chee Wee said.

Chee Meng's face darkened. "Angel Abi Chua will come."

At that hour, thirty-three year old China born student Sun Xu hurried into a red brick apartment house and knocked sharply on the door of fiancée, Sha Lanjie. He was worried about Lanjie, an attractive, dark-haired National University of Singapore graduate student. Sun Xu had found a note in his room from Liu Qian, a pianist from the Conservatory. She didn't show up for choir practice this afternoon. A warm outgoing girl, Lanjie had worked part-time as a musician singer in the Conservatory.

Now, when there was no reply to his knock, Sun Xu used key she had given him to open the door. He saw her at once.

He could not help seeing her. She lay directly within his line of vision, sprawled nude on her back on her convertible sofa bed in the combination living room, her legs apart, her right leg on the bed, her left hanging over the edge between bed and wall. Her wrists had been tied behind her with a black silk scarf glittering with sequins. A blood-stained nylon stocking and two handkerchiefs tied together were knotted about her neck; there was blood on her chest and neck; a cloth was over her mouth; a lace blouse had been draped about her shoulders.

Almost paralyzed with horror, Sun Xu managed to walk to the bed and stand over her. Was she dead? He pulled away the cloth over her mouth. A second cloth had been stuffed into her mouth. He pulled that out. Her mouth was open. Her eyes closed. Her body lifeless.

Though it appeared that Lanjie had been strangled, death had come as a result of stabbing – twenty two times, four in the throat, eighteen in the left breast where the stab wounds described an unmistakable bull's eye design – a large circle enclosing a smaller circle with the final stab wound in the centre. The 'decorations' about her neck appeared to be precisely that. None of them had been tightly enough to cause death. A bloody knife with a four inch blade was found in the kitchen sink. She had been dead for forty-eight hours. Sunday was the last day she had been seen alive. At 8 am, her neighbour across the hall heard Lanjie practicing several arias, later that Sunday morning

Lanjie was to receive her master's degree in computer engineering in June.

The pattern was the same – the nylon stockings, the body's position, the victim's background – all from China. Only the stabbing was different. Some detectives and police superintendants theorized that Lanjie might have developed such powerful throat muscles from singing that the murderer, unable to render her unconscious at once, had seized a knife and stabbed.

Only that was different – and the fact that Lanjie had been exploring a subject that might have brought her into the world of the murderer.

That May of 2020, with the strangling toll at three, all China born foreign nationals working or studying in Singapore, Police superintendent Roy Eng had dinner at the home of his uncle and aunt, Dr and Mrs Eng Minghao .

Roy who now worked the 8pm to 3am shift in the Tanglin Police Headquarters with his partner Jim was one of the city's most skilful void deck men – so called because he specialised in the void deck alleys, the dead end streets, the courtyards and backwards of apartment houses.

In pitch darkness he knew his way in and out of basements, how to negotiate fire escapes, roofs and parking lots; such was his knowledge of the void decks and of what routes a fleeing man might take that more than once, responding to an alarm from a man, mugger or purse snatcher, while other police rushed to the scene, Roy raced through a back alley, vaulted a fence, and was standing, waiting in the shadows, for the thief to run into his arms.

A heavyset, earnest man of forty-three, Roy followed his calling with the fervor of the truly committed. Save off the time he spent with his family, he devoted every waking hour to his work.

He had been one of the ten detectives chosen to attend the Singapore Anti-Terrorist Seminar, by now he considered the China Murderer his personal enemy. The murders in Singapore have spread to China, Australia, United States and Europe and was doing public relations damage Singapore.

"I can see him," he'd tell his colleagues; he's sitting there, sneering at me, challenging me. Just try and catch me," He's saying.

Although he might talk of other matters to persons outside the department, the China Murderer was rarely out his thoughts.

Now over coffee, his aunt turned to him.

"Roy, you are still on the strangulation cases, aren't you?"

Roy nodded.

She said, "Well, I think I know someone who knows who the China Murderer is."

Roy stared at her, thinking. How could anyone know who the China Murderer is and not once in all these months come forward and tell us? Aloud he said, "Who is it? Can you contact this person?"

Mrs. Eng promptly telephoned Mrs. George Stratton, wife of a psychiatrist at Singapore State Hospital at Woodbridge, a mental institution. Roy could hear the voice on the other end. "I don't know if this man will talk to your nephew. He tried to help the police once before, but they wouldn't listen—he won't have anything to do with the police anymore."

Roy said emphatically, "Tell her I'm willing to listen to anything he has to say."

Ten minutes later the phone rang. It was for Roy.

Phil said, "Look, anyone who can help us we're grateful to. I'll be at work tonight at seven-thirty. If Dr Stratton could drop in, I'd really appreciate it."

How did his aunt know about this? Roy asked her. She explained that Mrs. Stratton was an old friend. Some time ago while they were playing poker, the lawyer spoke to Dr. Stratton about his amazing friend who seemed to know all about the China Murderer. Only the other day Mrs. Stratton happened to mention this to Mrs. Eng, and so she was now passing it on to him.

At eight o'clock when, as Phil surmised, he had been sufficiently briefed, Dr Stratton himself arrived. He turned out to be a short, heavyset man with huge shoulders and dark brown eyes. He was partially bald. He appeared to be in his early forties. He spoke with a perceptible lisp, but there was no hesitancy in his words.

"Now, before I begin, I want to make certain things clear," he said. "I'm not saying I can prove anything I'm going to tell you. All I can say is that I have ideas for which I don't have a normal, usual explanation. They come to me from some well in my mind—at first it seems I'm remembering them—but when I analyze it I realize I don't really know why I'm getting the ideas or how they come to me."

He smiled. "Now, maybe they don't make sense to me but they might make sense to you, and that's why I'm here." If he was asked point-blank, he added, he would have to say ljes, he did have an idea who the China Murderer was and what he looked like.

"Please tell us," said Phil.

Dr Stratton nodded. "I picture her as fairly tall, bony hands, pale white skin, red, bony knuckles, her eyes hollow-set.

The China Murderer, Dr Stratton went on, had "many problems. She probably beat up her own mother cruelly—she was an idiotic, domineering woman."

"How many murders do you think he committed?" Phil liked.

"Oh, not more than four, maybe five," Gordon replied. Could Mr. Gordon tell him something about the strangljngs? Say, the first one?

Would the China Murderer, driven to kill three China born women because each represented in his madness the foreigners she hated, also be driven to kill Gong Li, aged forty, a China pei-du study mama. Peidu mamas (陪读妈妈), or study mamas are women who accompany their children to Singapore to receive primary and secondary-level education. The study mama phenomenon began in 2000, after the Singapore Government relaxed its immigration policies to attract more foreigners. Most of the study mamas are from mainland China.

The Immigration and Checkpoints Authority of Singapore possesses records that suggest that there are at least 7,800 study mamas of various nationalities, with two-thirds of the 6,800 study mamas in Singapore in July 2005 coming from China. Of these 6,800 study mamas, only 1,000 have been issued with work permits.] The majority of the working study mamas are employed in the service sector.

Che Wenning, twenty-four who is part of a younger table tennis athlete being groomed to be the next Olympic star due to represent Singapore in the future Olympic Games and touted as the next rising star to another China born athlete Tian Fengwei; And now Sha Lanjie, also twenty-three but she is a graduate student.

Or might these younger women have been killed by someone else, and for other reasons? Might not one man have strangled the forty year old older woman Gong Li?

The committee was increasingly coming to this conclusion. It would appear far more logical to separate the victims into two groups—in Dr. Stratton words, the Old Woman, and the Girls.

As Dr Stratton put it in a report issued later, the majority of the committee agreed that one man probably had killed the Old Woman. He would be "Mr. S."—the Strangler. As to the others—the Younger Girls—they probably were not slain by Mr. S. but by one or more men or women, likely to be found in the circle of the Girls' acquaintances, most probably "unstable members of the Singaporean xenaphobic community" who had tried to make their acts resemble the stranglings of the Old Woman as reported in the newspapers. The more one considered this theory, the more persuasive it seemed.

The Clementi area was a neighborhood frequented by China nationals. Every night was a China night. It was colorful, bizarre, offbeat section of Singapore. "If a Singaporean were to walk down Clementi Street everyone would turn to look at him as he is considered a foreigner in Singapore," one of the detectives liked to say.

For whatever it meant, before Che Wenning moved to Singapore from China, she had roomed in a Toa Payoh motel, near the Singapore Table Tennis Federation; among her neighbors were the owners of one of Singapore's most popular table tennis stars Li Jiawei and Tian Fengwei who won the Gold Medal in 2008 Beijing Olympics and is now effectively a millionaire. A gold medal in Olympics means a million dollar prize money.

As to the character of the man or women capable of the stranglings, Dr. Stratton pointed out that he and his colleagues at most could only hazard a few guesses toward a "common profile." Generally, he explained, the murderer contains within himself "an encapsulated core of rage" directed at an important figure in his early life—usually a dominant, overwhelming female.

To cope with his rage he engages in powerful, sadistic fantasies in which he kills this figure. The murderer differs from other psychotic killers in his ability to keep his terrible daydreams to himself. He keeps quiet about them: he exhibits no odd behavior. Thus he is able to move among friends and fellow workers without calling attention to himself. Chances were that he might appear bland, pleasant, gentle, ingratiating—even compassionate. Because of the training given him by the hated female figure he would most likely be neat, punctual, polite—in brief, the personality often seen in confidence men "and in many normal lower middle class men." No one would think of him as "crazy."

What, then, would trigger his crime—cause him to kill?

Certain stresses that would bring about sadistic impulses too great for him to cope with.

The loss of his job due to retrenchment, workplace bullying by foreigners, probably from China; anything that contributed to a loss of self-esteem, such as having been told to queue up in front of China foreigners to withdraw money from an automated bank teller machine even though he is Singaporean......... anything that made him feel a loss of masculinity or loss of ownership as a Singapore citizen. That could result from a late marriage to a China born woman who expected him to function as an adult, although such a man would most likely find himself marrying a second mother.

Whatever the case, he would find himself in a deepening depression from which he was able to emerge only by a sudden explosion, a violent venting of his hate, frustration, impotence: in short, murder, the destruction of the terrifying female image, but murder in the special ritualistic, fetishist manner of his illness, both sadistic and loving. Because each murder solved nothing—the specter was not eliminated, it would rise again—he was doomed to repeat the crime again and again.

What kind of mother would he have? "A sweet, orderly, neat, compulsive, seductive, punitive, overwhelming woman"

"The China Murderer grew up to feel that China women were a fearful mystery," Dr. Stratton speculated. He might have attempted sexual relations with women but was successful only if he could imagine himself humiliating, beating, and torturing them.

"It is an easy matter to strangle someone from behind, enough to induce unconsciousness, with a forearm grip." Or he could clout them on the side of the neck with the edge of his hand. He would be at least thirty—perhaps older; strong enough to carry or pull heavy women about the room; neat and orderly (he left no fingerprints, probably wearing gloves at all times); probably single, separated, or divorced; a man "who knew how to kill efficiently, who was attracted by neat, pleasant old women with fair complexions and firm flesh. He left his victims in such shocking positions not only to degrade and debase them, but also to make it appear that they tried to entice him—a tribute to the masculinity he desperately wished he possessed.

Lieutenant Roy took on his new assignment grimly. His interest in the legal aspects of crime detection had led him to take three years of criminal law courses at Singapore Law School, but he had been too busy to complete his studies. He had been involved in investigations, often on his own time. He had taken the murders in his stride until the death of rising table tennis star Che Wenning. He had been outraged by the others, but when he saw what had been done to Che Wenning—a year older than his own daughter—"I wanted to smash him. I wanted to hit him."

In the beginning he had been inclined to write off the murderer as one more psychopath who would be quickly captured, but as the search continued and no lead came to fruition, he confided to a fellow officer, "My biggest fear is that he'll turn out to be someone we could have picked up long ago—but we haven't been adding the right facts together."

Roy moved into action on three fronts. When he was appointed on July 20, he was at once held a full-scale review of everything done so far—a meeting lasting long after midnight, attended by all high police officials from Singapore. Also present were technicians—police photographers, stenographers, DNA and fingerprint forensic experts,—who had been on the murders or worked on the evidence.

Perhaps one of these men might have observed a clue, however insignificant; perhaps he nurtured an idea, a way to proceed, that he had hesitated to suggest because protocol restricted these matters to the detectives themselves. Here was his opportunity to unburden himself, to bring out the notes and memos he might have made.

Friday, March 17, just before dusk, the elusive dark-haired figure (most likely a man in sweatshirt hood) was almost caught on CCTV the night when Che Wenning was murdered. There had been a series of housebreakings in the area and six police cruisers were on the alert for the burglar. Probably after winning prize money from the Commonwealth Games and Olympics, the burglar was expecting the China born table tennis players to buy expensive gold jewellery to reward themselves.

It was a few minutes after 12:30 A.M.; She dozed off for a moment. When she opened her eyes, a shapeless figure stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at her. It was of medium height, its eyes hidden behind huge green aviator's sunglasses, its dark hair combed back, wearing a dark waist-length jacket and green slacks with a hood covering the head. "Don't worry," it said quickly, "I am not here to rape you—" But as he spoke he was approaching her bed.

She managed to find voice enough to say, "You leave this room at once!" She struggled to sit up in bed.

It pushed her down, hard, and she screamed. She felt the blade of a knife against her throat. "Not a sound, you realize that you will be sacrificed for our cause," it warned. As she lay there all but paralyzed, it stuffed her underwear into her mouth, and using her pajamas and her own clothes, tied her in a spread-eagle position on the bed, each ankle tied to a bedpost at the foot of the bed, her wrists to those at the head.

"You will be quiet for ten minutes"—it warned, then added apologetically, "I'm sorry," and smothered her face with a pillow.

But she had looked at it. She would never forget its face. It was that of a woman.

Sergeant Leo Khaw, cruising in one car, heard a call over his radio: "We're chasing a woman who just ran into the Toa Payoh." Sergeant Khaw, finding himself at that very intersection, jumped out and was about to vault a fence when he heard a gunshot.

The figure had dropped a two-foot-long screwdriver with a bright yellow handle. Skeleton keys and a jackknife were found but no prints were on them.

Why had he done these things? What was the purpose of breaking into Che Wenning's home, murdering her by strangling and yet stealing no money or belongings from her apartment?

Visiting the girls on the Singapore table tennis team gave him a big kick. A murderer who derived some kind of pathetic sexual satisfaction from strangling China born women?

Later that evening, while Chee Wee bathed himself, Chee Meng sat on the edge of the bed cleaning their guns. Broken down, each part was carefully wiped off, then a light coat of oil applied before the weapons were reassembled.

Shin Yi stood in front of the sink and studied her face in the mirror. Having reached a decision, she wiped off her lipstick and began to do her mouth over again, shaping it carefully. Finished, she tilted her head to one side, then the other, assessing her handiwork. She turned to face Chee Wee, who was leaning against the sink, lighting a cigarette.

"Look at me," she said gently.

He interrupted his ablutions. "Yeah?"

"Do you like it?"

"What? Like what?"

"My mouth."

He stared without blinking. "Sure. I guess so." "I mean, the lipstick. I put it on differently. Not so much. A bit lighter and a different shape. "

"Oh. Sure, I see. It's very nice."

"What do you think of me?" she asked idly.

"Uh . . . well, you're just fine, I guess. Uh . . . well, course you're a real good shot . . . and . . . uh . . . well, sometimes you look pretty as a painting."

Shin Yi turned back to the mirror and studied her face again. Yes, she decided. It was true. She was very pretty. And this new way of making up helped a lot. She brushed at her black hair, arranging it so that it fell softly behind her ears. There. That gave her a softer, more womanly appearance. She liked that.

"Hey, uh, Shin Yi," Chee Wee said. "Could you get me that washrag there? Toss it over, please."

Automatically, she went to the towel rack and pulled the washcloth off. She took two steps toward the tub and was about to flip the cloth square to Chee Wee, when she hesitated. A slow, insinuating smile lifted the corners of her mouth and her pale blue eyes narrowed. She held the washcloth out at arm's length, let it dangle teasingly.

"Why don't you come get it?"

"Huh?"

Shin Yi waved the washcloth the way a toreador waves his cape. Chee Wee stared at it fixedly.

"Why you come get it?"

He started to shove himself erect, then he realized that to do so would expose his nakedness to her. He blushed and fell back in the water.

"Aw, Shin Yi," he said lamely. "Come on, give me, will you please?"

"Here it is," she taunted. "All you got to do is come get it. Don't you have the strength to climb out of that there bathtub?"

"It isn't that"

"Then what?"

He ducked his head. "Fuck lah," he mumbled. "You know."

She grinned. Slowly, very slowly, one leg reaching after the other, she moved closer to the tub, eyes fixed on him all the time.

"I'm going to bring it to you myself," she let out very quietly.

He saw her coming, saw that she meant to come close enough to stand over him, saw that the water offered no screen to his nakedness. He brought his knees up and tight together in a swift movement that sent waves breaking along the length of the tub.

"Aw, Shin Yi, give it here."

"Sure, Chee Wee. That's what I'm going to do."

She was within arm's length now and Chee Wee cast around frantically for something with which to shield himself. Nothing was available. In one quick motion, he reached out and yanked the washcloth from Shin Yi's hand. The maneuver caused a great splash and Shin Yi jumped back to keep from getting wet.

She stared at Chee Wee, scrounged down in the tub like some gross sea creature afraid of the air, and wondered what in the world she could have had in mind. Chee Wee was not for her, a lump of a man, no challenge and no promise. His very presence was demeaning to her and to Chee Meng.

"You fucktard," she struck out harshly. "What would you do if we just pulled out some night while you were asleep? Did you ever think about that?"

He stared up at her, eyes rheumy and soft with anguish. "Aw, I wouldn't know what to do. But you wouldn't do that, Shin Yi. You couldn't, could you?"

Shin Yi felt weary all at once, a weariness born of some indefinable inevitability about all this, about what Chee Wee had said, about her relationship with Chee Meng, about the way they were living. Where was the promise of that first day, of that moment when Chee Meng had robbed the Pinoy grocery, of that wild, crazy ride afterward? Something was wrong and she yearned desperately to repair it She looked down at the tub.

"That's right, Chee Wee," she said with resignation. "We'll always be around to take care of you."

She took a last drag on her cigarette and flipped it into the nib, unable to laugh as Chee Wee scrambled out of the way. She went back into the other room, slamming the door behind her.

Chee Meng was still perched on the bed laboring over his guns, mostly assembled and gleaming. There was an air of quiet preoccupation about him as if he had been thinking thoughts alien to him, reaching into deep areas of his being not often explored. He looked up as Shin Yi entered.

"I want to talk to you," he said evenly. "Sit down."

She hesitated, stirred by this unfamiliar facet of his personality. She was used to a Chee Meng who was happy and laughing or alert and physical, ready to move to action, or an angry Chee Meng. But not this one. Not this quietly determined man. She lowered herself to the edge of the bed.

"This afternoon," he said, voice low as if reaching back into his memory and finding it painful. "This afternoon we killed a man and we were seen. Now nobody knows who you are yet, but they're going to be after me and anybody who's running with me. Now that's murder now and it's going to get rough."

Shin Yi chewed her lower lip and nodded but said nothing. After a beat, he went on.

"Look," he said haltingly, picking his words with care. "I can't get out, but right now you still can. You say the word and I'll put you on the bus to go back to your mama. 'Cause you mean a lot to me, honey, and I won't going to make you run with me. So if you want, you say the word, hear?"

Tears formed in Shin Yi's eyes and she tried to blink them away, seeing Chee Meng as a distant, wavering figure, distorted but oh, so beautiful. She shook her head stubbornly.

"Why?" he persisted. "Shin Yi, we aren't going to have even a minute's peace."

Shin Yi dried her eyes and tried to smile. She didn't like him this way, all glum and serious, making out as if the future held nothing but trouble and suffering for them. She knew better than that. Just knew it.

"Fuck," she said, placing a smile on her newly defined mouth. "Ain't you the gloomy thing!"

He took her hand and held it tightly. "Shin Yi, you got to understand. We could get killed."

A laugh burst out of her. Death held no fear for Shin Yi. She was after all, unemployed, with no future and had financial difficulties since the collapse of Singapore's economy.

Death was something folks talked about, something that happened to old people and sick people.

To other people, not her. Not Chee Meng. Another laugh and she raised Chee Meng's hand to her cheek.

"Who'd wanna kill a sweet young thing like me?" she teased. "At most, I do a few years jail but not the death penalty. The law in Singapore is always more lenient towards Singapore women. You forget about the Women's Charter Act?"

He smiled at her innocence, at her loveliness, at her failure to understand. She was the best damn girl in Singapore. Absolutely the best, he pointed out with wry humor, "Well, you are no sweet young thing. You are an artful wicked person...... I like that quality....."

"Oh, Chee Meng, I can't picture you with a halo, and if you went to hell I reckon you'd rob the devil blind, so he'd kick you right on back to me."

The words conveyed to Chee Meng the depth of her feeling for him and he was moved by it. He leaned over and his mouth came down on hers, gentle, searching, unsure. Her arm circled his neck and he allowed her to draw him down on the bed. Her lips parted and her tongue danced wetly against his teeth. A rising passion flickered in his groin and a soft moan trickled out of him as he adjusted himself on top of her.

They rolled over. There was a hardness digging into her. She shifted her position, reached, and brushed a couple of guns to the floor. Her arm went back around him. Seconds later she was guiding his hand to her breasts.

Chee Meng found it difficult to breathe and his brain seemed to tilt and pitch inside his skull. A deep darkness enveloped him and it was as if he was tumbling through endless space, striving for some saving handhold and finding nothing. Down, down, down he went, toward some foreordained disaster.

He broke out of her embrace and heaved himself erect. There was a coarse thickness in his throat and his head was still spinning. His heart thumped irregularly in his chest and his hands were damp and hot. He moved to the window to stare unseeingly through the dirty glass.

Shin Yi watched him, looking so beautiful in silhouette against the window, kind of sad, lost, and almost... holy. She loved him more that moment than ever before and wanted him in a way she had never wanted him before. She settled back down on the bed, her head resting on one of the guns. Slowly, she turned until her cheek pressed against the cold, hard barrel, her gaping lips against the muzzle. A spasm rode through her body and another and she waited for it to pass.

They had set out for Marine Parade, early that morning in Chee Wee's car, along the main highway. Though traffic was light at this hour, Chee Meng drove carefully.

"No sense having some policeman hang a ticket on us for speeding, big brother," he had explained.

Chee Wee had guffawed at that and slapped his knee. "One thing we don't want is trouble with the law," he agreed.

That had been earlier, when they started out. Now, cruising along a pleasant stretch of road through gentle hills, Chee Wee was regaling his brother with a succession of jokes. Chee Meng made a fine audience—always had, in fact. He listened in silent anticipation and responded enthusiastically on cue.

For a brief second there was silence inside the car, Chee Wee watching Chee Meng in anticipation. Then the younger man exploded into loud laughter. His hands released the steering wheel and the car swerved wildly over to the wrong side of the road. Chee Meng managed to straighten it out, still laughing, tears forming rivulets down his smooth cheeks.

Chee Wee clapped his brother on the back. "Now listen to this one, Chee Meng. A song from Bruce Springsteen's Wrecking Ball. Our theme song from the Occupy Wall Street movement."

The atmosphere in the second car was starkly different, the silence oppressively thick and larded with animosity. Shin Yi was driving, hunched forward, hands tight on the wheel, mouth set stubbornly, a cigarette angling aggressively from between her red lips. She glared at the road ahead as if it was an enemy, something to attack and conquer.

Mui Teng sat in the front seat, also, but against the door, having removed herself as far as possible from Shin Yi. Her eyes watered from the cigarette smoke and her nose twitched disdainfully and she sent silent signals across the distance that separated them ordering Shin Yi to extinguish the offending cigarette. It did no good. Finally, Mui Teng conceded defeat and rolled down the window, turning in that direction, breathing deeply, anxious to cleanse her lungs with some good, clean country air.

In the back seat, Chee Wee was curled up, feet higher than his head, staring sightlessly at some close point in space, oblivious of the two women, unaware of the tensions that separated them. Chee Wee was happy, as usual. A random thought wiggled around in the depths of his brain, rose to a more transparent level, and finally surfaced. The small mouth twitched joyfully.

"I have't never been to Marine Parade before," he said.

"Oh, shut up," Shin Yi snapped,

Chee Wee face lengthened and he fell quiet. After all, he hardly said anything at all. Soon the resentment washed out of his face and he withdrew into that deep solitariness where he existed most of the time.

There was still a considerable portion of the afternoon. When they arrived in Marine Parade, they had no trouble in finding the address he wanted. He drew the car over to one side and parked and watched as behind him did likewise.

"All right," he said. "You know what to do."

"Sure do."

"I arranged everything, so just say it the way I told you."

And where they sat, looking past the tree had house fronting the street, they could tee down the driveway, which ended in a double garage; above it was an apartment. A dapper man in a white shirt, a bow tic, and a new straw hat stood in the entrance to the driveway playing with a set of keys.

"That figures to be the man," Chee Meng said. "The rental agent."

Ruck nodded, got out of the car, and walked across the street.

"How do you do," he said to the man in the driveway. "You don't happen to be from the Angel Abi Chua Realty Company? Your boss is Angel Abi Chua?"

"Indeed I am. And you must be Mr. David Wan?"

"That's damned sure," Chee Wee said, offering his hand.

"Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Wan." He extended one hand and dangled the keys. "Everything is ready for you, just as we discussed it." He cleared his throat and arranged a diffident smile on his thin month. "I believe that we agreed on the phone to one month's rent in advance."

"Right." Chee Wee reached for his wallet and counted off some money. "Here it is....."

The rental agent took a step toward the garage apartment. "I'll show you the premises."

"No need to," Chee Wee said hurriedly, taking the keys from the other man. "Mighty good of you to yourself this way...."

"Nor at all. I hope you enjoy the apartment, Now yon just call mc if you need anything. Any help 1 can offer..."

"Matter of fact, there is something. Anyplace around that'll deliver some groceries?"

"Sure. Katong Laksa just around the corner. Just call 4337."

Chee Meng glanced up and down the street, signaled to Shin Yi, and began to unload their luggage.

Chee Wee led tin way into the apartment, carrying Mui Teng in his arms, as befitted a recent bride. The others came right behind, burdened down with suitcases.

"This is all right," Chee Meng said. "Sure is," echoed Chee Wee

"C'mon," Shin Yi put in irritably. "Let's get things lightened away." She headed for one of the bedrooms, Chee Meng following,

Mui Teng was more interested in the kitchen. She made a slow tour of the room, hand in hand with her husband.

"Oh, look, Chee Wee," she cooed girlishly. "It's so clean. And look at this here fridge, not an icebox." She yanked open the door and her expression altered radically when she spotted a curl of ancient and wilted celery resting on the top shelf. She slammed the door shut. Shin Yi, she told herself, could clean the fridge later on. Her eyes traveled around the kitchen.

Chee Wee had detached himself from his wife and was speaking into the telephone. "Hey there. Katong Laksa? The number? Oh, yeah, 4337..."

Chee Wee spoke into the phone. "Well, I want to give you an order, a big one. Can you deliver right away? All right, then. How about some pork chops? Eight pounds ought to do ... and four pounds of red beans . . . and a can of coke and iced coffee. . ." He laughed. "That's it, Nespresso coffee . . . and some eggs, a couple of dozen ... some milk and eight bottles of brandy"

Finished unpacking, they all gathered in the living room Chee Wee made himself comfortable in the big soft chair, his shoes off, and was soon engrossed in a newspaper. Mui Teng wandered around the room, touching this, eyeing that, spying dust in corners, fingering curtains and fluffing pillows. Across the room, Chee Meng was busy checking the action of his guns, reloading them carefully after wiping each bullet clean. Chee Wee was lost in the glamorous pages of a movie magazine. Shin Yi sat staring into space wishing something would happen, offended by this tranquil setting.

"This sure is nice," Mui Teng murmured.

No one answered.

She came up behind her husband and looked down at his thinning locks. "Ain't it nice, lover?" He grunted absently.

"My," Mui Teng' said, pitching her voice girlishly high.

"You sure do need a haircut. You look like a chow ah beng." She ran her fingers through his hair.

Chee Wee shook his head as if in protest, but he laughed with pleasure. "Now you stop messing with my hair, now. Let me read my paper in peace, Mui Teng."

"Just like an old man," she said. "Got his nose stuck in the paper, doesn't pay any attention to his poor little wife."

"Mui Teng c'mon now."

It was too much for Shin Yi. She heaved herself erect, tension stiffening her body. Her eyes caught Chee Meng's and the quick movement of her head along with the tight look of disgust on her pretty face made him know that she wanted to talk to him alone. He trailed her into their bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Shin Yi turned swiftly, reaching for his hair, rumpling it with mock ferocity. "Oh, Daddy," she cooed in an unmerciful imitation of Mui Teng. "You sure do need a haircut. You look just like a little ol' hillbilly boy, I do declare. Oh, mercy me, oh, my stars..."

Chee Meng glanced nervously at the door. "Hush up, Shin Yi? They're right in the next room."

Shin Yi swung away from him. "Fuck, there's always somebody in this room, the next room, every other kind of room. We will never be alone."

Chee Meng tried not to show the annoyance he suddenly felt. "That is no nice way to talk about my brother. Tomorrow, you will be meeting my boss Angel Abi Chua. Nice if you could at least try to be pleasant."

"I am not talking about your brother or your boss," Shin Yi said, falling into her imitation of Mui Teng. "If it was just your brother, I wouldn't say a single word. It's that Mui Teng. .."

"Well, now, she's Chee Wee's wife and..." The coarse sound of the doorbell cut him short. He stiffened and his hand went to the gun in his belt. An oath broke out of Chee Meng and he flung the door open. Chee Wee, Mui Teng, were standing looking nervously to him for guidance.

"Who the hell is that?" Chee Meng said.

"Take it easy," Shin Yi said, moving past him. "It must be the pizza delivery man. You all sit around and have yourselves a real good time," she drawled, "and just leave everything to Shin Yi." She went down the stairs to the front door. "Who is it?" she said.

"Groceries, ma'am," a voice answered.

She opened the door. A slender youth stood there, a big bag of groceries in each arm. She gave him her best smile. "Well, we sure are glad to see you. I was about to starve to death. How much do I owe you?"

"Six dollars and forty-three cents, ma'am."

She counted off the money, gave it to him, and reached for the brown bags.

"Them bags is heavy, ma'am," he said. "Let me carry them up the stairs for you."

"No, thanks," she said curtly. "I'll take them."

He shrugged and handed them over and watched her struggle up the stairs with the heavy burden. A puzzled look came over his boyish face. People were funny, the things they did sometimes, and didn't do...

It was two hours later. They had eaten, the food helping to relax the tensions, to replenish their drained energies. They sprawled around the living room, all except Mui Teng, who was happily fussing in the kitchen, preparing for the evening meal.

Shin Yi, who had been industriously writing in an iPad, one of those speckled black-covered electronic books that schoolboys use, looked up.

"Anybody interested in hearing a poem?" she asked shyly.

"Is that what you been doing?" Chee Meng said. "Writing a poem?"

"I never know you could write poetry, Shin Yi," Chee Wee said, straightening up in admiration. Shin Yi cleared her throat. "It's called 'The Ballad of 99% Suicidal Poor'

She paused, made certain she had their attention, and began to read. She glanced up at Chee Meng, who grinned proudly. She turned back to the notebook and began to read softly.

"Our institutions are too big; they represent not the best but the worst. Power corrupts; attracts the worst and corrupts the best. ... Refuse to participate in evil; insist on taking part in what is healthy, generous, and responsible. Stand up, speak out, and when necessary fight back. Get down off the fence and lend a hand, grab a hold, be a citizen - not a subject or victim."

"Boy," Chee Wee said. "You write that all by yourself?" Her face tightened.

"Still you can't always judge the story"

Chee Wee couldn't restrain himself. "Yeah," he broke in. "We are the story. We are making history in Singapore!"

One penetrating look from Shin Yi and his mouth clamped shut. She took a deep breath and went on.

Slowly, very slowly, and very quietly, Chee Meng lifted himself out of his chair. Listening, enjoying every word, finding silent pleasure in Shin Yi's talent, in the sweet sound of her voice, he moved behind her, placing each foot carefully, anxious to do nothing to shatter the mood.

Outside the apartment there was also movement, equally quiet, equally anxious to disturb nothing. At least, not yet.

Two police cars pulled up to the curb just out of sight of the garage apartment. A lieutenant led his men out of the cars, giving a brief command to the driver of the first car, who eased his vehicle forward so that it blocked the entrance to the driveway.

The lieutenant signaled his men to take up positions, to find suitable cover before moving in. They obeyed, men ready for anything, guns drawn, faces grim and determined. The lieutenant checked his people and was dissatisfied. He motioned for a couple of men to move forward, closer to the garage itself, and one other to take up a position with an unobstructed line of sight to the apartment entrance.

In the apartment, Shin Yi was still reading "The Ballad of 99% Suicidal Poor." Concentrating on the words, Chee Meng stepped away, over to the window. He looked out. A sudden movement caught his eye, a flash of police blue, a gun hand extended, a gleaming badge. He blinked in disbelief. It couldn't be. They had been so cautious, careful not to attract any attention.

Chee Meng swore.

"Look here, Chee Meng," Shin Yi began.

"It's the police," he ripped out.

The words sliced through the air, to linger, a persistent echo, rising and falling in a penetrating wail that impelled them all to action. Guns leaped into hands and oaths broke out and there was the brittle shattering of windows.

"We can't let them take us!" Chee Meng cried, squeezing off the first shut.

At once all was chaos, a hysterical stoppage of time, all crashing sound as hammers fell against firing pins, pins driving fiercely into the caps of bullets. There were commands, hoarse cries, shouts of anger, of fear, of pain.

Mui Teng, in the kitchen, clapped her hands over heart, a shrill scream streaming out of her gaping mouth, seeming to persist with no lessening of force, a shriek of despair, of total panic, a thin protest of tenor, an unanswered cry for aid.

Chee Meng leveled on a blue chest in the drive way. Fired twice. The blue man catapulated backward. Dead. Another policeman ran across the driveway. C W. gunned him down. Shin Yi blazed away at a place in the shrubbery and saw a body plunge forward.

"We got to get out of here!" Chee Meng cried,

" They've got the driveway blocked off," Shin Yi yelled.

"We got to try!"

"I will go first!" Chee Wee said.

He ran for the front door, the others close behind. Once outside. Chee Wee ducked into the garage, firing as he went. The others were at his heels.

"Get in the car!" Chee Wee yelled.

He went back outside, crouching, shooting at anything that moved. A policeman stepped into the open, took aim. A shot from the hip. The cop toppled over and lay still. Firing as he moved, Chee Wee scuttled down the driveway to the police car that blocked their sole route of escape. Miraculously, no bullet even grazed him. He reached inside and released the handbrake, shoving hard at the car, watching it roll slowly down the incline and out of the way.

During all this, Mui Teng, still screaming, fled the apartment and went running away, untouched by the storm of bullets around her, desperate to escape the crescendo of sound and death, weaving blindly down the tree-lined street.

In the garage, in the car, Shin Yi sat anxiously behind the wheel, Chee Meng beside her and Chee Wee in the back seat, both shooting wildly.

"Now!" Chee Meng cried. "Let's get out of here!"

Shin Yi gunned the car and it shot ahead, the rear door on Chee Wee's side open. At the street, she stepped down ferociously on the brake. The car screeched to a stop and Chee Wee leaped head-first into the back, and they were off again. Now the police left their hiding places, to fire after the car, and two of them went down in the answering volley.

Shin Yi squinted at the street ahead. A wavering, weaving figure appeared, running loosely as if all its joints refused to mesh, as if its muscles and tendons had abdicated their strength.

It was Mui Teng, still screaming.

"Let's get her!" Chee Meng ordered.

Chee Wee glanced out the back window. "They're coming after us, and fast."

"Keep shooting!" Chee Meng said grimly. He opened his door.

Shin Yi maneuvered the car close to Mui Teng, then smashed down on the brake.

Chee Meng reached and grabbed, pulled the hysterical woman inside. A second later they were speeding away. Behind them, a police car was closing fast and the ominous whistle of police bullets whirred dangerously close.

They were speeding through open countryside now, the two cars careering wildly from one side of the road to the other, bullets whizzing by. It was Chee Wee, firing out the rear window, who ended the chase. He put a slug through the windshield of the pursuing vehicle, a slug that killed the driver instantly. The police cruiser veered sharply off the road and crashed head-on into a tree.

Chee Wee turned around. "They ain't following us now," he said coolly.

The words barely penetrated Chee Meng's brain. His foot continued heavy on the gas pedal and the speedometer hovered past 90. Behind him, pressing herself furiously against Chee Wee, Mui Teng moaned and cried, mumbling incoherently.

Shin Yi held herself very still, trying to close out the sound of the other woman. Finally, able to tolerate no more, she whirled around, face distorted, eyes blazing.

"Dammit!" she bit off. "You almost got us all killed! You useless woman! You are too slow! We could have abandoned you!"

Mui Teng began to sob louder. "What did I do wrong? I supposed you'd be happier if I got shot."

"Yeah," Shin Yi said thinly. "It'd save us all a lot of trouble."

"Chee Wee," wailed Mui Teng. "Don't let that woman talk to me like that."

Chee Wee grimaced. His nerves were still drawn tight; yet here he was caught in a delicate situation between his new wife and his brother's girlfriend.

"You shouldn't have done it, Mui Teng," he said, keeping his voice soft, trying to soothe her. "I mean, we're together, all of us, and we got to stay together, see?"

She gazed up into his face. "Please, Chee Wee," she implored. "I didn't marry you to see you get all shot up. Please, Chee Wee, let's go. Let's get out of here and leave. Make him stop the car and let us out."

Chee Wee's eyes were somber and he turned to the front, staring at the back of Chee Meng's head.

"Chee Meng," he said gravely. "Stop the car."

Without a word, Chee Meng obeyed, drawing over to the side of the road. Chee Wee got out and motioned for Chee Meng to join him. Side by side, they moved across the shoulder onto the grassy slope that led into a stand of birch trees. Each of them felt the emotion of the other, emotion that bound them, and now threatened to rip them apart. Each of them understood instinctively that this moment was a crisis and each of them wanted to do nothing that would sour familial ties.

Chee Meng stopped about six feet from the line of trees. He scuffed the earth, unable to look at Chee Wee. His voice, when he spoke, was almost inaudible. Soft. Polite.

"Chee Wee, you can't go and leave me. Not now."

"Oh, boy, Chee Meng . . . you sure screwed me good."

"You can't leave me, Chee Wee."

Chee Wee kicked at a cloud of loose earth. He shook his head regretfully. "You told me time and again there wasn't going to be no trouble. And now all this has happened."

Chee Meng walked in a tight little circle, head down.

Chee Wee said, "I promised Mui Teng I'd change my ways."

Chee Meng stopped circling. "You can't leave."

Chee Wee considered that. "Hey, Chee Meng," he summoned, voice very soft.

Chee Meng lifted his head. He never saw the roundhouse right Chee Wee threw, the big fist catching him alongside the jaw, putting him flat on the grass. He lay without moving.

After appraising his fallen brother for a suitable interval, Chee Wee helped him to his feet. He brushed dirt off his back, looped his arm across Chee Meng's shoulders, and sighed.

"Okay, Chee Meng. I reckon you're the boss."

They drove cautiously for the remainder of the day and into the next afternoon, hitting the dusty back roads, anxious to attract no attention, to fade from official sight. They tried to figure out how the police had found them, why the people had been interested in them. They found out when they came across an mailbox with a newspaper sticking out of it. Chee Meng pulled alongside and Chee Wee, in the back seat, appropriated the paper. He began to read.

"Hey, y'all," he said, voice rising jubilantly. "Listen to what it says here. 'Chee Meng, suspected Occupy Wall Street Terrorist, fled before a growing army of police today after a gun battle on the streets of Marine Parade which saw the death of three policemen. . .'"

"Oh, Goodness!".

Chee Meng said nothing but a pained expression set in around his mouth. "Go on, Chee Wee," he said quietly.

Chee Wee continued to read. "Acting on a tip from a delivery boy, who said he suspected a bootlegging operation going on in a second-story apartment.."

"Well, ain't that delivery boy a snitch?" Chee Wee said mildly.

"The whole thing," Mui Teng muttered. "A mistake."

Chee Wee went on, "'..... police found themselves engaged in combat with the notorious Chee Meng gang. Lieutenant Roy Eng expressed belief that among the gang was Chee Meng's brother, Chee Wee, recently released retrenched from Motorola Singapore and disgruntled with the world'

Chee Wee broke off. "Shoot," he growled.

"Go on," Shin Yi said.

"A third woman was unidentified. Lieutenant Roy also positively identified Shin Yi as the woman in the gang. Slain were police constables Peter Lim, 35, Kian Heng, 27, and Carl Ng, 30,

"Chee Meng," Chee Wee interrupted. "We ain't going to see a restroom for another thirty miles on this here road. Why don't you just stop here?"

Chee Meng nodded in relief. There was an increasing pressure his bladder. He pulled the car into a wooded area on the far side of a quiet lake and stopped. A moment later he was out of the car, vanishing into the thick greenery.

Chee Wee turned back to the newspaper.

None of them thought to look around, to stay alert to possible danger. And so none of them noticed when a car pulled to a quiet stop on the road. Nor did any of them see the tall police officer get out as he moved stealthily toward their car until he was close enough to hear Chee Wee's voice continuing to read.

Chee Meng finished relieving himself and started back toward the car. He moved with no particular speed, enjoying this pastoral interlude, listening idly to the low drone of his brother's voice, trying to think ahead, plan their next step. They would have to find someplace to lay over, some safe, out-of-the-way place. He stepped out of the woods and went cold.

Ahead of him, no more than twenty feet, gun in hand, was the impressive silhouette of a police officer. Chee Meng drew his pistol and brought it to bear, eyes narrow. A part of him seemed to stand off and watch, as if he were a player in a Western movie. Here they were, the good guy and the bad guy smack in the middle of the main street of town, about to fast draw each other.

"Pinoy!" he rasped.

Richard Sangalang spun, knees bent, .45 searching for the target. Fingers tightened on triggers and two shots crashed out, almost simultaneously. Richard grunted and the pistol went flying out of his hands. He straightened and rubbed his numb right hand, eyeing Chee Meng as he moved forward.

The others came rushing from the car, guns ready, but it was all over.

"Wow!" Chee Wee gushed. "What a shot, Chee Meng!"

"Christ almighty," Shin Yi crowed. "I never a Pinoy police officer serving our Singapore nation before! Good shooting like that, boy!"

Chee Meng and Chee Wee took hold of the tall police officer and pulled his arms behind his back, using his own handcuffs to immobilize him. They backed him violently over the rear of the sedan, roughing him up. Chee Wee picked up the .45 and held it aloft, a trophy of victory.

"What are we going to do with him now that we got him?" he said. "He's a police officer too."

Richard gave no sign that he was affected by any of this or that their words penetrated in any way. His strong, seamed face remained impassive and his far-sighted eyes stared straight ahead. His handlebar mustache added to the sense of self-sufficiency and power of the man.

"Well," Chee Wee said in mock courtesy, his politeness exaggerated. "Ain't this something new. Us entertaining a genuine police law enforcer? Pinoy some more! And foreign talent! This is Singapore funniest home video!"

Chee Meng leaned forward, grinning tightly, holding the muzzle of his pistol under the Richard's chin. "Say there, daddy. This here little lady is Shin Yi and you are with the OWS terrorist network. I reckon you heard of us."

Richard gave no sign that he had heard, the big face implacable, the full mouth firmly closed, registering no emotion.

Chee Wee gave a low bow. "We're mighty honored to have an honest-to-God police enforcer with us. Now aren't you honored to be with the OWS gang?"
Again no reply.

"Chee Meng. That is no way to talk to a police officer....." Shin Yi spoke. A tinge of disgust wore on her face. "Just let him go........"

Chee Wee went on, "How are you today? Shin Yi, this bastard probably married a Singaporean wife to get Singapore citizenship. And look what happened after he got Singapore citizenship? He became a police officer to go against us!"

Richard stared into space.

"He never once was a Singaporean. I heard that in Philippines, an ex-Filipino can always get his home country citizenship after he leaves Singapore. " Chee Wee put in and explained to Shin Yi.

Chee Meng measured the man. "Can't you speak at all? Didn't you like to yell at us when we were at home?"

"Listen," Chee Wee said to Shin Yi, "we don't want you to get the wrong impression of us. We about the most polite folks in the world. And just as friendly as you, aren't we, Chee Meng?"

"Sure we are. Say, Chee Wee, let's us show the world here how friendly we are. Let's all take our picture with him, just to be neighborly. We never even once took a photo together as police officer and terrorist."

"That's a terrific idea. Now is the best time."

"We can take pictures and send the pictures to the newspapers," Chee Meng added. "Wouldn't you like that?" Chee Meng sided closer, looking the tall man over.

Chee Wee fetched his camera phone and posed Chee Meng and Shin Yi, Mui Teng and Chee Wee on either side of Richard, pressing close to the man, showing their guns, grinning and making comic faces, while he snapped away. Chee Wee snatched the police officer's badge from his chest, pinned it to his own shirt.

"Look here. I'm still a police officer. Show your respect to me. Even though I married a Singaporean legally, it was still a fair deal. I got a job in Singapore."

"Well, now," Chee Meng said. "I'm mighty proud to have our Singapore police force hire a foreign talent like you to be as part of the family."

There was no response. "C'mon, Aren't you never going to say anything?"

"Bet I can make him talk," Chee Meng injected, pushing closer to Richard.

"Go ahead, Chee Meng," Chee Wee urged. "Make him talk."

Chee Meng thought he saw a flicker of something in the big man's face. Distaste? Fear? He laughed thinly.

"Make him talk, Chee Meng. He's a homophobe. He hates faggots."

Chee Meng stepped up to Richard, ran his hands lightly over the broad chest, across his stomach, back up again, stroking lightly at his throat and his crotch.

"Take your hands off me!" Richard said with low intensity.

"There!" Chee Wee laughed. "He can talk. I knew it."

"Me, too," Chee Wee guffawed. "I knew it too."

"What are we going to do with him?" Shin Yi said, suddenly losing interest in this game. "Please stop this game."

But Chee Meng wasn't finished. There was a strange kind of pleasure to be extracted from this, an alien excitement, and he wasn't yet prepared to let it go. He stretched until his face was close to the Pinoy and in a swift motion his mouth came down, smashing against his full lips, forcing himself upon him, into him, his tongue alive against his teeth, his pecs are flat and hot to his chest, his belly pressing against his loins. At last he pulled back, breathless and aware of the tingling passion spreading under his skin.

"Whose side are you on? Philippines or Singapore" Chee Meng purred, acting like a lady infatuated with Richard. "Aren't you Singaporean too? Why do you want to stop us when in fact, we are trying to send a strong message to foreigners, foreign enterprises and those greedy corporate bigwigs not to mess with the 99%?"

Chee Wee laughed loudly.

"We are helping you protect the future generation from being robbed of opportunities....."

For a long, thick second, everything was still; then Richard reached back into some deep well of privacy and spat his loathing into Shin Yi's face.

She gasped and fell back.

Chee Meng erupted with frightening intensity, grabbing Richard by the shirt front, whirling him around, reaching for his gun, intending to pistol-whip the helpless man. Chee Wee snatched the gun away. That failed to stop Chee Meng, who had gone wild, was swinging both fists at the police officer, cursing him, shouting imprecations at the top of his voice. Only his own raging anger kept him from doing real injury to the handcuffed lawman.

Richard fell backward to the ground and rolled as Chee Meng launched a kick at his exposed side and his groin. He missed and fell himself, scrambling after the other man. Together they went sliding and slipping down to the edge of the lake, neither able to gain purchase in the thick ooze in the shallows.

Chee Wee came after them, and clutching at Chee Meng, trying to pull him away. He broke loose and charged the helpless Richard again, pulling him erect, heaving him backward, crashing into a rowboat pulled halfway up on shore, tumbling into it. Chee Meng was on him, pummeling away, heaving him all the way into the boat.

Chee Wee saw his intentions and moved to help, working the boat free, shoving it into the lake, where it floated silently upon the still waters, his big rugged face peering back at them over the side. The boat had two holes at the side, near the rudder. Water seeped in quickly.

"Remember us!" Chee Meng shouted. "The OWS gang. Singaporeans sent us to murder you! We'll send those pictures of you to the newspapers so everybody'll know what good friends we are. Oh, yes, you remember us!"

They took hold of Chee Meng and Chee Wee, and moved him back toward the car. Before getting in, Chee Meng turned to Shin Yi and smiled wanly. "Foreign fucker," he murmured. "He wasn't any fun at all."

"No," she agreed very softly. "It's no fun at all. Let's stop this."

They drove away without looking back and so failed to see the police officer sitting erect in the boat, the bony face set, the pale eyes glittering with hatred and the desire for revenge. His handcuffs ate deep into his wrists as he started sinking slowly into the deep waters.

They kept running, spending extended hours in the cars, sleeping in fourth-rate motor courts in out-of-the-way laces where they were unlikely to be spotted. Soon it came evident to them all that they could not go on this way for one single, pressing reason—they were running out of money.

To Chee Meng, that meant only one thing and he told them so. "We're going to stick up the Singapore Development Bank," he announced. "It should have money as it was previously a state asset before it was privatized."

"Oh, no!" Mui Teng gasped.

"Well, now," Chee Wee said mildly, his little mouth curled happily. "That is a good thing."

"What have you thinking about, brother?" Chee Wee asked.

And Shin Yi looked at Chee Meng with pride and pleasure in her blue eyes.

"It's the Singapore Development Bank gold bars spotted on display at their HQ," Chee Meng told them, "some distance back. It looked good to me and I been thinking on it and now I decided. We do it tomorrow. That place is infested with Pinoys as their bank teller staff. If the gold gets stolen, we can re-sell it in the black market and at the same time, send a message to the HR department of the bank."

They parked behind a windbreak dividing two farms that night, taking no chances on being recognized. And the next afternoon, they prepared for the job ahead. Chee Wee and Mui Teng were ready before the others and climbed into the back seat to wait, even while Chee Wee continued to work on the engine, checking every part, anxious that if anything went wrong he would not be to blame.

Shin Yi, neatly dressed as if on her way to an afternoon tea, fussed with her hair, looking into a hand mirror propped up on the fender. Chee Meng stood behind her adjusting the knot in his tie.

"Oh, what I wouldn't give for naturally curly hair," Shin Yi mumbled.

Chee Meng looked at himself in the mirror. "Hey, Shin Yi, you like this shirt or the other one better?" He held up a striped shirt on a hanger.

Shin Yi straightened up and appraised each shirt. "That one" She pointed to the one on the hanger.

"Yeah, you're right."

He unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it aside, donned the other one, tied his tie. He checked himself in the mirror again and approved of what he saw.

Chee Wee came around to where they stood, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans. "Engine's all tuned and ready to go. Say, don't you two look swell, like a couple of dudes."

Shin Yi glared at him disapprovingly. "Chee Wee, are you goin' to go like that?"

"Sure. What's wrong?"

She shook her head sadly. "Boy, you just have to learn to dress right, with a sense of style. Look at Chee Meng."

"Yeah, ain't he something?" Chee Meng slipped on his jacket.

From inside the car, Chee Wee yelled, "Hey, you all! Shake a leg. That bank's goin' to be closed up soon."

"We're coming," Chee Meng said.

Chee Meng climbed into the front seat, Shin Yi beside him. Chee Wee took his place behind the wheeL

"When that bank president goes to work," Chee Meng told Chee Wee, "he dresses to suit his position. And when I go in to take his money, I dress to suit mine."

"Well, let's go!" Shin Yi said. A moment later they were on their way.

Chee Wee stayed with the car, behind the wheel, engine purring and ready to move out. Mui Teng was in the back seat, drawn tight and pale, eyes darting nervously from the bank entrance to the street, seeing every moving figure as a policeman, anticipating disaster.

Inside the bank things went smoothly. Chee Wee led the way, heading directly for the chief teller's cage, Shin Yi moving to the window alongside. Chee Meng brought up the rear, perceiving the entire scene, drawing his two pistols and announcing in a loud, pleasant voice, "This is the Chee Meng gang, folks, so everybody just take it easy and nobody will get hurt."

The customers, at the cashiers' windows, at the loan desk, preparing deposits, all straightened up in place, faces slack with fear, hands rising uncertainly.

"That's it, folks," Chee Meng said. "Get your hands up. Makes it all easier and safer."

Shin Yi heaved the sack she carried onto the counter and smiled at the teller in a winning fashion. "Fill them up, please."

The Pinoy teller, a lady with a prim, disapproving mouth, hesitated. Shin Yi gestured with her gun. "I said fill them up."

"Oh, yes. Yes, Miss. Right away."

Chee Wee ducked behind the partition and pushed one teller aside, emptying the cash drawers, moving from one position to the next.

It was the prim-mouthed teller who, certain no one was watching her, stepped toward the alarm button, reached tentatively. At once something cold and ominous touched her bare wrist. She shuddered and turned, to see Chee Wee leering at her disapprovingly.

"Now, ma'am, if you was to touch that button we'd have an awful lot of company and we ain't prepared to entertain just now. I reckon you understand."

The thin head bobbed energetically and the thin mouth worked, but no sounds came out.

From his position near the front door, Chee Meng was able to see everything, the people in line, the executives at their desks, the bank guard, hands held at shoulder level and still wearing his pistol, a Singaporean with a handful of bills clutched in one thorny fist.

"That your money," Chee Meng said, "or the bank's?"

The Singaporean stared back unafraid. "It's my money, mister, hard earned, too."

"Keep it then. We rob from the rich and give to the poor."

Chee Meng's eyes roamed beyond the Singaporean to where Shin Yi was shoveling cash into her sack. Everything seemed to be going well, but he wished they would work faster.

"Speed it up," he called.

That was the chance the bank guard was waiting for. His right hand flashed to his gunbelt. Out of the corner of his eye, Chee Meng saw the movement. He whirled and fired in one motion. The hat atop the guard's head spun wildly and fell to the floor. The guard swallowed hard and his face went white.

"Next time," Chee Meng said matter-of-factly, "I'll aim a little lower.... To your crotch."

"Not gonna be a next time," the guard muttered hoarsely.

"Let's finish it up," Chee Meng called. "I'm about ready," Chee Wee called. "Shin Yi?"

She flashed a quick grin. "I guess I got all I can handle. Any time you're ready, Chee Meng." "All right, then. Let's go."

They backed toward the entrance. Shin Yi went first, Chee Meng and Chee Wee covering her exit. A well-dressed middle-aged China looking lady with a look of offended propriety on her chiseled face clutched an expensive beaded handbag to her ample bosom. As Chee Wee passed her on his way out, he snatched the purse away. The lady gasped.

"Thank you, ma'am. That money is meant for Singaporeans and not for you to keep" he said, and was gone. Chee Meng followed close behind.

Seeing them, Chee Wee threw the doors of the car open and the gang went sprawling inside. Chee Wee hit the gas and they zoomed off down the street.

Chee Wee tossed the handbag into Mui Teng's lap. "Happy birthday, honey," he cooed.

She smiled a pleased smile at the unexpected gift. "Why, lover, that was awful sweet of you to remember . . ."

Shots crashed out behind them and Mui Teng screamed and jammed her fingers into her ears as Shin Yi, Chee Meng, and Chee Wee began firing out of the windows.

They reached the edge of town before the wail of a police siren reached them, closing fast. Chee Meng busied himself reloading his revolver.

"Kick it in the pants," Chee Wee said. "That's the law crowding behind us."

And back at the bank, the guard, collar open, holding his pistol in his right hand, seemed to be enjoying himself. A crowd had collected around him.

"Then he saw me going for my gun," the guard repeated for the fourth time. "Chee Meng himself, I mean. And suddenly I was staring into the face of death!"

"But you never faltered," cooed a lady teller.

He nodded solemnly. "I am doing my duty and I done it."

A photographer raised his camera. "Just look this way."

The guard nodded amiably, buttoning his collar and smiling into the lens.

"You trying to kill us?" Chee Wee said, turning a reassuring expression in his wife's direction. She had her eyes squeezed tight and her fingers still deep in her ears.

"Watch where you're driving," Chee Meng said.

A shot whizzed past. Another.

"Those police are closing in," Shin Yi said.

In the police cruiser, the two blue-clad men turned grim visages toward the car they were chasing. Each of them was aware of the importance of the gang they were chasing, of what it could mean to make such an important arrest. The man beside the driver hawked his throat clear and snapped a shot after the fleeing car.

And back at the bank, the bank president, a well-fed, portly man stood with his arm across the guard's shoulders pointing to a bullet hole in the wall. The photographer's flash exploded and the bank president removed his arm.

"All right, there's work to be done around here. Time's money, y'know. Time's money."

Chee Wee leaned out the back window and took aim on the police car. He fired twice, pulled his head inside.

"Missed, dammit! Car jiggled my gun hand."

He didn't look at her. "Chee Wee is doing the best he can."

A shot sounded and the slug ricocheted off the rear fender. Mui Teng screamed.

"Oh, shut up!" Shin Yi bit off. "Shut up!"

And back at the bank, the woman whose purse Chee Wee had taken was talking to a reporter.

"Let me see, now," she mused in her China accent. "There was my coin purse, of course, and a half-ounce of gold rings, an excellent brand, and there was . . ." Her hand went to her mouth and she blushed. "Oh, my goodness!"

The road was narrow and seemingly endless as it sliced through corn fields eye-high. No one had spoken for a long time. It was as if a deep and somber reaction to the tension and trepidation had at last set in and only time would bring them back to where they normally existed. It was Chee Wee, unperturbed and happy, who broke the mood.

"How much money you reckon we got, Chee Meng?"

"Yeah, Chee Meng," Chee Wee put in. "How much?"

Chee Meng took a long, thin cigar out of his pocket, bit off one end, and spat it out the window. Carefully, shielding the match with both hands, he puffed until the cigar was lit. He blew a great cloud of smoke and behind him Mui Teng coughed her displeasure.

"Let's see what we got," he said. "Pull over."

The car swerved to the side of the road, bounced across me ditch, and came to a stop on a stretch of open ground alongside the cornfield. They all got out and sat in the shade of an Angsana tree and Chee Meng dumped all the money in a pile. He looked at it without enthusiasm.

"Hell," he said. "That ain't much, is it?"

Chee Wee clucked sympathetically. "Times are hard."

"Crime doesn't ever pay," Mui Teng said righteously. "Even if it means stealing from foreigners."

Shin Yi glared at her but said nothing.

"Well," Chee Meng sighed. "Let's get to it,"

He made himself comfortable on the running board and began to deal out bills as if dealing a poker hand. "This one's for Chee Meng Chee Wee," he said, laying down a bill. "And this one's for Chee Wee Chee Meng . . . Shin Yi Shin Yi . . . and Chee Wee Now one more time . . . Chee Meng, Chee Wee . ....Chee Wee .. . Chee Meng . . . Chee Wee . . . Shin Yi . . . "

Watching, her mouth turned down in a tight, disapproving purse, Mui Teng stood up and walked over to one side. With a quick jerk of her head, she brought Chee Wee hurrying over.

"What is the matter, honey?" he inquired. "Is something the matter?"

"Look at that," she husked out angrily. "Look at what that brother of yours is doing. Not giving me a thing, not a solitary thing."

Chee Wee shuffled his feet. "I told you I'd talk to Chee Meng and I will. First chance I get."

"Now," she insisted.

"Well-"

"Now is the time."

Chee Wee stepped forward, Mui Teng at his shoulder. He placed in ingratiating smile on his face. "Uh . . . Chee Meng? Say, Chee Meng?"

"Yeah, Chee Wee." Chee Meng continued to count.

"You see, Chee Meng . . . well ... I been meaning to talk to you about this."

"About what, Chee Wee?"

"It's Mui Teng ..."

Chee Meng looked up. "What about Mui Teng?"

"Well, Chee Meng, I been thinking. She should get her share."

Shin Yi's face became mottled with rage. "What!"

Mui Teng realized that she would have to rise to her own defense and did so with unaccustomed spirit. "Well, why not? Say, I earned my share! Same as everybody. I could have got killed by the laws same as everybody. Besides, I could have got snakebite sleeping' in them woods all them nights."

Shin Yi snorted her distaste. "Any snake bit you, he'd get poisoned."

Mui Teng swung around. "I declare you're the meanest woman I ever knew."

"And you're the dumbest," Shin Yi shot back.

"I may not be the smartest woman in the world, but I am no cheap tramp!"

"Come on, stop it," Chee Meng said.

Chee Wee smiled and said; "Let's all be friendly."

It was no use.

The rage in Shin Yi had been collecting for too long, a rage and frustration that targeted on Mui Teng. She reached for her gun and leveled it at Mui Teng. "Okay, you bitch! How'd you like me to pull this trigger?"

"Hey," Chee Wee yelled. "Put that gun down!"

"Please, Shin Yi," Chee Meng added plaintively.

It was Chee Meng who ended it, and triggered something else. He leaped to his feet, face livid, eyes squinting hotly. "I've had about all of this here temperament I am going to take, Shin Yi. Now you just put that gun down and be quiet, hear!"

Shin Yi's eyes skipped from face to face. No sympathy was evident anywhere. Clearly everyone had turned against her, transformed her into a stranger in an alien world, unloved, unwanted, and suddenly she had to get away, had to find some safe place among people she could depend on.

"All right," she bit off. "I know when I'm not wanted." She fought for breath. "You can all go to hell."

She reached into the back seat of the car and pulled out a paper sack stuffed with her clothes. Furiously, she swung away, tripping, swearing, moving on.

"Where do you think you're going in the middle of nowhere?" Chee Meng called after her.

"I'm going home to my mother!"

They all laughed at that, even Chee Meng. And that solidified Shin Yi's resolve, her frustration, and her anger. She broke into a run, darting into the corn field.

"You're making a fool out of yourself!" Chee Meng shouted.

There was no answer and seconds later she was gone among the tall stalks. Chee Meng sat back down on the running board.

Chee Wee looked at him. "Aren't you goin' to go after her, Chee Meng?" he said worriedly.

Chee Meng lit a cigar and puffed it contentedly. "She'll be back in ten minutes," he said confidently.

But she wasn't.

An hour passed and Shin Yi did not appear. There was no laughter now and a crease of concern appeared between Chee Meng's eyes. Whatever had been troubling Shin Yi, he hand had done nothing to ease her torment. He held himself real responsible for the continuing conflict between her and Mui Teng. After all, he told himself, he was in charge of them all and made decisions for them all. He glanced at his watch for the tenth time in the last two minutes.

"Where the hell is she? She should've come back by now."

"Ahhh," Chee Wee drawled. "That Shin Yi, nothing can do her harm."

"Well, where is she?" Chee Meng stood up and pounded his fist into his other hand. "Okay, let's take off. Everybody in into the car. We're going to find Shin Yi."

"Anybody see anything?" Chee Meng said.

No one answered. They drove on. Chee Meng peered in that direction. "It's her!"

Not waiting for the car to stop, Chee Meng leaped out, dashing into the field, calling her name. At first sound of his voice, Shin Yi broke into a run but he soon overtook her.

"No," she gasped. "Go away, Chee Meng. Leave me be. I'm through with you ... all of you."

"Shin Yi wait!"

"I... am .. . going... home ... !"

She ordered her legs to move faster but the muscles refused to obey. A weakness flooded her limbs and the paper bag filled with clothes fell to the ground, breaking open. Her things were scattered over a wide area. Gasping for breath, she struggled ahead as Chee Meng came pounding up behind her. She avoided his initial lunge but her foot hooked into something and she went sprawling, out of breath, weak, helpless. Deep, racking sobs, spasms of despair, shook her entire body.

Then he was there, embracing her, covering her face with kisses, murmuring soothing sounds, stroking her hair, ignoring her protests, telling her how much he cared, how important he held her to be, his growing need for her, how scared and empty he was without her.

"Hey, Shin Yi ... hey, hey, hey, baby, don't cry, baby, hey, Shin Yi ... hey, that's better, now ... hey, hey now, baby..."

She fought to speak but the words lodged in her throat.

"Don't ever do that again, Shin Yi," he murmured. "You really scared me."

"I ... I mean it, Chee Meng. I want... to see my . . . mother. Please. Please, Chee Meng"

He kissed her mouth to quiet her. "Yes, sweetheart, yes."

"I want to see my mother."

"Yes, sweetheart."

Arrangements had to be made. Chee Meng was convinced the police were keeping a watch on the Shin Yi family, waiting for the Chee Meng gang to show up. Phone calls were not to be made as the telecommunication companies could trace their whereabouts and strategy mapped and it was eventually agreed to meet in the open, where it would be impossible to be ambushed, so if necessary an escape could be made.

The entire Shin Yi family showed in a field to the north of Toa Payoh, a field not far from the good road, as if coming together for a picnic, with food and drink and all the children. The day was not good for a picnic, gray and overcast, with a thin rain falling from time to rime.

Shin Yi didn't care. There was her mother, Zakiah Tham, older and tired with new lines in her face, the sad eyes a little sadder, but alive and well.

And there were the others. Shin Yi's sister, younger and proud of her sister's exploits. "Here you are, Shin Yi. We been cutting and pasting everything about you"

And always Zakiah, quiet and dignified, eyes a little regretful behind steel-rimmed glasses, hands veined and freckled, clasped rightly, too tightly, at her waist.

And, too soon it was time to go, Chee Meng said. Shin Yi bit her lip and looked at him imploringly.

"A while longer, Chee Meng?"

He shook his head. "It's been too long, now honey. Too chance."

She nodded and embraced her mother. "Oh, mother, it was so fine to see you again. You look just wonderful. You take care of yourself, dear!"

Shin Yi's mother stepped back and studied her daughter. Her glance went to Chee Meng, unblinking and with an awful calm that Chee Meng found disturbing.

"Chee Meng Chee Meng," she said without emphasis. "Shin Yi was always a wild child, but everything she did wasn't bad, not by a jugful. Maybe you know the way with her. But I'm just scared."

"Oh, mother .. .*'

"I know I'm just an old woman and I don't know nothing,. .."

Chee Meng gave her a reassuring smile. "Mrs. Shin Yi, don't believe what you read in them newspapers. Why, if we done half that stuff they write about we'd be millionaires. This ain't no play game for us. It's business, Mother. You know hard times is on us, and this is the way we know best to make money."

"I understand what you're saying, Chee Meng. But even you can work as a dishwasher despite your high academic qualifications. It's still a decent living."

He went on. "I wouldn't risk Shin Yi just to make some money. So you don't worry your mind about it any more."

"Well, I do worry."

Shin Yi hugged her mother. "Oh, mother, you don't want to do that. It's like Chee Meng says—he take good care of me. You should be on our side. Tell me ma, has our politicians and the union done anything to protect our welfare? They only protected the organisations and employers but not us."

Zakia pondered. Indeed, life has become tougher to live ever since the incumbent President made a mess out of Singapore's economy.

"Ma, the press and police treated me as if I was some kind of terrorist but yet, I felt like a hero. Well for the first time in my life I felt like somebody. I felt like a person. It was gratifying to be a hero to some people."

"We'll be quitting this just as soon as the hard times are over," Chee Meng said encouragingly. "I can tell you that. Me and Shin Yi were just talking the other day and we talked about when we'd settle down and get us a home."

"And I told Chee Meng," Shin Yi said. "I couldn't bear to live more than three miles away from my precious mother."

Zakia stared at her daughter with no change of expression. "No, you won't. You do that, Shin Yi, and you'll be sure enough killed dead by the law in twenty-four hours. So you just keep moving, running, for as long as you can. Yes sir, that's what you better do."

No one said anything as the old lady shuffled away. Nor did either of them notice that it had begun to rain again. Harder this time.

Days ran into days and weeks into weeks and the gang discovered no resting place and what money they had went quickly, the price of life acutely inflated to those on the run. They slept where they could, ate where they felt safest.

Chee Meng drove slowly through a quiet residential neighborhood. Here the streets were lined with trees and the houses substantial, a place where people never broke the law, never concerned themselves with the police or guns, never worried about money. Shin Yi thought that it would be nice to live in such a neighborhood. Chee Meng gazed out the window, enjoying the warm spring night, as if they were all out for a little sociable drive.

"Chee Meng," she said.

"Huh?"

"Don't you reckon we ought to be out on the road somewhere, getting out of this country, at least?"

"Sure. After a while."

'What are we waiting for?" Chee Wee put in.

"I figure this car is too well-known by now," Chee Meng explained, still searching the street. "It's time we got ourselves another one, one not identified to us."

Chee Wee agreed. "That's a good idea, Chee Meng. And look there, up ahead. There's two good-looking machines in front of that there house."

Chee Meng drew up behind the first car and killed the motor.

He led the way out, looked over each of the cars, one a coupe the other a sedan.

"This one, I reckon," he said, indicating the sedan.

"It ought to be able to get up a good speed," Chee Wee said. "'Especially after I get to work on the engine."

"Let's get in," Chee Meng ordered.

Bhaghya Chitra was a round-faced man of no particular distinction. His smile was quick and fleeting, and his eyes were never still for very long. He explained that by saying that he was interested in seeing everything. But at this particular moment Chitra had eyes only for Jyothi, his fiance

They were seated in the swing on the porch of Jyothi's parent's house, locked in each other's arms. Chitra approved of Jyothi. True she was twenty-eight, a little old to be unmarried back in her home country in Chennai, India, but he didn't care. She suited him. She had a kind face and a firm slender body which he had been allowed to explore with greater freedom recently. Not that Jyothi was a loose woman. Not a bit. She was good, one hundred percent, and would make him a wonderful wife, the kind of wife a man in his position needed.

He kissed her now and her lips quivered under his and parted slightly. His hand stroked her side, came to rest under her armpit, his thumb touching the soft swell of her breast A highly stimulating experience, Chitra told himself. He moved his hand. Just a little.

"Oh, Jyothi," Chitra breathed. "Oh, now . . . now, dear..."

"Sweet thing... so sweet..

"Eugene, I really shouldn't let you. Not yet Not until *we're husband and wife in the sight of man and God ..."

"That'll be soon enough," he husked, shifting closer, bending over her, nuzzling her neck.

She giggled and looked past his ear to the street. She watched with mild interest as the other car drew up behind her daddy's coup. Who could that be, coming home at this hour? She wondered idly. She saw the people get out of their car and decided they were strangers. She watched as they strolled past the couple and stood looking at Chitra's car, then got inside as if it were their own. Jyothi pushed Chitra's hand away.

"Aww," he protested.

"Say,isn't that your car?"

His head turned. "Sure." The car began to move away from the curb, picking up speed. Chitra leaped to his feet. "Hey! That's my car! Hey!"

Chitra hurdled the railing edging the porch, went sprinting into the street, yelling after his fast disappearing car, shaking his fist in anger. Jyothi came up behind him.

"What are you going to do, sweetheart?" she said.

"Go after them. C'mon, we'll use your father's car."

"But..." she protested.

He cut her short. "You drive!"

She drove well, hands firm on the wheel, in total control of the speeding coupled and of herself. "We're gaining on them! There they are, up ahead."

"Go faster," he urged. "Those punks! Wait untilI get my hands on them."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll tear them apart! Steal a man's car right from under him. I'll smash every one of them."

"You're very brave."

"When I get my hands on those kids ... I'll show them. I'll really teach them a lesson."

They were no more than fifty feet behind the other car now and gaining. Chitra urged her to greater speed.

"Force them off the road, and I'll give them something they deserve, a sound thrashing."

"What if they have guns?" she mused aloud.

His eyes swung violently from side to side and a brief smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He paled. "You know what I think?"

"What, Chitra?"

"That it wouldn't be fair, me beating up on those kids. We better get the police and let them handle this."

"All right, sweetheart."

"Turn around and head back to town. We'll go get the police."

"Ah right."

"Well, turn around," he said peevishly. She did so.

Up ahead, in Chitra's sedan, Chee Wee had been watching through the rear window. He chuckled contentedly. "They stopped chasing us," he said, twisting around, making himself comfortable. "They turned around."

"Oh, that's too bad," Chee Meng said mischievously. He thought for a moment. "Let's go take them!"

Chee Meng executed a U-turn in one swift, smooth maneuver, stomped down hard on the gas pedal. The distance between the two cars began to shrink at once.

In the car, Jyothi peered into the rear-view mirror. Her eyes widened. "Oh, my God. They're coming after us."

He looked back. "Step on it ," he shot out, a rising panic in his voice. "Step on it!"

"They're gaining on us," Chitra said. "Go faster! Go faster!"

"I've got the accelerator on the floor now. It won't go faster."

"What are we going to do, Jyothi? I mean, if they catch us, and they have guns, I mean."

The sedan came up alongside, kept pace, while the members of the OWS gang looked in on Chitra and Jyothi, who carefully kept their eyes on the road in front of them. Abruptly, Chee Meng pulled ahead, forced the car over to the side. Both cars screeched to a halt.

Jyothi and Chitra watched as Chee Meng and the others got out and strolled back toward them. Terrified, Chitra rolled up his window, indicating Jyothi was to do likewise.

A menacing sight. Pressed around the coupe faces distorted against the windows and the windshield, were five people, grinning madly, brandishing weapons. Chee Meng pointed a pistol at Chitra and made an exaggerated motion of shooting. Chee Meng grinned, and his friends laughed, and Chitra managed a wan smile himself. It disappeared quickly.

Chee Meng gestured with his pistol. "C'mon, get out!" Neither Chitra nor Jyothi moved.

"Get out, I said."

"What are we going to do?" Jyothi asked.

"Do?" He looked at her in disbelief. "Why, we're going to get out of the car."

They came out, hands raised and shaking.

"Hello," Chitra said. "Hello, everybody. Hello. Hello."

Chee Wee smiled. "How do you do, folks."

Chee Wee swung back bringing the shotgun to bear. His finger pressed down on the trigger and shot past Chitra. The force of the blast knocked Chitra straight up and off the ground, hurling him backward through and slammed shut the car door. Chee Wee waited until the sound of the shot bullet had quieted before he spoke.

"What are we going to do with them?" Chee Wee asked.

Chee Meng considered the question. "Let's take them along." He pointed to the sedan with his pistol.

"Get in there."

Chitra's car was crowded. Chee Meng drove and Shin Yi sat next to him, Chee Wee alongside her. Chee Wee, Mui Teng, Eugene, and Jyothi were jammed into the back seat. To make matters more uncomfortable, the road they were on was rough, unpaved, sliced with ruts and potholes. But neither Chitra nor Jyothi was prepared to object.

As for Chee Meng and his friends, they were pleased to have some company, different faces, people from another world who could talk about other things, introduce a diversion however temporary and brief.

"What's your names?" Chee Wee said.

"I'm Chitra."

"I'm Jyothi."

"Well, how do you do? A couple from India who is here in Singapore to take over Singaporeans" Chee Wee said. "We're the OWS gang. That there is Chee Meng driving and I'm Chee Wee."

The blood drained out of Chitra's cheeks and he and Jyothi clutched desperately at each other.

"Look," Shin Yi said warmly. "Don't be scared, folks. You're just folks like us. Only that you are India, with jobs while we are jobless."

Chitra saw a ray of hope as he tried to downplay the differences between India and Singaporeans "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that's the truth. Just folks."

"I expect you been reading about us," Chee Meng said over his shoulder. "In the newspapers."

They answered simultaneously. "Yes," Chitra said.

"No," Jyothi said.

They glared at each other.

Chitra spoke with emphasis. He was sure he knew the proper strategy to save themselves from this mad crew. "Yes" he said. "Yes, we have, too, been reading about them, Jyothi."

Shin Yi laughed at the confusion. "Well, you two must be in love, I bet."

Chitra lowered his eyes and nodded shyly, then more vigorously.

Chee Wee clapped him on the back. "Well, now, boy, when you gonna marry the girl?"

They all laughed at that and the tensions began to wash away. They drove on and as time passed a feeling of comradeship was born. Chee Wee began telling jokes, building up to his favorite dot com joke. This red dot, which is worn by many Hindus, is a sign, that the person wearing it has recently visited a temple and worshipped there.

".....So then the software IT companies started hiring cheap engineers from India just because they are the first ones to start dot com. For the red powder, take either your middle or ring finger, and apply a small dot of the red powder on your forehead...."

Chitra laughed loudly and Jyothi joined in as they knew that the only way to survive was to mock themselves. To join in mocking foreigners. From the others, there was only silence; they had heard Chee Wee tell the story too many times before.

Shin Yi wanted to keep Chee Wee quiet. She turned to Jyothi, smiling in a friendly fashion. "How old are you, honey?"

"Thirty-three," Jyothi answered without thinking. She stiffened. There was no missing the look of surprise and dismay on Chitra's face. Jyothi knew she had committed a serious error.

Later, they stopped at a McDonalds drive-through and Jyothi and Shin Yi brought out their dinner—sandwiches, drinks, side orders of French fries. They ate in the car, almost a family picnic, light and airy, a sense of belonging, a private society hurtling through the black night.

"Now, let's see," Jyothi said. "I ordered some French fries, didn't!?"

Chee Wee passed them along. "Here you go."

"Take it easy on those French fries," Chee Meng warned gaily. "Isn't that right, Chitra?"

Chitra studied his hamburger. "This isn't mine," he said finally, a note of annoyance in his voice. "I ordered mine well done. Now who's got my hamburger?"

Chee Wee, his mouth stuffed, checked the burger in his fist. "Oh," he muttered thickly. "Is this supposed to be yours?" He extended the half-eaten burger in Chitra's direction.

Chitra viewed it with distaste and realized it would be a mistake to mess with Chee Wee. "That's okay. Forget it."

Chee Meng laughed at Chitra's discomfort. Chee Wee, chewing his food with animal vigor, guffawed loudly. "I sure am having me a good time!"

"Me too," Mui Teng said.

"How about you folks?" Chee Wee said to Chitra.

"Sure am. Best time I ever had."

"Me, too," Jyothi said.

"Aren't vou glad we picked you up?" Chee Wee said.

"Sure," Chitra said. "This is the best time I had in years. Honest."

Chee Meng chuckled. "Hey, maybe y'all ought to join up with us, become members of the OWS gang."

That drew a delighted sound out of Chee Meng. "Ha! Wouldn't they be surprised back home to hear that? Chitra a part of the notorious OWS gang! We accepted a foreign talent in our ranks!"

Jyothi faked a giggle with pleasure at the thought. "Imagine! Fuck all foreign talents! That includes me!"

"What would our President Tan Jin Yang say if they heard that?" Her laughter came in waves, each shriller and louder.

"Oh, God!" Chitra gasped, tears beginning to stream out of his eyes. Chitra was a really good actor in faking a response. "They'd throw a fit! And that Philippines born president candidate Marvin Arroyo will withdraw his campaign!"

"What do you do, anyway?" Shin Yi put in, laughing.

Chitra fought for breath, his laugh fading. "I'm a bank relationship manager," he said.

The inside of the car went quiet, an ominous stillness. For a long interval no one spoke. Only the sound of their breathing was audible. It was Shin Yi, taut, anxious, speaking from between clenched teeth, who said it for them all.

"Kick them out of here! NOW!"

That's all they seemed to do, speeding from one place to another, and always there was an invisible cloud pressing down, stirring them to some dim awareness of what lay ahead. And what lay ahead was being shaped by what they had left behind, a trail of robberies and killings, of outraged citizenry too happy to report their whereabouts to the police, their names and faces as familiar as movie star's.

Shin Yi and Chee Meng. First billing was always theirs. And the small but known supporting cast. Chee Wee and Mui Teng. Plus a fifth, unidentified woman who is now identified as a China strangler.

Behind them also was a tall police superintendent, bitter and dedicated, a man with a committed glitter in his far-seeing eyes, a man whose handlebar mustache gave him the look of an avenger who would not be denied. A man tormented, unable to live with mockery. A man yearning to repay those who had made of him a laughingstock before the inhabitants of his special world. So he came on, after them, asking questions, phoning ahead, checking local police, bus stops, motor courts, roadside diners. Wherever they might have paused to rest or refresh themselves. And no matter where they went, he learned of it and came after them.

They felt safe enough in Lim Chu Kang, a town not too different from so many others they had seen and passed through. It was a still place, life moving at a measured pace, and little ever happened to excite the citizens. Or the police force. Least of all, nothing like the OWS gang. Bank robberies and killings were events to plague other towns. Here, in the heartland of Singapore, people went from day to day knowing what to expect of their lives, of their neighbors, and a man marked only the truly important days, like the National Day and Christmas and Thanksgiving. The days that mattered.

They all gathered in one of the cabins. Chee Wee lounged in one of the overstuffed chairs, Mui Teng in another just across from him, Chee Meng and Chee Wee sprawled across the double bed, each lost in his own thoughts.

And Shin Yi paced the room. There was a special quality to her movements, a feline thing, fluid and reaching, as if all her forces, emotional and intellectual, were gathering in one place, a tight fusing of all needs and desires, a tightening band that stretched almost beyond tolerance.

She stopped, gazed balefully around. "What is this, a public room?"

No one replied and she swore tightly. She pointed at Chee Wee and Mui Teng.

"You two got your own room, why don't you go there? Stay there. By yourselves."

Chee Meng sighed and heaved himself off the bed. "Relax, honey, don't be so jumpy. Here. Why didn't you lay down and take it easy? I reckon we're all a little testy."

Chee Wee looked lazily at Shin Yi who had remained standing in the middle of the room. "What's bothering her?" His normal good humor was absent.

"What's bothering her?" he said, directing himself to Chee Meng this time.

Chee Meng turned away. He wanted to avoid any arguments. They had all been together too long and he wished they could separate, at least for a while. That was worth some hard thinking, to figure a way. "Lay off, Chee Wee," he said mildly.

Chee Wee wasn't having any of that. His nerves were rubbed raw. Mui Teng had been at him almost constantly to leave Chee Meng, to go and live with her daddy, to join him in the church. Damn! That wasn't for Chee Wee. But not this either, this hanging around doing nothing, cooped up in tiny cabin rooms, always hiding from the police. And that Shin Yi! She was okay except that sometimes she got to feeling too big for her britches. Face it, Chee Wee told himself, she was only Chee Meng's girl, not even properly married and all. He snorted disparagingly and jerked his head in her direction.

"What's bothering her?" he repeated harshly.

"Nothing," Shin Yi snapped off. "Nothing that being away from you and that wife of yours wouldn't fix in a big hurry."

Chee Wee straightened up. "Now look here..."

"You can't talk about me that way," Mui Teng objected. "I am not a piece of dirt or something!"

"That's exactly what you are," Shin Yi shot back.

Chee Meng felt he had to speak up before the situation got out of hand. He turned to Shin Yi. "C'mon, try to be a little more sociable."

"You can go to hell!"

"Listen, Shin Yi..."

"Don't you tell me what to do, Chee Meng."

"Well, damn!" Chee Meng said. "Well, dammit it all to hell! You can both go jump in the lake, both of you." He swung away, striding over to the far wall, pressing his forehead against the cheap wallpaper with all this strength, the veins in his neck bulging.

He counted silently to ten, and ten more. The resentment oozed out of him and he went over to Shin Yi and tried to kiss her. She turned her face.

He grinned, that boyish grin that always stirred her, made her want to embrace him and pet him and hold him against her bosom. She ignored him. He put his thumbs in his ears and made a silly face, crossing his eyes, waggling his fingers, his tongue popping in and out of his mouth like some idiot marionette gone beserk.

She glared at him. "Stop it, Chee Meng. Let me alone. Just don't bother me, hear!"

He swallowed an angry retort and swung away. The silence was oppressively thick and worrisome. It was Chee Wee who shattered the mounting tension. He sat up and stretched, yawning noisily, almost oblivious to what had been happening.

"Damn," he said, "I'm about to starve to death. Isn't anybody else hungry?"

There were affirmative murmurs from the others.

"That's a good idea," Chee Meng agreed hurriedly. "I saw a Starbucks a few miles back. Who all wants to go get some food?"

Mui Teng stood up, head held proud and defiant. "I will. I'm sure getting plenty tired of sitting around here and looking at your long faces anyway."

"You can't drive," Chee Wee said. He made no move to get out of his chair. '

"That isn't all she can't do," Shin Yi muttered.

"Now look here," Mui Teng began.

"I'll go with you, Mui Teng," Chee Wee said without enthusiasm. "I'll drive for you."

"What's everybody want?" he asked.

Chee Meng said, "Just five chicken dinners. That's all."

"And something for dessert," Chee Wee added, grinning.

Chee Wee looked at Chee Meng, who nodded.

"See if they got peach ice cream," Chee Wee said. He patted his bulging paunch lovingly.

"Don't worry, lover," Mui Teng said. "I'll find you some ice cream. I'm going to take good care of my man."

Shin Yi snorted in disgust and turned away. The door closed signaling the departure of Mui Teng and Chee Wee. All at once a sense of loss came over Shin Yi and she was afraid she was going to cry. She walked swiftly into the other room, slamming the door, dropping onto the bed, kicking off her shoes, rolling onto her stomach, trying not to think, not to feel, making her brain a black void, willing herself to sleep. It refused to come and she pounded her fist against the mattress in frustration.

Her mind reached back to her room in her mother's house. It was no different now, the same sense of being restricted, caged, unable to breath, a grounded bird, her wings clipped. She wanted ... oh, how she wanted. But ... what?

"Baby, what's wrong?"

She rolled over. Chee Meng was standing there looking down at her. That worried crease between his eyes. She stretched out her arms and he came to her. His body was strong, well-muscled, and the weight of him on her was deeply stimulating. She hejd him tightly and her middle reached, rolled, and twisted, and her lips parted and went up to his. The kiss was long, warm, penetrating, different in some unnamed way than ever before.

Her arms tightened and one hand slid down the small of his back onto his tight flat bottom and she moved against him with a driving insistence and he responded as he never had before. She guided his hand to her breast. His fingers were strong but gentle and a starburst of sensation stirred just under her nipple and spread swiftly, a churning emotional pool traveling along the length of her to that private place which she longed to offer to Chee Meng. He lifted his mouth away from her.

"Listen," he murmured.

"Hush, now. Just kiss me again."

"You know how I feel..."

She placed her hands carefully, one on each side of his face, and reached up for his mouth again, found it and after a brief interlude, let her tongue caress his lips, circling the oval of his mouth, touching the backs of his teeth, dancing along the hard ridge of gumline, finding the sensitive inner cheek. A soft moan sounded back in his throat and he rolled onto his back. She went after him.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he said. "It isn't proper."

"I love you, Chee Meng."

"And me you, Shin Yi. Still that don't mean we got the right to be rutting around like a couple of hounds in heat."

She grinned and her fingers traced the line of his jaw. "Maybe those dogs know something without us telling them. ..."

A silent struggle was going on within, and she could see it. He shoved himself erect, turning abruptly away. "This isn't right."

"It is, Chee Meng. As right as anything could be."

A spasm coursed through his strong body. He went to the far wall.

"You don't understand," he said, after a silent minute.

"I love you, Chee Meng. Isn't that enough?"

He filled his lungs with air and tried to close his mind. A thousand different thoughts skittered around inside his skull, memories that were best forgotten, pictures evil and disturbing. There was one single, recurrent image. His father and mother, together naked in bed, bodies straining and thrusting, his father pounding his mother hard and painfully.

The sounds, the pitiful plaints of a woman soft and vulnerable, the pain, the indignity, the violence done, and later the recriminations, the talk of failure, of the closeness of something dear but never fulfilled, of repeated experiences that left her empty and yearning for what never was.

Chee Meng had vowed, long before he knew what it was he was vowing, long before he could understand, that he would never pain a woman, never fail to provide what a woman he loved wanted. And to insure that he would never fail, it came to his mind that there were things best left undone.

There had been a girl when he was sixteen. She had been older by two years, years larded with experience and knowledge. And she had taken him behind the sports field in back of the grade school and taught him how to kiss, how to caress a girl, and the excitement in him had swelled and become unbearable until he wanted to scream. Then she had made those sounds, small pitiful sounds deep in her throat and her body had writhed under him as if in protest and he knew that he was causing her pain. He had twisted away, distraught, edgy, almost angry, stood up, ignoring the plaintive look in her eyes, averting his face so he could not see her spread legs and her pale white belly and the shadowed wedge that drew him and repelled him at the same time. She had spoken his name once, low and pleading, and he had pivoted away, alternately walking and running all the way home. And was safe.

"Chee Meng!"

He grunted but could not face Shin Yi. He loved her too much to do her any harm, any injury. "Chee Meng, come back to me." "You don't know what you're saying."

"I love you and I want you, Chee Meng." "I can't. We mustn't."

There was the sound of the bed creaking and her footsteps, a soft padding, and he sensed her at his shoulder though she made no effort to touch him.

"It's been a long time since that first day, Chee Meng. Remember? I was standing at the window looking out thinking I was about to go out of my mind when I looked down and there you was about to steal my mother's car. You remember?"

"I remember."

"You remember how I looked to you that minute, that exact minute?"

He exhaled silently. "I remember."

"Tell me.""

He swallowed. "You weren't wearing clothes. Nothing at all."

"Was I pretty to you, Chee Meng?" "You were beautiful." "Tell me."

"I was able to see your breasts."

"And...?"

"You were... beautiful "

"I haven't changed, Chee Meng." He made no answer, held himself very stiffly. "Wouldn't you want to see me again? Now? Close up, Chee Meng? Very close?"

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder and moved lower, fingers caressing his spine. She lay her cheek against his back.

"I love you, Chee Meng."

It was building in him, desire, the need, the ache to hold her, to feel her softness against his own flesh, to taste her mouth. Clumsily, unsure, he swung around and their mouths closed on each other.

When they broke she was fighting for air and laughing.

"C'mon," she said. "C'mon."

"Where?"

She had his hand in hers and was tugging. "This way, sweetheart, this way, to the bed."

He held back. "Shin Yi ... I'm afraid."

"Me too," she laughed. "Me too. We'll be afraid together and whip our fear together."

He wet his mouth and allowed her to lead him. She sat on the edge of the bed and began to unbutton his shirt. Her mouth found his naked chest, lips working, moist and warm, and her tongue a blazing probe. Her hands fumbled with his belt.

"Shin Yi, I don't want to hurt you."

"Oh, my love. You won't going to hurt me, not a single solitary time."

"How can you know?"

She smiled and brushed at his hair. "I know."

He knelt and they kissed, sweet and lingering. Gradually, a slow ascent beginning somewhere behind his navel, a climb to peaks never before known and there was a tingling on his skin as if a thousand dancing flowers skipped their way up and down his limbs, along his torso. He shivered in delight.

In anticipation. In fear.

She was undressing him, fingers unhurried and certain, steady, so as not to give alarm. He stood naked and wanted to conceal himself, to hide from her view, but she held him and soothed him and loved his flesh and brought it back to life and shored up his manhood, keeping his passion vibrant and strong.

After a while, she stripped off her own clothing, rapidly, afraid to be apart from him for too long. Then they were together, mouth to mouth, breast to breast, belly to belly, arms and legs entwined, hands reaching with curiosity and affection.

"Oh, Shin Yi, I never knew..."

"Let me show you, darling...."

"That way?"

"Oh, yes, my love. That way. And here, here, too, like that. Oh, perfect."

"It's almost too... much...."

"Too much and not enough .."

Her body arched and strained upward against him and he worked against her flesh, forcing her back onto the mattress. It was all thick emotion and feeling, spreading into the furthest reaches of every limb, seeping into vital organs, a quickening tempo that throbbed deeply and sent the blood pounding behind their eyes. A pendulous quality to it all, a heavy, demanding, insistent thing that would no longer be denied, that made itself known erupting from a dark secret place in him, a distant shadowy melody with its singular rhythm and harmonics. All was reaching and taking, and finding certain hollows, moist and mysterious, giving, getting, a thumping, at once gentle and savage, unlearnable except in this school.

"Shin Yi! ..."

"My love."

"I love you!"

"I love you!"

"Shin Yi!"

"Oh, yes..."

"I can't..."

"Oh, no. Don't. Don't wait. No waiting. Just . . . give . . . me. Give . . . me . . . everything. Give . . . splash me . . . all. . . you. Give .. . give ... oh, yes, baby, give ... to... me..."

He screamed into her mouth.

He stood by the window and gazed sightlessly into the bright daylight. A warm flood seemed to break over him in slow, successive waves, and he allowed it to happen.

"Shin Yi," he said quietly, not turning.

"Hmmm."

She lay naked under the sheet, curled and twisted, hair thick and female over her face, breasts heavy, all woman. Contented. Full.

A long stride took him alongside the bed. He spread his hands helplessly. "Was it. . . right? I mean, right." "You're beautiful."

A boyish agitation filled his mouth and made him stutter. "No. I mean, right. It's important that it be right. I mean, you have to tell me so I can know and learn for you. It's important."

She came up on one elbow and a lazy smile bent her mouth. Lidded eyes swam into focus. "No woman ever had a man so right. The rightest."

"You've got to tell me."

She held out her arms. "Come and I will."

And this time he didn't have to ask.

"This sure is nice."

Mui Teng glanced sidelong at Chee Wee at the wheel of the car and turned away. She took a last drag on her cigarette, tossed the butt out the window.

"I mean, us riding along together this way. We never did get much time to talk," Chee Wee went on, his manner open, friendly.

"Things I heard you say to Chee Wee or Chee Meng, I figured we got a whole lot in common."

Mui Teng shifted around in her seat and stared at the little round man. Maybe he was right. Maybe they did have a lot in common. He wasn't like Chee Meng, so tough and distant. Or Shin Yi, mean and cold.

"How do you mean, in common?" she said cautiously.

Chee Wee shrugged. "Don't know. Just trying to be friendly, that's all."

She was vaguely disappointed. She needed a friend, someone to talk to, share her concerns with, someone who would understand. Sudden irritation with Chee Wee flashed through her.

"Slow down?" she barked.

"I'm only doing forty-five."

Tension had been mounting in Mui Teng and it seemed worse today, a swelling pressure that allowed her no peace. She lit another cigarette and puffed anxiously.

Chee Wee smiled at her. "You sure are smoking all the time lately."

"So what?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, God. . .." Mui Teng let her head drop into her hand and a sad sigh came out of her. She closed her eyes and tried not to think, to forget where she was, what had been happening to her.

Chee Wee looked at her. After a moment, he directed his attention back to the road. A bright look came into his little eyes, the look of discovery. Chee Wee had had an idea.

"Hey! Mui Teng!"

She made a small sound but didn't move.

"I got an idea."

"Yeah?" she said wearily.

"Why didn't you go back home to your papa?"

Her head came up and she gazed at Chee Wee with new interest. "Oh, Chee Wee, if only I could," she burst out. "If I could just do that one thing! Oh, there's no telling why this all happened." She shifted around so that she faced him directly. "Did I ever tell you that I was a preacher's daughter?"

"Well, how about that! I never knew that."

She shook her head vigorously. "Well, it is a fact, an absolute true fact."

A smile curved Chee Wee's mouth and remained there. "Hey!" he said, after a while. "What church is City Harvest Chuarch affiliated with?"

"Baptist, of course." She puffed on the cigarette. "Oh, and he thought the world of Chee Wee, my daddy did, even knowing that Chee Wee was serving time in jail. That's the kind of man my daddy was. He forgive him for that 'cause he paid his debt to society."

"We were Disciples of Christ."

"I mean, that's the Christian way. Forgiveness and love and all."

The car swung to the right and stopped. Chee Wee turned off the engine and looked at Mui Teng patiently. "Why did you stop?" she asked. "We're here, the chicken cafe."

"Oh," she said. Then, with irritation: "Well, let's go inside."

The restaurant was long and narrow, a wooden counter running its length. Only a few people were at the counter when Chee Wee and Mui Teng entered, one of them was a police deputy in dusty khaki's. He glanced up automatically at their appearance but showed no further interest and went back to his food. Mui Teng went over to the take-out counter and put in her order, fiddling nervously with her purse while she waited. Chee Wee stood a few feet away, oblivious of his surroundings, lost in some world of his own making.

"Here, ma'am." It was the counterman, extending-a brown paper bag containing Mui Teng's order. She searched through her purse.

"Hey, Chee," she said, voice brassy and insistent, "I haven't got my money. Give me some?"

The deputy looked over without lifting his head, chewing methodically. Women! he thought wryly, watching the byplay.

Chee Wee opened his jacket in order to get to his back pocket and his money. The deputy stopped eating. There was no mistaking the black butt of a .38 pistol jutting up out of Chee Wee's pants. The deputy lowered his eyes. When he heard Chee Wee and Mui Teng leave, he looked up.

The chicken dinners helped. The food satisfied their hunger and helped calm jangled nerves. By the time night came on, they were ready for bed. There was a new kind of excitement in each of them, a continuing high note of energy and anticipation that refused to be stilled.

Only the soft glow of the lone bedlamp illuminated their bedroom. Shin Yi was on the bed in her nightdress, her knees drawn under her chin, smoking, concentrating hard. Chee Meng reclined next to her in his undershorts, head resting in his hand, a cigarette drooping out of the corner of his mouth, squinting against the plume of smoke.

"Oh, veah," he said playfully. "Only you look like one, though. You haven't got no meat left on your ribs."

With that he launched himself at her, fingers massaging her ribs. A rising whoop of laughter leaped out of her and her body arched as she tried to twist away from him.

"Stop, Chee Meng! Stop! Chee Meng, stop. Chee Meng!"

He kept at her and they thrashed around on the bed, limbs entwined, laughing wildly. Soon she was tickling him and for them both there was a new freedom, this physical thing between them, so warm and personal, so innocent and intimate. A new thing, strange still, but growing.

"Hey, now! Will you two just shut up? Can't I get some sleep, darn it?" It was Chee Wee, sitting up in his place in the big chair across the room.

His words had no impact on Shin Yi and Chee Meng. They continued to giggle, to roll around on the bed. Chee Wee snorted in disgust and got out of the chair, taking his pillow.

"A man can't get any rest around here," he complained. "I am going to sleep out in the car where I can get some peace and quiet."

He reached for the blanket, letting it drag along the floor behind him, shuffled toward the door connecting the room with the garage. As he passed in front of the window, it was filled with a great, blinding light. Chee Wee blinked and fell back.

"What the hell...!"

Chee Meng sat upright. No longer was he laughing. He reached for his pants. "It's the police!"

The alert deputy at the chicken cafe had done his job well. A few questions around town, visits paid to this motor court, that rooming house, until by a process of elimination the right one was located. And now this.

Six police cars were ranged across the lawn outside the cabins occupied by the Chee Meng gang, the cars crowded with armed police officers. Four of them advanced across the expanse of grass, guns ready, walking with that cautious stiffness so natural to men crowding close to death. They edged up to the cabin in which Chee Wee and Mui Teng slept. One of them knocked loudly.

"Open up, this is the police!"

Chee Wee and Mui Teng sat upright in bed. He reached for his gun, about to throw the challenge back at them. Mui Teng's hand shot out, clamped over his mouth before he could speak.

"The men are on the other side!" she called out

It worked. The four lawmen edged their way across the lawn, past the connected garages, toward Chee Meng and Shin Yi's cabin. They were no more than twenty feet from the cabin door, when the brittle crash of a breaking window alerted them.

"Watch out!" came the warning cry.

It was too late. Blasts of gunfire broke open the night and one officer went tumbling to the ground. The others ran for cover.

Inside, Chee Wee and Shin Yi were at the windows, firing steadily at the police cars, at the lawmen scattering into position.

"We got to get out of here!" Chee Meng shouted. "That's our only chance! I'm going in after the car!"

"Okay!" Shin Yi called, still firing. Two lawmen fell to the ground and two more went racing for shelter. Out of the night, without warning, came a blinding light. She shielded her eyes.

"What the hell is that!" Chee Wee cried.

She tried desperately to see. "It's an armored car!" she yelled. "The bastards are using an armored car! Shoot it down, Chee Wee! Shoot it down!"

They began to fire, Shin Yi blasting away with two pistols, Chee Wee using a Thompson submachine gun. The volley shattered the window of the armored car and the vehicle veered as the driver, badly wounded, slumped over the wheel. His body pressed down on the horn, sending an eerie blast into the night air, blaring in counterpoint to the crackling gunfire.

In the garage, Chee Meng checked the Browning Automatic Rifle cradled in his arm before moving to the door, a door trembling under the impact of bullets breaking it apart. With one quick movement, he flung it open, triggering the automatic weapon at the same time, loosing a stream of bullets at the glaring lights outside. He ran back to the car and jumped in. One hand was on the steering wheel, the other on the bar, shooting through the open window, as he drove the car into the driveway, the battle raging all around him.

Slugs whizzed past but he kept shooting back. The door of the cabin flew open and Shin Yi and Chee Meng came charging out, firing into the night. Crouching, they made it across the open space and into the car.

"Where's Mui Teng?" Shin Yi cried.

"We going to leave them?" Chee Wee shouted.

"There!" Chee Meng yelled. "There they are! Keep shoot-ing!"

The door of the other cabin had opened and Chee Wee and Mui Teng, holding a mattress in front of them for protection, inched out. With his free hand, Chee Wee fired at the police.

"C'mon, Chee Wee!" Chee Meng yelled. "This way!"

They tried to move faster, but the mattress was heavy and running was difficult. Bullets thudded into the mattress and one went on through and struck Chee Wee. He screamed in pain and toppled over. Unable to hold up the mattress alone, Mui Teng fell too.

"Chee Wee's hit!" Chee Meng cried. "I'm going after him!"

"You'll get killed!" Shin Yi protested.

He was out of the car and running low and fast, slugs whistling past, digging up clumps of grass at his heels. In a single motion, Chee Meng heaved the mattress aside, grasped Chee Wee under the arms, and headed back for the car. A hysterical Mui Teng followed, screaming.

"They shot Chee Wee! They shot him!"

The volume of gunfire was deafening now and it seemed impossible that any of them could survive the intensive field of fire being layed down by the police. The car shuddered under the thud of slugs but somehow Chee Meng got the engine started and from a standing start the car leaped ahead like a crazed stallion, the speedometer swinging madly toward sixty before they were halfway down the driveway. A deputy appeared in their path with a double-barreled rifle.

He leaped aside at the last second, firing as he fell. One bullet hit the side window, shattering the glass into thousands of tiny slivers. Mui Teng fell back, screaming, hands over her face.

"I've been hit! I've been shot!"

A piece of glass had lodged in her eye. Something warm and wet oozed up between her fingers and that set her to screaming again.

"I'm bleedin'! I'm going to bleed to death!"

No one paid any attention. They were too busy shooting at the squad cars that swung out in pursuit. The car careered crazily along the highway, Chee Meng fighting for control, his senses reeling, trying to understand what had happened, how the police had found them, at the same time struggling to think ahead, to find a way out.

He managed to put some distance between them and the trailing police and the shooting stopped. He crouched forward, clenching the wheel tightly, peering into the night, hunting an avenue of escape.

Around him, all was chaos and hysteria. Chee Wee, bleeding from a terrible wound in his skull, tossed blindly about, moaning, crying out in anguish. Mui Teng, torn with her own pain as well as concern for her husband, sobbed and groaned, begged Chee Meng to take them to a hospital, to find a doctor.

"He's your brother," she muttered plaintively. "Help him. Please don't let him die."

Mui Teng sat among this misery and sobbed silently, the submachine gun cradled in her lap.

"Keep quiet!" Shin Yi screamed. "All of you!"

No one listened to her.

"I think we've lost them," Chee Meng said.

Some thirty minutes had passed since they had begun their run. The inside of the car was comparatively still now, broken by only an occasional moan from Chee Wee. Mui Teng held her face in her hands, rocking piously but making no sound.

"We can use another car," Chee Meng muttered. "Keep your eyes peeled."

They went speeding down a pleasant suburban street, past large, comfortable houses, nobody speaking.

"There!" Shin Yi said finally. "On the right." "You get it and follow me," Chee Meng ordered. "Okay."

Chee Meng braked the car and got out, climbed into the other vehicle, a new and expensive touring car, backed it out of the driveway, and fell in behind Chee Meng. In tandem, they drove off.

Chee Wee lost track of time. Alone in the stolen limousine, he steered with one hand, crying all the time, muttering his fears, his confusion. He had never thought it would be this way, all the shooting, the killing, the pain and the blood. He hadn't meant it to be this way at all.

Neither had Chee Meng. All the fun had gone out of it long ago, all the glamor. Only the fear remained, the sense of being hunted, tracked down, being forced into some blind alley with no escape. His lungs burned and he yearned to lie under the high speckled sky and breathe fresh country air.

"We better stop somewhere," Shin Yi said to him. "We got to rest." She glanced into the back seat. "Chee Wee is hurt bad, Chee Meng. Real bad. And Mui Teng, too."

He grunted. They were on a back road now and speeding past a row of high, leafy shadows. Swinging around a curve, he spotted a wide, flat field. It looked peaceful and quiet, a lush meadow surrounded by a ring of trees, a dense forest.

"Here," Chee Meng said. "We'll stop here."

The two cars swung into the field, headlights slicing through the dark, circling as if scouting the terrain, bouncing to a stop at last near the middle of the meadow. Slowly, reluctantly, almost, as it afraid to leave the somehow sanctified and secure confines of the cars, they staggered onto the grass, helping each other.

In the glare of the headlights, they were able to look at each other. Half-naked in pajamas, in nightgowns, in pants, glistening with sweat and blood. Dirty. Weary. Terror carved into faces so recently young.

Chee Meng eased Chee Wee out of the car and laid him on the thick grass. Chee Meng knelt and tried to do what he could for his brother. A single glance at the gaping wound in Chee Wee's skull told him that for Chee Wee there was nothing to be done.

Chee Wee, semiconscious, moaned and muttered something. Mui Teng sank to her knees, still clutching at her eyes, praying with mournful hysteria.

"Oh, dear God, please help us! Dear father in heaven, get us out of this and Chee Wee will never do another bad thing in his life. I promise you, God, he'll be good..."

Shin Yi stood off to one side staring at the tableau. Mui Teng joined her.

"He don't have a chance. Half his head is blown off."

"Shut up," she said kindly.

It was then that Mui Teng screamed, the piercing lament of a stricken beast, "My eyes!" She screamed again. "God! I think I'm blind." She began to cry hysterically.

Shin Yi went over to the car and came back with a pair of sunglasses. She put them on Mui Teng.

"You'll be all right, Mui Teng," she murmured.

"Please," Mui Teng cried.

"Please, get us to a doctor. You got to. We'll die here."

Shin Yi straightened up and her voice was edged with a tough realism. "Can't go to a doctor now. We've got to get out of this mess."

"Chee Meng," Mui Teng called. "Chee Meng, please get us to a doctor. We're going to die."

"I can't do that, Mui Teng," he said quietly. "It's just too dangerous."

"He's your brother!"

Chee Meng looked down at Chee Wee. His mouth firmed up and he held himself very stiffly. "No. I. . . can't... do it."

Chee Wee stirred and tried to sit up. "Brother, that you? Got to . . . get a doctor . . . get me a doctor . . ." He fell back, unconscious.

Strange, high moans began to come out of Mui Teng as she swayed back and forth, praying.

Chee Meng lowered himself to the ground, his eyes closed, breathing in the sweet green scent of the meadow.

Shin Yi sat on the running board of one of the cars and stared into the night.

Chee Meng remained at his brother's side, gently stroking his hair, waiting for him to die.

Day came slowly. But when finally it did it was on them almost without notice. First the field grew lighter, a gray stillness, surrounded by the looming blackwall of the trees. And in the light, the two cars, the one ancient, scarred, as wounded as the people around it; the other, shiny new, rich and powerful.

The sky lightened and cast its brightness over the field. In the east, the sun swung up and drew the blackness of the trees into elongated shadows.

The OWS gang gave no recognition to the new day. There was Mui Teng weeping without tears. Chee Meng still with Chee Wee, cradling the torn head. Chee Wee, hunkered down, plucking absently at the grass. There was Shin Yi, standing and smoking, not allowing herself to think.

Quiet was everywhere.

All at once, a subtle movement at the far edge of the woods. A splash of whiteness against the black-green shadows. A man stepped into the open and formed a megaphone with his hands.

"Surrender!"

It drifted to them like that, floating gently on the morning air, three loosely connected sounds. And it took time for it to register, for them to comprehend, to locate the source.

Then, frantic, scrambling movement. Scuttling for guns, the small ones, the pistols. Shooting off at the distant trees, at the man in the white shirt, a strange, luminous figure, some pastoral apparition. Abruptly gone. The shooting ceased, replaced by an extended silent interval.

The man. Had he really been there or was it some awful trick of their imaginations? Time held still.

"Let's get out of here!" Chee Meng shouted.

A ring of fire. Gunfire. Twinkling red and white puffs. From every bush, from behind every tree, every fallen log. A deadly stinging attack designed to destroy the Chee Meng gang for all time.

"We're surrounded!" Chee Meng yelled.

"There must be a couple of hundred of them!" Shin Yi moaned.

She was right. The deputy in the chicken caf6 had alerted the sheriff and he had alerted every peace officer in the vicinity, had mustered every farmer who owned a hunting rifle, every youth with a squirrel gun, every shopkeeper who had a shotgun. And each one of them wanted to be part of it, to be in on the kill, the death of Shin Yi and Chee Meng, all of them. It was the kind of thing a man would be able to brag about for all his days, a truly important event. They poured lead into the center of the meadow in the name of law and order, each man and boy of them determined to do his part to keep the peace.

For Chee Meng, for the others, it was a bad dream, a nightmare, gray, misty, all movement in slow motion, a world gone mad and out of synchronization. Crouching, crawling, scrambling, tripping, falling, they headed for the nearest car, the old one, the one battle-scarred and trustworthy.

Escape was all there was. To stand and fight would have been insane, ludicrous, suicidal. Somehow they made it into the car, Chee Meng half-dragging Chee Wee, partially revived, cursing and protesting, determined through his agony to live out his time in his own way.

Behind the wheel, Chee Meng jerked at the gearshift, stamped down on the gas pedal. The car lurched toward the woods and was met by a volley of shots. The car veered, bounced, a creature gone mad, toward a thick tree. A man appeared, rifle leveled. He squeezed off a shot. The windshield shattered.

The car spun off in another direction, performing an eccentric dance. It swerved and looped toward the wooded edges of the meadow and back to the center.

Chee Meng fought the wheel, steered for the far side of the field. Another man appeared. He snapped off a shot, Chee Meng swore and grabbed his left arm, blood appearing between his fingers.

The car, on its own, executed a wide slow arc, out of control, bulling its way across the field, smashing finally into a tree stump. It wheezed and groaned and the motor went dead, a headlight drooped and a fender fell off.

The old car was finished.

But not the Chee Meng gang. Out there in the morning sunlight, bright and gleaming, emanating power and speed, waited the other car.

"C'mon," Chee Meng said, leading them.

"Can we make it?" Shin Yi gasped.

"We got to!"

They began to run, Shin Yi leading Mui Teng, Chee Meng helping Chee Wee.

In the woods, someone understood, saw what was happening, pointed excitedly. "They mustn't use the car!" he cried. "Blast it! Cut it down! Don't let them escape again!"

The shooting began again, slugs tearing into the beautiful machine with devastating force. Paint flecked away in violent chips. A tire collapsed. A headlight shattered. The windows broke into shards. The body was riddled. The machine began to fall apart. Piece by piece. A willful and efficient execution, painful even to some of the executioners, and some of them stopped shooting. A bullet penetrated the gas tank, and another. With a rush of air, the doomed machine disappeared in a roaring wall of orange flame. The shooting stopped. The car died.

In the center of the field, not far from where they had spent the night, Mui Teng and Chee Wee took cover behind a fallen log, unable to go on. Behind them, Chee Meng, Shin Yi scrambled desperately for the edge of the woods, their last hope for escape.

Men began to appear out of the brush, to close in on Mui Teng and Chee Wee, their weapons loaded and ready, taking no chances. They knew all about Chee Wee and Chee Meng. The men came closer, surrounding Mui Teng and Chee Wee. Two of them grabbed Chee Wee under the arms and heaved him erect.

"Don't!" Mui Teng screamed. "He's dying! Can't you see he's dying? Let him alone!"

Someone held her but she struggled free, stumbled to her husband, shoving his captors aside, lowering him gently. "Don't die, " she murmured. "Don't die. Don't die. Don't die."

The men took hold of her, dragged her away from Chee Wee and others turned him onto his back, anxious to get a good look at the famous OWS gang.

"Let him alone!" she shrieked. "Let him die in peace! Let him die in peace!" she ended, sobbing weakly.

The officer holding Chee Wee released him and he fell back and died. A low mournful cry came out of Mui Teng and she went limp in the hands of her captors.

Chee Meng, Shin Yi made it into the woods. They kept moving. Shin Yi felt as if her lungs would burst, and her legs were wobbly. But she refused to give in to the weakness. Any second she anticipated the police appearing in force, shooting them down. No one came.

They made it through the woods, across an open field, and into a stand of pine trees. Past that was a wide stream.

Chee Meng went in first, down the steep bank, waited to help Shin Yi, slipping and sliding, into the water. Shin Yi jumped after him. They were halfway across, chest-deep in the stream, when the deputy appeared.

Without a word, he took aim and fired and Shin Yi took the slug in the shoulder. It burned into her with a fierce intensity around she fell over, screaming. Never before had she experienced severe physical pain and her cry was the cry of a frightened anima.

Chee Meng turned, spotted the peace officer, and shot. The man fell dead.

He reached Shin Yi first and dragged her the rest of the way. Once ashore, they made it into a cornfield, moving deeper among the stalks.

"Keep moving," Chee Meng gasped.

"I got to rest," Shin Yi said. "You go on without me...."

They went on for a few more yards before stopping. Chee Meng peered ahead.

"There's a farm . . . gotta . . , get a . . . car .. . got to. Wait here."

He staggered forward, working on pure adrenelin now, driven by forces never before utilized. As he came closer to the farmhouse, he spotted a car parked in the driveway. Unsteady, stumbling and falling, he made his way toward it, gun in hand, hoping with a rare desperation that no one would appear, that no one would try to stop him.

No one did. He struggled into the front seat and started the engine, turned the car back into the cornfield, cutting a swarth back to his friends. Nothing was going to stop him now. Nothing and no one.

He stopped alongside Shin Yi and got out. "Help me, I will get into the back. You have to drive. Okay?"

Shin Yi chewed her lower lip. "Okay, Chee Meng."

"All right. Let's get out of here. Go to Angel Abi Chua"

"Who?" Shin Yi muttered. "Who is that?"

His placid face fixed with purpose, caned into the wheel as if willing the car to greater speed. He was bare-chested, dirty, eyes swollen from lack of sleep. Time had lost all meaning for him and he had no idea of how long he had been driving. In the back seat Chee Meng, bleeding from a wound, drifting in and out of consciousness, a man unto himself. Next to him sprawled Shin Yi.

Chee Meng came awake, trying to orient himself. He shoved himself erect and focused on the back of Shin Yi head. "Where are we at?"

"Don't know, exactly."

"What time is it?"

"Don't know. Don't know what day it is, either."

"Head out," Chee Meng said. "Find us a place where it's safe and we will rest."

Shin Yi started to say something, thought better of it, and fell back on the seat. A moment later she was unconscious.

Dusk was coming on and the car rattled along the back tad. Chee Meng was worried. Shin Yi and Chee Meng both were in bad shape, running fevers and in need of doctoring. He pouthed a silent prayer that they would last until he was to reach home.

That's when he spotted a campsite alongside Changi beach.

Chee Meng pumped the brake and turned into the camp. He popped the car and got out. All the faces turned, the tired, weathered faces of people defeated by the past and with little hope for the future. Most were living on Changi beach after their homes were re-possessed by the banks. They watched Chee Meng approach with no sign of friendliness.

Chee Meng tugged at his nose nervously. "Can you all spare me a little water?"

For a moment, no response. With a self grunt, one man rose and dipped a cup of water out. He picked his way forward, eyeing Chee Meng suspiciously, withholding the cup from his reaching hand.

"Who are you?" the man drawled. There was no hostility in the question, only the proper concern of a man who aimed to take care of himself and his own.

"Name's Moses." Chee Meng lied.

That seemed to satisfy the man. He extended the cup. Chee Meng gulped it down, too fast, and began to cough. He fought for breath, and drank some more.

The leader went up to the car, circled it uncertainly, peering into the back seat. He stopped abruptly and his eyes widened.

"It's Shin Yi," he said, in a hushed, almost reverent tone, "and Chee Meng."

He held himself very still, staring, while the others shuffled up to see for themselves. Shin Yi was sitting up, holding her injured shoulder, barely aware of the audience. A woman detached herself from the crowd, to return moments later with a bowl of soup, which she handed to Chee Meng. He accepted it gratefully, sipped it down.

Seeing Chee Meng stirring, a man lit a cigarette and reached through the window, gingerly, tenderly, as if fearing to do further injury to the wounded man, placed it between his lips. It hung there smoldering, Chee Meng lacking strength enough to drag on it or remove it.

Chee Meng finished the soup and handed the empty bowl back to the woman, thanking her. He went back to the car started the engine.

The men, women, and children, stepped back.

Chee Meng looked out at them. He managed an almost imperceptible nod of his head, the only gratitude he was able to express. The car rolled out onto the road and sped away.

A small boy pulled at his father's pants leg. "Pa, who was they?"

"That was Shin Yi and Chee Meng," he answered softly but in awe, "the OWS terrorists. Our politicans and union can't fight for us. Only they can. They help to teach those corporate pigs a lesson by robbing them and giving to the poor and sacrificing themselves."

The farm wasn't much, the house, the barn, the toolshed, all ramshackle, just a few miles outside Singapore. It was still now, at night, no lights showing anywhere.

The darkness presented no difficulty to Chee Wee. He directed the car off the county highway onto the access road that sliced across his father's land with no trouble, negotiating the twists and turns as if he'd never been away, easing over the bumps, anxious not to jar Shin Yi. He drew up in front of the farmhouse and pressed down on his horn. A second time. He knew how heavilv Angel Abi Chua slept.

A minute passed before the porch light came on, a dim yellow nimbus, and a stocky woman appeared, squinting into the night. She was a larger, older edition of Shin Yi, stocky and going to fat, a gray halo flaring off her bald pate.

"Who's there?" she challenged, her voice cold but uncertain. "Who's out there?"

"Angel Abi Chua?" Chee Meng called.

Angel Abi Chua moved to the edge of the porch. "Who's there? Who is it?"

Chee Meng got out of the car, the night air chilly against his bare chest. "It's Chee Meng"

"Chee Meng!"

She picked his way down the steps and trundled towards her son. They fell into each other's arms and she pounded his son's hack. She stepped back.

"God, boy, it's good to see you, to have you back home. I can use you, boy, to help me work the land." A scowl twisted her broad face as she saw something by the light of the porch.

"What the hell is that on your chest?" she ripped out. "Huh?"

Chee Meng's mouth curled nervously and he pawed his chest. "This here is a tattoo. You know. I'll tell you about it later on. My friend in the car, she is hurt. Help me get her inside."

Angel Abi stared at her son briefly, then went over to the car. She studied Shin Yi and Chee Meng in the back seat with concentrated interest. When she swung around, her flat face was drawn together in somber consideration.

"Jesus, son, what happened to you? You in trouble?"

"Yeah. That's Shin Yi." Chee Meng's voice rose, but he said nothing. Chee Meng went on, "We have been shot up bad. Help me get her inside. We gotta help her."

Angel Abi hesitated. "You think it's so smart to come back here. I told you many times to operate discretly but you won't listen. If the law should find out about OWS headquarters in Singapore—"

"Where else could I go? There was no place. We were followed by the police closely. Please, we are hurt bad."

Angel Abi grunted her assent.

She dragged Chee Meng out of the fire, supported him on wobbly legs up onto the porch. She helped Shin Yi. Under the light, Angel Abi Chua glaced unhappily at her son. She swore.

"You were over-confident. Now your identity has been blown. Your face is all over Singapore. OWS CEO won't be too happy about this. And Shin Yi hasn't even been sworn officially as OWS terrorist yet."

Chee Meng ducked his head as if he'd been struck. "Aw"

"I asked you a question."

"Come on," Chee Meng said very quietly. "Open the door. Let's get her inside."

There was nothing distinctive about the office of the police superintendent, Billy Teo. A plain room with an oak rolltop desk and a few hard chairs. One door led to the street and another opened on a row of cells. A locked rifle rack stood against the south wall and a framed certificate from the national organization of police chiefs hung on the wall behind the desk.

The superintendent Roy Eng was a big-bellied man with pouchy eyes and a complex of purple veins in his bulbous nose. He sat with booted feet up on his desk, a humorless, square-built deputy standing at his shoulder. They were reading a newspaper story about the gun battle with the OWS gang, a story illustrated with photographs, including one of the dead Chee Wee.

"Look here," Roy Eng said, pointing to one photograph. "The police officer Richard Sanglang was in the bunch that took....... See here? Can you make him out? Here he am, wait a sec here, right behind the car here."

"Sure enough, Billy. Is that your head there?" "Mind if I keep that there photograph?"

"No, I don't mind."

He handed the paper to the younger man and watched while he carefully cut it out of the paper, folded it neatly into eighths and slipped it into his wallet.

"Still can't figure how we let them other two get away," Billy complained.

The police officer nodded genially. "That Chee Meng, he's really something. Seems as how nobody can catch them somehow, him and Shin Yi. I think he is somehow related to China strangler too except that Chee Meng is more careless to make his identity known"

Billy's eyes seemed to glaze over, to turn in on himself. "Yeah," he muttered, almost resentfully. "Well, maybe this boy'll be the one to do it. If he can't pull it off, ain't nobody but the whole Singapore Army can do it."

"This Chee Meng was from the army. Sniper. Guess the Army breeds and trains OWS terrorists indirectly. I reckon that's right."

"Well, that's right," Billy said. "I'd do the same thing, exactly. That man is now being hailed as a hero with the people of Singaporeans who are poor. Say, how many they say he shot anyway in his day?"

"Sixty-five, they say."

"Son of a bitch!"

The front door swung open and a woman stepped into the office, together with another man dressed in plain khakis, a man with wintry eyes and a handlebar mustache. The man possessed of a kind of sinister frenzy beneath a veneer of studied calm. One big hand came to rest on the handle of the .45 riding low on his right hip and he studied the two lawmen with open condescension.

This was the same man the OWS gang had captured and subjected to private and public humiliation, the same man they had left alone and handcuffed in the middle of a lake, the man who had sworn a silent oath to revenge himself on them and had dedicated himself to that ever since. There was law contempt on his face as he addressed the two men, though his voice was quietly controlled and polite.

"Excuse me, am I in the right place? Is this Billy and Roy Eng the Police Superintendent?"

"That's right," Billy said. "I'm Billy. What can I do for you?"

The tall man measured the sheriff and found him wanting. "I," he said softly, " am Chitra...."

Billy moved down the path from his house to the box alongside the road. His soiled blue shirt was pulled out of his belt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing brawny forcams, the trousers sagging. He walked, head down, as if lost in thought, and once he tossed a quick look back at his porch, where Chee Meng, Shin Yi, and Chee Wee sat.

They were healing fast, he told himself, and would probably be moving on soon. Less than a week had passed since their arrival, but Shin Yi and Chee Meng, still bandaged and weak, were fast shedding the effects of their wounds.

And they were different. There was a quality about them Angel Abi could never perceive, couldn't identify even now, a refined essence, as if each of them had pared away all that was unnecessary and burdensome in himself. Shin Yi, her face without makeup of any kind, was thin, ascetic, with a quiet tranquillity. And Chee Meng, the tightness gone, as if in again coming close to the earth he had been replenished, fortified.

There was only one item in the mailbox, the local newspaper, a weekly. Angel Abi returned to her place on the porch before beginning to read it.

"Read out loud, " Angel Abi said.

"Yeah," Chee Meng put in idly. "What do they say about us?"

"Here this," Angel Abi said. "Chee Meng the OWS Gang leader Escapes Biggest Ambush.'"

Chee Meng laughed. "That's a pretty good headline."

Angel Abi grunted, continued to read. " 'They got away, says the police superintendent Billy.' "

"Billy!" Chee Meng slapped his thigh in pure pleasure. "He sounds familiar." He snatched the paper out of her hands.

"Of course, Richard Sangalang knows Billy and Roy Eng. Didn't I tell you that before I ordered you to execute Richard?" Angel Abi Chua beamed with pride.

"Let's see that." A wide grin spread across his mouth. "Look here, Shin Yi, front-page news! Listen—'No trace of Chee Meng and Shin Yi and a possible the third partner.' That's you, Chee Wee.. 'Police in Singapore were dumb founded at the seemingly impossible escape of the elusive terrorist Chee Meng and his companion, raven-haired Shin Yi.'"

Shin Yi touched her hair reflexively.

"Yeah," She said sardonically. "We just took wing and flew away." A burst of laughter tore out of him, a rising sound, running the scale too swiftly. "See that, Shin Yi? We're the front-page news!"

Chee Meng clapped his hands happily. "Hey, how you like having a couple of big deals staying with you?"

Angel Abi toed the wooden boards beneath his feet and arranged a suppliant grin on her broad face. "Ain't that something for me? Something which I am proud of you, son. Even if it means sacrificing my own flesh and blood in return. I am the Black Widow spider."

That made Chee Meng feel good and he leaned back in his chair, manner expansive.

Chee Meng accepted the compliment. "Have it your way." He turned back to the newspaper, began to read. " 'Police counted one victory in the capture of Mui Teng and the killing of Chee Wee, the brother, who died while Chee Meng fled."

"All the joy drained out of Chee Meng's face and he came lurching to his feet, all coiled tension and frustration. His face drew down and his lips were thin. "Fled! What do they mean by that? I couldn't do nothing about it, could I?"

"Sure, Chee Meng," Shin Yi said, trying to soothe him. "It wasn't your fault, honey."

"The bastards! He was already dead! Chee Wee was dead! They know that."

"Sure, Chee Meng. He was already gone."

"There was nothing I could do!" he continued to rage. "Chee Wee was my brother, my flesh and blood. I'd never gone off without him if he still had a chance."

"Take it easy, honey. No sense getting yourself all agitated over some fool newspaper story."

"Fled," Chee Meng muttered, looking out across the fields.

"Fled ... they know better "

Chee Meng stood up and stretched. "Hey, Ma, let's have some lunch."

"Yeah," Angel Abi said reluctantly. He didn't want to miss anything. "You folks like something to eat?"

"Not just now, Angel," Shin Yi said.

"Well, that's okay," Angel Abi said. "Just say when you are ready to eat. Anything I got is yours, Miss Tham Shin Yi, anything you and Chee Meng want. Let's go."

He went into the house, Chee Meng behind him. Angel Abi Chua jerked around when they reached the kitchen and were out of earshot of the porch, her face livid and full of scorn.

"How could you let her do it to you?" she ripped out.

"Huh?" Chee Meng said uncomprehendingly.

The words exploded out of Angel Abi's mouth. "Bring a woman to our house!" She jabbed a finger at her son "What a goddammed fool thing to do!"

"I like her a lot and I like being in the news," he said defensively.

"Trash, boy. You look like trash, marked up that way. Plain cheap trash. We are supposed to stay low profile. And you don't even know if Shin Yi will betray us eventually."

He flushed. "Shin Yi says it looks good on paper."

Angel Abi snorted. "Shin Yi!" Ah her contempt and dislike went into that one word. "What does she know? She's cheap trash herself. And you, Chee Meng. The both of them, look what they do to you, and you don't even get your name in the paper. Chee Meng and Shin Yi, it says, sure enough. And did it say about you, what you did, that you were there even? No, sir. An unidentified man is all you are. Nothing. You're good enough to help him and good enough to get ugly pictures put on your skin, but ain't good enough to get your name mentioned. Not one time."

"But......"

Angel Abi, making her voice throb with emotion, said, "I'm just glad your poor father ain't alive to see that thing." She turned away in disgust.

Chee Meng made a face, glanced down at his exposed chest. "I don't see what's so bad about it. My own father killed himself after he was retrenched. I am avenging his death."

On the porch, Chee Meng was sitting alonside Shin Yi, staring intently at the newspaper, brow furrowed as if in deep contemplation. Shin Yi felt a stab of concern for him.

"You feeling better now, honey?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said distantly. "I'm all right." He studied the black headline. "Well, Shin Yi. We made it, really made it. The front pages. I bet everybody in the whole country knows what we done."

"Yeah," she replied with brief enthusiasm, then: "But I sure am tired of robbing from foreigners."

"So am I," he said.

She studied him curiously. There had been a minimum of agreement in his voice. Even now he seemed withdrawn, his mind drifting off in some world of his own making.

"Chee Meng, what're you thinking about?"

Her voice drew him back and his eyes lit up, his face animated, that quicksilver smile turning his mouth. "I got an idea, Shin Yi. A real good idea. Look here." He held out the paper and indicated a photograph at the bottom of the page. Shin Yi saw the image of a stern old man with piercing eyes and white hair.

"You know who that is, Shin Yi? Do you?"

"Uh-uh."

Chee Meng leaned back. He enjoyed this, wanted to savor it, released the words one by one. "That there is Singapore President Tan Jin Yang worth over a billion dollars. Says here in the paper that he gets up at six o'clock every Sunday morning and plays golf. Out on that course near the Sentosa gateway you know. Now one of these mornin's when he gets out to the fifth hole, he's going to find a big black sedan just setting out there, with us settling in it "

Shin Yi laughed briefly. "You going to be his caddy?" Chee Meng looked at her calmly.

"I'm going to be his kidnapper."

The meaning of his words penetrated slowly. She said nothing, holding herself very still. "That's crazy."

He overrode her objection. "Honey, it's easy as pie. We have us a house guest for a couple of days and then walk away with maybe twenty-five thousand dollars. By the time the law gets moving, we'll be out in a boat and in one of the islands in Indonesia, pretty as you please."

"When you going to do it?"

"Soon as we get back our strength."

Shin Yi stared down at the photograph of Tan Jin Yang

"Well," she murmured, "he sure don't look like he'll be much fun to have around."

The room was white and bright, stripped down to essentials, a room no different than any other hospital room except for the heavy-wire-mesh inner door and the bars over the windows. Such devices didn't trouble Mui Teng. Except for the pungent smell of antiseptics, she would not have known that she was in a hospital. A turban of heavy white bandages covered her eyes and since the dav she was injured she had been able to see nothing. She sat stiffly in a straight-backed chair, feet together under her, hands folded in her lap. A nurse sat in another chair behind her, but they seldom spoke.

Mui Teng gave no sign that she heard the lock click or the outer door open or the wire-mesh portal. Billy, tall and righteous in his khakis, entered the room and motioned for the nurse to leave. She obeyed. Only after the doors were closed did he pad silently to a position inches in back of Mui Teng. After a moment, she sensed his presence.

"Who ... is it?" she stammered.

"Mui Teng," he said quietly.

It was as if some alien and devilish creature had entered her dark world. She half-rose out of her seat, sank back.

"What?" she said. "What do you want? Who is it? Nurse! I want the nurse!"

"The nurse isn't here. But you have nothing to be afraid of. I won't hurt you."

She sighed, slow, lingering, and her shoulders slumped wearily. He head came forward.

"Your husband is dead," he said in a low monotone.

"I know."

"You're going to prison."

"I know."

"It could go easier with you, if you helped. Tell us what you know. Where's the rest of them? Chee Meng and Shin Yi?"

"I don't know." "Where's the rest of them?"

"I don't know. Honest, I don't know."

"How'd you get in with them?"

"I don't know. I didn't mean to. I really didn't. We was just goin' to visit, we wouldn't be doing no robbing and stealing, and then we went to Starbucks and all of a sudden they started shooting!"

A hysterical element seeped into her voice and her head rose. "It was terrible, all that noise and the bullets smacking into things. And we run off. God, I was so scared. And then it was run all the time. Run, run, run. And I wanted us to go, I begged to go, but Chee Meng and Shin Yi and Chee Wee and Angel Abi—"

Billy leaned forward. "Tell me about Angel Abi who? Her last name?"

"Chua," she said. "Angel Abi Chua Siew Siew"

Billy almost smiled as he went to the door.

Rain poured down, inundating the land around Angel Abi's farm. For three days it rained and Shin Yi and Chee Meng grew bored with the house, bored with the company of Angel Abi, bored with themselves.

Chee Meng sat around staring into some point in distant space, seldom speaking; and Shin Yi had found her old black-speckled notebook and spent most of her time scribbling in it.

"What're you writing?" Chee Meng asked.

"Time will tell," she answered enigmatically.

"Aw," Chee Meng said petulantly. "C'mon, tell me what it is."

Shin Yi raised her head and stared at him. Saying nothing, she stalked out of the house onto the porch. Out of the low sky, grim and gray, the rain poured forth as if it would never stop. The old restlessness was on her, the sense of there being a place where life was better and more rewarding. Her eyes came to rest on the car in the driveway and she felt a deep urge to be on her way, speeding somewhere, somewhere new and full of promise.

She tucked the notebook under her blouse protectively and sprinted for the car, climbed in to the back seat.

Drenched, and laughing happily, she wiped water off her face and pushed her hair back. There was an old army blanket on the floor and she wrapped herself in it, felt warm and safe, home, almost. She opened the notebook and began to read what she had written, occasionally entering a correction.

Ten minutes later the front door opened and Chee Meng dived in. Soaked and solemn, he was without anger. She watched him shake the rain away the way a dog would. He drew a box of ginger snaps out of his back pocket and offered them to her. She took one and chewed ruminatively.

"They're good," he said, eating one.

"Uh-uh."

"Want another?"

"No, thanks."

He studied the interior of the car. "Not much of a car, but it's kinda nice here inside, with it raining and all."

"We sure spent a lot of time inside cars and going nowhere."

He frowned and turned away. His face lit up. "I was looking at a newspaper a little while ago. They printed four picture, honey." He leaned forward and his eyes moved over her face. "You sure don't look the same no more."

It was true. Shin Yi had noticed it too. There was a new fragility about her, as if all defenses had been stripped way. Tiny lines had appeared around her eyes and there Ivos the beginning of a furrow at the corners of her mouth. The pale eyes were still and deep and she looked linger, clean, her skin washed clean of all makeup. She went back to her notebook. Chee Meng could restrain curiosity for only a few minutes. "What you writing this time?"

She entered a correction before looking up. "I'm writing a poem about us, Chee Meng," she said intensely. "I'm writing our story, Chee Meng. Our legacy"

He straightened up, adjusted the arm in the sling, eyes glittering. A sudden flash of excitement and anticipation slithered through him. Their story. His story. A smile sliced across his mouth.

"Hey, Shin Yi," he let out deliberately, anxious to appear casual and disinterested. Not succeeding. "That's something. Let's hear it. Go on, now, read it."

"Let me do this line." She did so and looked at him. "Not finished yet. There's more to come, and I want to read it over a couple of times and make what's wrong right, y'know."

"Sure," he said, dismissing her words. "Go on, now, read it to me."

She took a deep breath and began, "The Story of Shin Yi and Chee Meng. . ." She glanced sidelong at him and he smiled a brief smile of encouragement. She went on,

"You've heard the story of Jesse James— Of how he lived and died.

If you're still in need

Of something to read here's the story of Shin Yi and Chee Meng.

"Now Shin Yi and Chee Meng are the OWS Gang. I'm sure you all have read how they rob and steal

And those who squeal are usually found dying or dead. They call them cold-hearted killers; They say they are heartless and mean; But I say this with pride, that I once knew Chee Meng when he was honest and upright and clean. But the politicians and police and the rich fooled around, kept taking him down and locking him up in a cell, Till he said to me,

'I'll never be free, So I'll meet a few of them in hell.'

"The road was so dimly lighted; There were no highway signs to guide;

But they made up their minds

If all roads were blind, they wouldn't give up till they died."

She stopped reading and lifted her face to him. It seemed to her that a fine misty curtain had been lowered across his eyes. A shudder went through him and he made a powerful effort to refocus, to return to this place and this time.

"Go on," he said almost inaudibly. "Go on."

"That's it," she replied softly. "There isn't any more."

"It's the end? Just that way?"

"No. I got more to write."

"Then write it," he said quickly, commandingly. "Finish it, Shin Yi. And then you know what I'm going to do?"

She shook her head.

"I am going to mail it into the police, upload to Youtube, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Pinterest. Shin Yi, so they'll know the real truth. And it'll be printed in all the newspapers. And the whole country would know. Finish it soon, honey. Soon ..."

When the poem was done Chee Meng sent it to the police and eventually it came into the hands of Billy. He sat at a desk in the squad room of a police station and read it with interest.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer; Sometimes you can hardly see; But it's fight man to man,

And do all you can, For they know they can never be free.

Billy tugged at his mustache. He intended to see to it that they'd never be free. He'd dedicated his life to that premise. He continued to read.

From heartbreak to corporate greed, some poor people have suffered; From weariness to unyielded capitalism, some people have died; But take it all in all, Our troubles are small, Till we get like Shin Yi and Chee Meng.

A uniformed policeman came over to Billy. "Well, what do you think?"

Billy tapped the manuscript with one strong ringer. "Sure. Let the papers have it. Let everybody know about Chee Meng and Shin Yi. I want them to know." He paused. "I'll make that poem true one of these days...."

It was a Shin Yi day when Chee Meng sprinted down to the box for the newspaper. And there it was! Shin Yi's poem. Printed in full on the front page with a special box to make it stand out. Chee Meng let out a triumphant yip that brought the others out of the house. He thrust the paper at Shin Yi.

"Read it, honey, read it out loud." She did, including the final stanzas.

"If they try to act like citizens. And rent them a nice little flat. About the third night They're invited to fight By a sub-gun's rat-tat-tat-tat. Demand job security, free health care. Stop the Government's criminal force. Establish your freedom without a fear. Chaos brings order to set the right course. / They have money to import foreigners But not for education or Singaporeans. If you tolerate, things would get worse. To them taxing the rich is a sin."

"Someday they'll go down together; They'll bury them side by side; To a few it'll be grief— To the law a relief— But it's death for Shin Yi and Chee Meng."

She finished and glanced up expectantly.

For a long moment there was only silence; then Chee Meng emitted a wild whoop of delight.

"Damn!" he bellowed. "That's me!"

His mouth gaped open and there was surprise and pleasure on his face and it was as if he was on the verge of a gargantuan laugh that refused to erupt. He slapped his hands together.

"That's me" he chuckled. "In that poem!"

Shin Yi giggled. There was no mistaking the genuineness of Chee Meng's response, more positive than she had dared to hope for.

A widening sense of accomplishment took hold of her.

"A sub-gun's rat-tat-tat-tat!" The laugh started down in his chest, a low cough, rising swiftly, filling his throat and breaking out with tremendous force, unable to be contained. He laughed and laughed and the tears ran down his checks. "Right in the paper! All about me!"

Shin Yi was laughing also now, a release, her body immersed in a soft joy that warmed and provided a new sort of pleasure, meaningful, lasting.

"Jesse James!" Chee Meng roared gleefully. "You hear about Jesse, now you goin' to hear about Chee Meng. Chee Meng! Chee Meng Chee Meng!"

He whirled around as if dancing with an imaginary partner, breath gushing out of him in a succession of explosive puffs. He grabbed Shin Yi and lifted her off her reet, swung her around. "Damn, Shin Yi. Damn! You must been one hell of a woman!"

He set her down and laughed when she wiped away her tears. He bounced away and back again, a loose-limbed young animal full of the life in his veins and unable to express it fully.

"Ooooh, that Chee Meng! That's my man, that Chee Meng!"

Again his arms went out to surround and embrace her, to swing her about. "Shin Yi ... The Poem of Shin Yi and Chee Meng! Ooooh!"

"The Story" she corrected.

"The Story of Shin Yi and Chee Meng! Oh, child, you really did tell that story. You really did it this time. Ain't you somethin'? Something rare and special."

He pulled her close and his mouth came down to hers and in that halved second before their lips touched a great wild burst of triumphant sound tore out of him. Then, still laughing, they kissed, bodies straining against each other, mouths desperate, seeking, animal sounds back in their throats mingling with laughter.

They almost didn't make it back to their room.

At precisely that same time, in Arcadia, Billy sat down at one of those small marble-topped tables in Eva's Ice Cream Parlor, his back to the street. He didn't look up as the tall man approached, settled into the wire chair opposite.

"You're Billy," Zakiah said softly. "Yes, sir."

"I'm going to tell you what I want done," Zakiah said, voice flat, demanding. "And you are going to get it done."

"There's my girl Shin Yi. I won't have nothing happening to her."

"That was our agreement. It's the other two I want. It's up to you to keep your daughter out of it."

Billy nodded. "I can do that, I reckon."

"All right. Now here's what you're going to do." She pulled her chair closer and began to talk, low, intense, a kind of repressed desperation in his expression.

That night after supper, they were all seated around the living room, listening to the night sounds of the farm. "Chee Meng," Shin Yi said. "Huh?"

"Tomorrow, let's go into town tomorrow. I want to get so pretty things in town tomorrow. There just ain't anything pretty to look at in this house, if you don't mind saying so, Mr. Moss."

"Reckon you're right, Shin Yi," he said, averting his eyes. "This place could use a woman's touch."

"Okay, honey," Chee Meng said, then: "You can buy an awful lot of pretty things in Katong if you got twenty-five thousand dollars in your pocket."

Angel Abi stood up. "Think I'll be going to bed now. Good night, all."

Chee Meng rose and followed her. "Me, too. I'm tired."

Angel Abi eyed him speculatively. "Stay and talk to your mother for a spell," he said tightly. '"

"I'm sleepy."

Angel Abi looked up the stairs, called after Chee Meng.

"Sure appreciate it if you'd pick me up some light bulbs tomorrow. If they ran out, just buy some candles."

"Sure thing," Chee Meng said. He and Shin Yi went into their room and closed the door behind them.

Neither of them could sleep. They lay apart in the big double bed, staring into the blackness, aware of each other but careful not to touch. It was Chee Meng who finally broke the awkward silence.

"Shin Yi?"

"Huh?"

"You awake?"

"Yeah."

He sucked in air. "Shin Yi" The words gushed out quickly. "Will you marry me?"

Her eyes swung toward him and she could barely make out his profile in the night.

"You don't have to marry me," she said softly.

He grunted. "I know that. I asked you if you'd marry me."

She looked straight up at the unseen ceiling, making her voice formal, a false formality that gave no hint of what she was feeling.

"How could I do that, Chee Meng?" she said. "You know it's just impossible. We'd have to go to a Justice of the Peace and a Justice of the Peace is a lawman. We couldn't even take out a license without getting arrested and charged in Court."

Chee Meng rolled to face her. He chuckled quietly. "Hey, now, you sound like you have been giving it some thought on your own."

"Oh, no," Shin Yi said, struggling to muffle the emotion she felt. "Oh, I never gave it thought. I haven't thought about it at least ten times a day, I haven't thought about it every minute of my life since I met you."

Her voice cracked and her eyes flooded. "My mother called me up yesterday. We had a heart-to-heart. She cried over the phone and said that I have disappointed and let her down. A Nanyang Technology University graduate turned into a terrorist with sloppy idealism."

She flung herself across the bed, burying her face against Chee Meng's chest, her knees drawn up, her body racked with sobs.

Chee Meng wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. "Hey,. . what're you doing? Are you crying, honey?"

"If I had graduated and stayed on to the basics of finding a job, this wouldn't have happened." Shin Yi said, in between sobs.

"And what are the basics then? Wall Street? Corporate Greed? God?" Chee Meng rebutted.

"You know what I mean"

"Well then, Singapore politicians bless our way of life! The politicians will be telling you — foreigners create jobs for Singaporeans. If slow down the mass import of foreigners, Singaporeans will all become jobless. Of course, the politicians won't tell you that slowing down mass influx of foreigners will make their businessmen and CEOs friends very unhappy, and reduce the GDP which will then reduce their bonus & pay and good way of life."

Shin Yi sucked in one breath of air as she wailed out. "A very good way of life it is, Chee Meng! No matter how much you insult the rich, our system, our politicians, the foreigners, or try to tear it down with your sloppy idealism. I can no longer abide to people like you who live off our system and find nothing better to do than whine and complain!"

Chee Meng pulled away from Shin Yi. "Is that your image of me? Is that it?!"

"Yes!" Shin Yi cried.

"How can that be? We are trying to fight for our cause here. For our future generation! The more they screw us, the more we multiply! Why don't you go back to your mother! You are just messing things up!"

She fought for control and at last the tears stopped and there was only an occasional sob. "Chee Meng, why do you want to join OWS?"

He made his voice light. "To make an honest living. I am a Singaporean and have served my service in an infantry unit. For these I am always being laughed upon by my foreign friends during drinking session. They ridicule us. They can afford to work in Singapore for a few years and retire in their homelands. And us? We work for 30 years and we cannot even draw out our savings from the National Savings Board! And thinking about it, who can we blame except ourself for chosing the state of what we are in!"

She understood his feelings without the words. Her mind turned over, reaching into the past before flinging itself ahead into the future.

"It satisfied me to give money to the Singapore poor. I liked to have that power. It wasn't just vengeance for all Singaporeans, it was relief, the relief of being able to eliminate one more foreign fucker from Singapore. To stop the globalization movement and those corporate rich bitches. I would have liked to have endless ammunition to be able to give to all those who had nothing, as once I had nothing."

"Chee Meng," she said, "what would you do, what would you do if some miracle happened and we could walk out tomorrow morning and start all over again, clean, with no record, with nobody after us?"

It was an interesting idea and he gave it some thought. The possibilities were endless.

"Well," he said finally, "I guess I'd do it all different. First off, I wouldn't live in the same state where we pull our jobs. We'd live in another country and stay clean there, and we can live on a few dollars in Thailand as they have a lower cost of living.... and . . ." He broke off. The quality of the silence had been radically altered and he knew at once that he could not have said anything worse, that this was not even close to the answer she had hoped to hear. A worried note came into his voice. "Shin Yi," he ended pleadingly.

Shin Yi did not answer. She had made her decision.

Little traffic was in the streets and there were few customers in the stores lining those streets. So it was that Angel Abi and Chee Meng were able to make their purchases rapidly. They made their way back to the car, arranging the bags and boxes in the back seat.

"What's happened to Shin Yi?" Chee Meng said, looking around.

"She stopped off in that hardware store," Shin Yi offered. "To get those light bulbs."

Chee Meng grunted and took his place behind the wheel. Angel Abi came around the other side and sat next to him.

"Boy," he complained lightly. "My feet sure are hot." He took off his shoes and massaged his toes.

Angel Abi Chua giggled. "You planning to drive with your shoes off?"

"Sure, why not?"

He reached for his sunglasses. With an exaggerated flourish, he went to put them on and one of the lenses dropped out.

"Damn!" he said, retrieving it, dropping it into his shirt pocket. He arranged the one-lensed frame and made a funny face in Angel's direction.

She laughed. "You going to wear them that way?"

"Sure. Reckon I'll drive with only one eye open."

He switched on the radio and turned the dial.

He stopped drumming on the wheel. "Why don't we do tomorrow?" There was a bright, anticipatory glow in his eyes.

"Do what?"

"Tomorrow's Sunday, ain't it? We could drive all night to be one bid be on that golf course first thing in the morning to kidnap the politician Lee Weng Yew."

"You sure you feel up to it?" she said after a thoughtful stop.

"Why not?" His eyes darted up and down the street.

"Where is that Shin Yi? She's gone too long."

The slow-moving car turned into the curb on the other side of the street.

"Go and look," Chee Meng said, suddenly irascible. "See what's keeping her."

Angel Abi Chua nodded, headed toward the hardware store. Chee Meng watched her for a moment, then turned away. His eyes came to rest on the two men getting out of the just-parked car. Police. Both of them. Chee Meng jerked his head away, shielding his face with his hand. He pressed down on the horn, two short blasts. Angel Abi looked back inquiringly. She saw the deputies and stiffened.

Chee Meng started the car, eased over to where she stood, opened the door. She got in and he drove carefully out of town.

"They aren't after us," he said, "but there's no sense asking for trouble."

Neither of them spotted Shin Yi, concealed in the goods store, peering out through a curtained window, a troubled expression on her little round face, the tiny mouth pursed regretfully.

"What's that?"

She straightened up. Ahead, a car had pulled over onto the shoulder, and in the center of the road a woman was waving for them to stop. Chee Meng took down his glasses.

"What's wrong?" Angel said.

"Don't know."

A shudder of apprehension passed down Angel's spine. "Forget about her, Chee Meng."

He chuckled. "It's okay. That's Shin Yi's mother up there. Her truck must've busted down and he needs a hand." He got out and strode toward Zakiah, hailing him.

"What's the trouble?" he called. "What's wrong with your car?"

"Not sure," Zakiah said uncertainly, eyes darting across the road.

Time slowed for Chee Meng. There was Zakiah, and seeing him made Chee Meng think of Shin Yi somewhere back in town, avoiding the ride back with them.

Avoiding ...the ... ride... back.

And over Zakiah's shoulder, still looking expectantly into the lush greenery across the road.

Time stopped. Chee Meng backed off a step, and another. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He glanced around. Shin Yi suddenly was standing at one corner as she re-appeared from a goods store. Angel Abi Chua was back in the car, the door on the driver's side still open, inviting his return. At once he wanted very much to be back behind the wheel, speeding away from this place.

"I guess I could use a hand, Chee Meng," Zakiah mumbled.

Chee Meng retreated further and time continued to hold. A breeze, icy, penetrating, made him shiver.

The leaves on the farside of the road rustled. Not from the breeze. And in that suspended moment Chee Meng knew, knew, for the leaves had moved unnaturally, in the wrong direction. He heaved himself around, movements clumsy and slow, and he heard his name spoken. A distant echo, the sound of doom, a voice long expected. But not so soon. Not so soon.

"Chee Meng!" Shin Yi shouted, the signal earlier arranged.

"Chee Meng!" someone behind the bushes cried in cold rage. Chee Meng recognized that voice immediately on the radio.

Zakiah dived under her car, scrambled for cover.

"Chee Meng! My son!" Angel Abi screamed, sliding toward the open door, as if trying to reach him, to speed his return. "Get back to the car!"

Time had stopped, and there was only the sound. Six automatic weapons spewing out an awful authority. Chee Meng staggered, stumbled toward the car, toward Angel, mouthing silent warnings and pleas, tumbling to the ground, body jerking and twisting, torn by slug after slug, destroyed.

And Angel Abi Chua, slender and beautiful, accepting each blow with feminine grace, body arching invitingly, white dress staining crimson, smashed back into the leather seat, falling finally onto her side, bent toward the earth, head hanging, hair a golden veil, an arm loosely and gracefully caressing the rich soil.

Dead. Both of them. Dead of eighty-seven lawful bullets.

Billy and Roy Eng led the police out of the bushes, guns smoking. He stood staring down at the two corpses, his face a blank, the far-sighted eyes glazed and lifeless.

Zakiah crawled out from under her truck, looking this way and that, seeking but finding nothing.

Shin Yi inched her way forward, horror imbedded in their faces. From afar, they saw the two bodies, shattered and still, and wondered silently what those two had done to deserve this. Time began again.

Mortgage Arrears Forgiveness Project Murder: From Dark Journey to Deep Grace

On April 1 2014, a phone call changed my life. There was nothing unusual or special about that day that would indicate something life-changing was going to happen. It was a day like so many others.

Around suppertime, the call came. It was a good friend, Rob Tan, a preacher in Singapore. It was unusual for him to be calling me at evening time on a Wed night because both of our churches have a Wed night service and a Bible study class after that. We are usually getting ready for those responsibilities.

But this call was something quite out of the norm.

As a minister, I am accustomed to receiving phone calls at all times of the day and night. It is a defining part of the ministry of serving people. Most of the time, these calls are from people who are hurting and just need someone to listen to their story as they pour their hearts out. Such interruptions are the price of being in a noble profession.

Rob had just talked with a minister active in prison work, who was in contact with a prisoner who wanted to become a Christian. The prison is in Changi, about 40 miles north of where I live. Rob was leaving for a conference in Malaysia and knew I lived closer to the prison than he did, so he was calling to ask me to follow up. I had never done prison work, but was willing to do what I could.

As a minister, I had given my life to God, which meant going wherever whenever he needed me. Like most ministers, I relate to the Old Testament story of Moses encountering the burning bush. The burning bush as was sign to Moses that God was calling him to lead the Israelites. Moses could not escape the call of the "I AM THAT I AM." Ministers don't always know what God intends for them – until they are called.

So I told Rob, "Sure I'll look into it. What is the prisoner's name?"

Rob asked if I were sitting down, which piqued my curiosity. "I'm not sure if this is a hoax," he said, "because April 1st today."

He paused, then said, "The prisoner is Marcus Tang."

"Rob, did you say, "Marcus Tang?" I asked.

"That's right."

Most Singaporeans have heard of Marcus Tang, hearing all the details of his crimes. I think Rob was glad to hand the task over to me. It was a little too personal for him to handle.

He continued, "I tried to call the chaplain at the prison to verify the story, but he had already left. I'm leaving for my conference and I simply cannot follow through on this. Would you call to see if the request is true, and if so, follow up on it?"

Questions multiplied in my mind. What would my family think? I'd been married for 25 years to my wife, Susan, and all this time, I'd never exposed her to anything harmful. My children were grown. Would they take this matter seriously? Or would they make jokes or laugh about it? Would they encourage or discourage me? What would my congregation think? I had only served them for four years and I still didn't know them all well. Would they be honoured or ashamed? Most importantly, is Marcus sincere? Could he have a hidden motive?

Finally, I answered, "Yes. I will call the chaplain tomorrow. If Marcus really wants to be baptized, I will make the arrangements." We said our goodbyes and hung up.

I put the phone down, turned and told my wife, Susan and my daughter who was with us, "You're not going to believe this. I was just asked to baptize Marcus Tang." They were stunned for a moment but quickly recovered. It wasn't long before we began to joke around about this strange happening that came so out of the blue. We couldn't imagine the immense impact this would have on our lives.

At church that night, I told my congregation what had happened. I asked for their prayers. I said I didn't know if the story was accurate but yet, I had received a call asking me to baptize a prisoner in Changi and that prisoner was Marcus Tang.

The eyes of some grew wide with astonishment. Some were speechless. A few came to me later and said they would pray for me.

How do you relax after a request like this one? Predictably, I had trouble getting to sleep that night. Questions floated across my mind. Was the prisoner really Marcus Tan? Did he really want to be a Christian? What would he know? Or want to know about baptism? What kind of a person is he? Was it a cruel joke? And most importantly – why me?

I knew all these issues would seem clearer in the morning but I knew what I had to do first. I had to confirm the truth of the request. I also decided to contact a minister closer to the prison than I was about baptizing Marcus Tang. Finally, I fell into a fitful sleep.

The next morning, I was anxious to take action. Since the prison chaplain would probably not be available until after 9am, I tried to busy myself with other things. Regardless, the questions and thoughts that plagued me during the night kept coming back.

Why did Marcus Tang want to be baptized? What did he know or understand about baptism? My religious body, the Church of Christ, baptizes by immersion. What problems would this pose in a prison?

The time came to call the prison chaplain and I nervously dialled the number Rob had given me. When a guard answered, I asked for the chaplain's line. I had rehearsed my introduction before making the call, and I hoped my nervousness wouldn't keep me from being coherent.

"Hello, my name is Eng Minghao," I said, "I am a minister and I received a call yesterday about one of your inmates who wants to be baptized. I am calling to confirm that because the inmate is famous."

The chaplain cut me off, "Let's cut the red tape. You are talking about Marcus Tang, aren't you?"

I was startled and swallowed before I could reply, "Yes I am calling about Marcus. I heard he wants to be baptized and I am following through his request."

The chaplain paused and said, "Yes, it's true. In fact, I have a letter on my desk that Marcus has written me. He expressed concern about whether our prison will allow his baptism."

Prisons are not built with baptism by immersion in mind. I knew many prisoners find God in prison and that their odyssey often involves finding a way to be baptized. I wondered what the prison could provide.

But the chaplain seemed happy I'd called and glad that I was willing to deal with the request. "Perhaps," he said, "before any plans are made, you should meet Marcus first to determine the genuineness of his desire for baptism. Then we can meet to discuss how accommodation could be made,"

I was relieved. He seemed helpful.

"I do have one problem," I said, "There is a congregation closer to the prison than mine and I feel bound to offer that minister the opportunity to baptize Marcus."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"I don't know just yet. Once I talk to him, either he or I, or possibly both of us will come."

"Tell us who's coming," he said. "I will need names and your official positions."

I hung up the phone and prayed. "Thank you, Father, for giving me this task and for the part I am playing in it. If it be your will that I have no other part to play than what I have just done, may you be glorified in that. If, however, you have more for me to do, give me the wisdom to handle it."

Next, I called the minister, in Changi, a church closer to the prison. Strangely enough, his name was Marcus as well but it was Marcus Kam. He was young and was in his first ministry job. I told him the story as it developed, and then put the question to him. "Marcus, you need to make a decision. Do you want to take care of this yourself or do you want us to go together?"

I remember his answer clearly. After a short pause, he said, "I would gladly go with you." I could sense nervousness in his voice and I could imagine his eyes growing large with the same amazement I'd seen in my church members the night before.

I remember his answer clearly. After a short pause, he said, "I would gladly go with you." I could sense nervousness in his voice, and I could imagine his eyes growing large with the same amazement I'd seen in my church members the night before.

"We need to discuss this," I said. "A unity meeting planning session is coming up. Would you be interested in going? You could pick me up, and we could talk on the ride over."

"That would be great!" he replied. So we set the time—four days later. I couldn't call the chaplain back until I had worked out the details of our visit. I remember thinking that some things don't happen quickly.

On Monday, Marcus, the young minister, picked me up. I was anxious to discuss Marcus Tang, but first I had something I needed to ask. "I work with a Christian summer camp," I said. "I'm looking for good, quality people to serve as counselors and teachers. Would you help us this year?"

His response startled me. "I can't make that promise. We're planning to move out of Singapore."

"What? You're planning to leave Singapore? When?"

"We're in the process of making the final arrangements now," he said. He paused, then said, "We're having a bad time adjusting to life here in Singapore. We've decided to move back to Malaysia. I can go with you to see Marcus Tang, but I'll be leaving shortly after that."

We planned the visit for the following day, but when I called the prison chaplain, I quickly learned my first lesson about prison work.

"You can't come tomorrow," he said. "The prison needs time to process the information on visitors and get security clearance. It will be at least another week before you can visit. Nothing happens quickly in prison. You'll just have to be patient."

We discussed possible dates and settled on April 20,2014, for the first visit with Tang. But when I called Marcus, the prison minister, he said, "I can't make it. I have to take my wife to the Changi airport that day, and I'll be leaving the day after for Malaysia."

So, it was settled. Any other minister was out of the picture. I would be baptizing Marcus Tang.

In the days before my first visit, I learned more about Tang's desire to become a Christian. A woman in my church, Mrs Sze Chia, a member of my religious body, the Church of Christ, taught Marcus through a Bible correspondence course. I received from her a copy of the first letter she sent him, and a copy of the form he filled out requesting baptism. For several months, I thought Sze Chia had made the initial contact with Marcus. When the media first interviewed me about the baptism, I credited her with making the first contact.

Later, though, I learned that the prison minister in Changi, Curtis Boo, who had contacted Rob Tan, was actually the first person from the Church of Christ to contact Marcus Tang. Boo sent him a Bible correspondence course and a Bible a week earlier than Sze Chia did.

When the date for my visit was set, I called Boo to assure him that Marcus Tang would be baptized. He was nervous about the whole subject and phoned me several times to urge me on. He even had others call to do likewise.

I had assured Curtis I would perform the baptism, and it wasn't until I met him sometime later that I learned why he was so nervous. He thought I wouldn't want to baptize Marcus because of the nature of his crimes. He had put himself in my shoes, and was acting according to the way he thought he would feel. His perception of my feelings was completely wrong.

A Singapore television personality had already spread the word that I was afraid to baptize Marcus. But I had no reluctance about performing the baptism. I was anxious about the task—partly because of the difficulties in my way and partly because I knew the expectations of others. But I wanted to get this done. I was resolved to do it.

I met Marcus Tang on 20 April 2014. That day stands out vividly in my mind.

I was nervous because meeting new people always makes me nervous. I had never been this nervous before, and I had no idea what to expect. The chaplain had given me good directions for the prisons. I parked my car, adjusted my tie, grabbed my Bible and headed for the door.

As I walked to the main gate, I heard a strange buzzing. What was that? Someone had seen me arming me in. Inside, I found myself in a small foyer with another locked door before me. The guard did not open the second door until the first closed behind me and locked. I reminded myself that everything would be ok. Just keep calm. I entered the second door and came into a spacious waiting room, a bathroom on another, seats for visitors, and a walk-through metal detector.

At the window, I told the go, "I'm here to visit Marcus Tang."

He pushed a paper through a slot in to and told me to wait. He asked for some identification, and I gave driver's license. He held it up to a list. He gave me a key and told me to remove everything from my pockets.

I deposited my wallet, keys, and the locker and went through the metal detector with my Bible and in hand.

I laid my Bible and my locker key in a basket. An alarm sounded! I tried again. I patted down my pockets to see if what I had missed. The guard suggested that I take off my shoes. My shoes, apparently, they had metal arch supports. Finally, I walked through the metal detector successfully.

As if to congratulate me, the guard reached for my right hand to shake his, but he turned it over for a stamp on it which I could see no imprint. Later, I learned this only show up in UV light and prove that I was not an inmate trying to sneak out of prison.

So now what do I do? The guard asked me to wait, and with a slight delay, the chaplain arrived. "Hello, my name Chaplain Lui. I believe you talked to me on the phone. I will escort you in."

Obediently, I followed him. He led me through two more electronically locked doors. I heard the doors shut and lock behind me. Once in the visiting area, there were chairs and tables, he directed me to a side room with a table. I walked in and sat down. "Marcus will be with you," he said, and disappeared. So far, this was a different experience than I'd imagined. I didn't know what to expect, but I had seen movie scenes of people visiting prisoners. In those, there were glass windows that separated the visitor from the prisoner, and the two talked by telephone, or pushed a small slot. Nothing of the sort was here. I found myself in a room about 9 or 10 feet square with a small table and chairs.

Were they going to let me meet Marcus Tang, the infamous murderer, face to face? Perhaps they would station a guard in the room who would be there the whole time as minutes ticked by. I felt like I was in a doctor's examining room. I hated this before. Often, I arrive on time for an appointment with, but still have to wait in the waiting room. Finally, the nurse calls for me escorts me to a small examination room. There I sit and wait anxiously, and begin to notice sweat trickling down various parts of my forehead.

It was happening again, me I'm in a prison, not at the doctor's office. It seemed like a long anxious and nervous about meeting someone I had never met— such a heinous criminal history. I was too nervous. After about 7 or 8 minutes, there he was, standing in the door way was Tang.

He was alone, with no cuffs, no chaplain. He looked just like he did on television, barely 6 feet tall, with blond hair and pale blue eyes. His dark green prison uniform made me think of the work clothes my grandfather bought regularly at Sears.

"Hello, my name is Marcus Tang," he said. He took a step toward me and put out his hand. I reached for it. "Hello, I'm Eng Minghao."

He closed the door, stepped around the table and sat down opposite me. We were all alone. Periodically, a guard would walk by and look through a window, but other than that, it was just the two of us.

Tang was not as big as I expected. I'm approximately 6 feet 1, and he was shorter than I am. He was not as large as I had expected, although later he would say he had gained weight because of sedentary prison life. I looked into his eyes, and he looked back unafraid.

"I want to thank you for coming," he began. "I was afraid you might not come." As he spoke, I glanced down at his hands. They were small. Are these the hands of a murderer? They didn't look large enough to have done the damage everyone had read and heard about.

I didn't waste any time. "I understand that you want to be baptized." "Yes, I believe it is something I need to do, but I am not certain they will allow it in this prison." I was startled—Tang was more concerned with the physical problems of accomplishing the baptism than he was about whether or not he should be baptized!

"Before we get into how we will do it," I said, "I need to ask you an important question. Why do you want to be baptized?"

Over the years, I've regretted baptizing people who were pushed into it by anxious parents or pressing circumstances. Baptism is important to spiritual development, and must be undertaken with the proper understanding of what it means and what is expected of the person afterward.

"Well, I used to think baptism was an optional thing, but I've done some reading and studying on the subject, and I've realized that I need to have my sins washed away, like Paul did in Damascus Acts 22:16, "Arise and be baptized and wash away your sins, calling upon the name of the Lord Jesus. In the past I picked up the idea from watching religious shows on television that baptism is not very important," Marcus said.

Now, he said, his view had changed. He had come to believe in the importance of baptism by studying books and pamphlets and the New Testament books of Mark, Acts and Romans. He believed he needed to be "buried with Christ," as Romans describes it. He wanted to be baptized like many were on the day of Pentecost—as reported in Acts.

Finally, he said, "I really want to be baptized." I was surprised. Marcus Tang had studied the subject beyond basic Bible correspondence courses. He was familiar with Bible passages about the subject; he understood the purpose and place of baptism. He very much wanted to address the sin in his life. I believed in Jesus Christ, and said he wanted to "put Him on in baptism"—a common phrase in my Christian fellowship.

So, he did understand the nature of baptism—and once the issue of proper understanding is settled, the issue of urgency kicks in. Such urgency is illustrated by the account of the Philippian jailer in Acts, who was baptized in the middle of the night. Once the Apostle Paul saw that the jailer had a good understanding of the need for baptism, he did not waste any time. My decision came quickly. "Yes, I'll baptize you. It's clear that you understand what baptism is all about." When I told him this, he let out a loud sigh, an obvious feeling of relief.

"Why did you make that noise just now?" I asked. His answer has remained with me since. "I was very nervous about meeting you today," he said. "I was afraid you would come and tell me that I couldn't be baptized because my sins are too evil."

"I would never say that," I said. "Such a thought never entered my head. The whole point of baptism is dying to one's old life of sin. All sins are evil before God. I don't know of any sins too evil for Christ's blood to wash away."

In the years since our first meeting, I have been asked many questions about Marcus Tang. The most common is, "Was Marcus Tang really sincere about his baptism?" My answer always takes me back to that moment in that little room when I agreed to baptize him, and he confided his fears that I would reject his request.

I think Marcus was serious about his baptism. I believe people were thinking, "How could anyone who has been so sinful, who has done so many horrid things, who has walked in such wickedness ever be sincere about something like baptism?"

How unfair that question is! Will God judge the sincerity of our baptism based on our pre-Christian lives? All of us were sinners before we became Christians; all Christians have a sinful past. How would you feel about people holding you spiritually responsible for what Christ's death has removed?

Paul wrote in I Corinthians that the people in Corinth had been sexually immoral, idolaters, adulterers, male prostitutes, homosexual offenders, thieves, greedy, drunkards, slanderers and swindlers before they became Christians. Regardless of all this, "But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified for of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God" (I Corinthi)

If previous sins call in for our baptism, then no one can be saved, including the Apostle Paul, who executed and killed Christians before he accepted Jesus. When people ask this question, they are forgetting what the story of Jesus Christ is all about - to question the power of the blood of Jesus.

But I did have another question for Marcus. I've always found it helpful to know the religious past of any people I work with. I can anticipate the kind of questions the person will have before I address them.

I asked, "What is your religious background? Do you have any religious training?" I expected him to say he had no religious background at all. His answer stunned me.

"My religious background of Christ," he said.

I think I made an audible sound. Then I stammered, "You...you're background is the Church of Christ?" I asked, staring at him questioningly.

"Yes. My parents were b of the Church of Christ, and we attended when I was a small estopped going to church when I was 4 or 5 years old. We never went after that."

"Do you know why they stopped?" I asked.

"No. I have no idea."

"Well, tell me what your experience you had."

"When I stayed with my parents, I went to church with her. In fact, I really tried to get to church, but it was never interesting to me. Most of what I know about Christ I've picked up from television."

I thanked him for his explanation. "Why don't you go back to your cell," I said, "and I'll talk to the chaplain about your baptism. When it's all settled, I'll arrange to baptize you."

Marcus nodded, got up and left. I followed him into the main visiting area, but didn't get far. A guard approached me, asking what I was doing. "I'm just trying to find Chaplain Lui to talk about arrangements for a baptism," I said.

"Well, you can't walk around unescorted. Go back to the room where you were, and I'll have a chaplain come to you." I meekly obeyed and returned. Again, I had to wait and wait and wait. There goes the sweat again! Finally, a new face appeared—a different chaplain.

"Hello, my name is Nathan Tee. Chaplain Lui is busy and can't see you. Can I help you?"

"I've talked to Marcus Tang about his request for baptism. I've agreed to baptize him, and I need to talk to someone about arranging that."

"We've discussed this," Chaplain Nathan said. "We have a question for you, too. Do you think you could have a baptistery donated to the prison? The prison system is under a strict code of equal treatment of prisoners for religious purposes. If the prison buys a baptistery for Christians, it would have to buy something of equal value for every other religious group, including a prayer mat for the Muslim prisoners. We don't want to get into all that. If you could have a baptistery donated, that would work really well."

"As a matter of fact," I said, "I've been in touch with some people about prison baptisteries. I know a place that makes them, and I will see what I can find out about having one donated."

"Meanwhile, I'll be looking for a way to accommodate this request,"

Chaplain Nathan said. "What size baptistery are we talking about?"

"Well, something big enough to totally immerse a grown man. We understand baptism to mean a full-body immersion in water. It would have to be big enough and deep enough to do that."

"All right," he said. "We will also need information about your church for our files. Could you send us a tract or something that tells us what your church believes?"

"Sure, I can do that," I replied. "I've got some work to do, and as soon as I find out about having a baptistery donated, I'll let you know."

I was escorted out of the visiting area and put my stamped hand under the black light. The stamped area glowed. I was allowed to pass back into the lobby.

My first visit with Marcus Tang was over, and my head was full of questions about how we would baptize him. I was certain of one thing: I would definitely baptize him.

Back at my office, the first person I wanted to contact was Curtis Boo, the prison minister in Singapore, to tell him I had met Marcus and had agreed to baptize him. I couldn't reach him, but a few hours later, he returned my call. "Hello, my brother! I have heard good news!" he exclaimed.

I said, "Yes, I wanted to tell you personally that I've visited Marcus and agreed to baptize him. Now, it is just a matter of working out the details."

"Let me tell you what I do," he said. "I bought a hose-watering tank, and I carry it in my pickup truck. Whenever somebody wants to be baptized, I take it to the prison, fill it up with water and perform the baptism. Why don't you do that?"

"I think I'll try getting a baptistery donated to the prison first. I've talked to people who make them, and I think that might be the best way to go for now."

"No, they'll drag their feet," Boo said. "You've got to get a watering tank and go up there and baptize him as soon as possible." Boo was pressing the urgency issue.

"The chaplains are looking for something we could use in the prison until I can find a baptistery," I explained. "I don't know what they'd think of a watering tank, and I do not really want to push the matter yet."

"You think about it, and if you decide to get one, let me know, and I'll tell you where you can find them," he said.

"I just wanted you to know that I intend to baptize Marcus Tang, and you don't need to worry about it anymore," I said, and said goodbye.

I hung up and called a friend who knew about a company in Malaysia, that makes baptisteries. I called the number he gave me and explained what I needed.

"Well, we don't just donate our baptisteries to a prison," said the man who answered. "But we may be able to find some people who will donate the cost of making one and have it sent to your prison."

By this time, I'm beginning to get used to roadblocks.

He continued, "We'll send you a picture of what we make. Essentially, it is a communion table that can be converted into a baptistery. You lift the top off, and a baptistery is inside the table."

"Okay, send me your information, and I'll pass it on."

I phoned the prison, but when I told Chaplain Lui what I'd learned, his reply was negative. "I don't think that will work for us. We already have a communion table."

"Well, at least look at the material I'll send you about it," I said.

When the material finally came, it looked good. The top of the communion table can be removed, and inside is room for a person to be baptized. The baptistery would contain water all the time, and even had a heater to keep the water warm. I sent the brochure to the prison, and called a few days later for the chaplains' reaction.

Chaplain Lui didn't seem excited about the whole baptism issue. "I don't think this will work for us," he said again. We already have a communion table. We don't need another one."

"What about keeping this new one in a corner or in a storage area?" I said. "Then you could bring it out when a full-body baptism was needed. What about that?"

"No, I don't think so, but I think I may have a solution. We have a whirlpool tub we use for prisoners who hurt their backs. It's about 4 feet long and 3 feet wide, and about 18 inches deep. Do you think it would work for this baptism?"

"It should work fine. When can we do it?"

"We're looking at April 20."

"I'll be there. Does it matter what time?"

"Let's shoot for 2 p.m."

"Great!"

"Oh, will we need to provide a baptismal robe?" the chaplain asked. "Or will you provide one?"

I said, "I have some here at the church building, but I don't know anything about his size, and I'm unsure of what you guys allow. Why don't you have Marcus bring a change of clothes, and he can put on dry clothes after I baptize him?"

"Don't worry, we'll figure something out," he said.

Finally, a date had been set and approved. There was nothing to do but wait for the day to come.

The truth is our friend. That is probably the most basic lesson I have had to learn in my life. We need to know the truth. Our very lives depend upon it. But sometimes we are not comfortable learning the truth. We would rather live in ignorant bliss than in knowledge—especially when the truth is especially painful.

If you were dying of a dread disease, would you want to know? Even if you couldn't do anything about it, just knowing could help you deal with it. But, sometimes, frankly, we would rather not know.

When it comes to the subject of Marcus Tang, there is much we would rather not know. His very name makes people nervous and unsettled. Why are they so touchy? Is it because his crimes were unheard of? No. Others have murdered, dismembered, and even raped people. So what is so unnerving about Marcus Tang?

Could it be that too much of the truth about him came out too soon? Could it be that Marcus Tang's murderous acts resonate with the rest of us who struggle to cope with the high costs of living in Singapore?

THE REAL SINGAPORE

Published on Nov 02, 2013 3:20 PM

Renowned terrorist group claiming to be Occupy Movement collective has put up a YouTube video promising that it will declare war on the Singapore government if it does not endorse the Mortgage Forgiveness Debt Project in Singapore Parliament.

The video, which surfaced online two days ago, was removed from YouTube just minutes after it went viral on Facebook and Twitter today with over 4,000 shares. The video, however, has been reposted on Facebook, other channels on YouTube, and various video platforms.

The message goes: "the primary objective of our invasion was to protest the incumbent People's Progressive Party (PPP) for not endorsing the opposition party's Mortgage Forgiveness Debt Plan."

It continues: "We have faced much larger and more secured corporations such as the FBI and the NSA. Do you think the PPP will be a problem for us?... so mark our words when we say that we Occupy Movement stand firm on our belief that no Government has the right to evict their citizens from any public housing when they fall into arrears."

The video then called on "fellow Singaporean brothers and sisters" to start a public protest by dressing in black and red on November 5 and blacking out their Facebook profile pictures.

Announced in May this year, the Mortgage Forgiveness Debt Plan proposes that Singapore public home owners should have their debt written off if they can prove they are unable to handle their mortgage arrears due to financial difficulties. PPP, which holds the majority of the Parliament seats has blocked this proposal by the minority opposition politicians. Critics have said that PPP is out to get even with the opposition held wards and will block any policy even if it is logical.

Yahoo News

Published on Nov 07, 2014 4:30 PM

"You pig!"

Protesters blocked the driveway off Main Street as District Judge Bart Leong tried to come to work. A man named Paul Teo stepped in front of the car, lay down on the pavement.

4000 Singaporeans gather on Nov 7, 2014 during a demonstration in support of Occupy Movement terrorist Marcus Tang, where his court martial will begin on Nov 10.

Supporters of a former Singapore army officer who murdered the Public Housing Authority CEO Koh Kian Beng and his wife, Janice, held a protest march and rally outside Singapore's Supreme Court.

Protesters carried signs, some reading "Free Marcus Tang" and "Marcus Tang Sentenced to Death for Crime that Most Singaporeans Wanted To Happen"

The protesters had been, wrote District Judge Bart Leong, in contempt of a previous court ruling governing the nature of the protests. In Singapore, under Section 22 of the Penal Code, an 'unlawful assembly'

Marcus's trial is to begin Monday. The 25-year-old former army officer is charged with the murder of Koh Kian Beng and his wife Janice. Marcus has said he wanted the Public Housing Authority (PHA) to stop its harassment of housing loan defaulters by PHA officers and to implement a mortgage forgiveness project being implemented in opposition held wards.

In a surprise in February, Marcus pleaded guilty to ten criminal counts related to his case. His defence was that of diminished mental capacity.

However, despite pleading guilty to some of the charges, Marcus still faces a court martial and possible death sentence for allegedly aiding and facilitating the global terrorist network group – Occupy Movement.

Prosecution attorneys have said they intend to show that Marcus was in control of his thoughts and actions and knew the exact criminal nature of his actions.

Marcus testified that no one at Occupy Movement pressured him for murdering Mr Koh and Janice and that he knew what he did was wrong.

Statement by Occupy Movement on today's sentencing of Marcus Tang

Dec 4 2014, 17:21 UTC

Today, Marcus Tang has been ordered by a court in Singapore to be sentenced to death by hanging.

At the start of these proceedings, the Singapore government had charged Marcus with a capital offence and other charges with an automatic death sentence. His defence team is now appealing to the Singapore Supreme Court in relation to this sentence.

It should be remembered that Marcus Tang's trial and conviction is an affront to basic concepts of Occupy Movement's principles of justice.

An estimated crowd of 4,000 people gathered at the Speakers' Corner at Hong Lim Park on Saturday afternoon to protest to free Marcus Tang last week.

Organised by opposition party, Singapore Democrats, Ms Joan Tan, the nearly four-hour protest saw people of all age ranges and races turn up in the light drizzle, with umbrellas and some with home-made, colourful placards and posters. Many also came with their young children in tow.

A total of 12 speakers, including former Public Housing Authority (PHA) chief Dr Liew Yin Yin spoke at the event, mainly hitting out at the high PHA prices and the relentless chasing of mortgage arrears which led to many Singaporeans facing bankruptcy charges and being forced to be evicted from their public homes.

Each speaker was given 10 minutes to address the crowd.

Dr Liew, a former high-flying civil servant and who served as PHA chief from 1990 to 1996, asked if there was a need to for PHA and the PPP Government to be so mercenary in selling public housing units at such high prices and leading to Singaporeans having a high chance of defaulting on their home loans.

"Keeping arrears low is not everything. PHA has to be for the people and not the people for the economy," he added.

"The murder of PHA CEO Koh Kian Beng and his wife, Janice, revealed two things, one, that the government does not seem to understand what it means to be an ordinary Singaporean and, two, that it does not seem to care," said opposition leader, Singapore Democrats, Ms Joan Tan.

"Singaporeans are and must be the first and last object of policy", she said. "Which is why we have this Mortgage Arrears Forgiveness Plan in place for our opposition held ward."

The peaceful protest was marked by poignant moments when the crowd sang "Count On Me, Singapore" at the midway mark, and also at the end when the National Pledge was lustily recited in unison.

Singaporeans who were present also said they'd showed up to make their voices heard.

"The bottom line is saying 'no' to PHA's policies, and saying 'yes' to the Mortgage Arrears Forgiveness Project," said Kenneth Koh, a director in his 50s who attended the protest march.

"PHA and PPP no longer has the people's support. This is not a protest. The people want a referendum. The people want their rights back. They don't want PPP and government to be as one. They want PPP and government to be delinked . They don't want to give the government a free passport," he said.

"A lot of people are not happy and it's not every day that they show their unhappiness. I just came to have a look and to soak up the atmosphere," said student Jenny Wang, 21.

It felt like a slap in the face. It was like being doused in profoundly cold water, so cold that you stood shivering in hot sunlight.

Everything changed on Nov 5. The day that our country was hit with the horrible, ghastly truth.

For most people, Marcus Tang's story began with Jasmine Tham, the receptionist at Level 1 of the Public Housing Authority. Tham, a young Chinese girl was running down the aisle to the security booth like a madman escaping some unknown terror.

"The CEO level...." she said, "there's a...bomb.... my sister called me up to clarify about someone and I wanted to go up to stop that person and then I saw something ticking in the black trash bag and I retreated back towards another lift and pressed ground floor again. "

In the same Crime Stories episode, Dr. Park Lim, a forensic psychiatrist who studied Marcus Tang, agreed he was didn't believe sadistic borderline personality disorder alone made him a serial killer.

"What he did have however," Dr. Lim said, "were three problems that account would do such horrible things. The first is his strong sense of social unfairness, the second is his alcoholism, and the third a personality that was such that he really couldn't develop the kinds of appropriate human relationships that would have allowed to fulfill his psychosocial needs without crime."

There is a rather naive tendency to view terrorist organizations as homogeneous groups, all similarly motivated by a mixture of religion and political ideology. However, research indicates that individual members of terrorist organizations are motivated by a wide variety of factors, including religion and politics. Some join to gain status in the local community, others seek the excitement of belonging to a clandestine organization, and others may simply be seeking financial or material rewards.

In Marcus Tang's case, he joined Occupy Movement terrorist organizations to seek revenge, perhaps for recent wrongs done to their families and community.

Tang was repeatedly diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, which is defined by the DSM-IV-TR as "A pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image, and affects, and marked impulsivity that begins by early adulthood and is present in a variety of contexts." Following his 1991 arrest, Tang completed the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI); the results of which indicated that he was sane, was conscious of the difference between right and wrong, capable of dissimulation, and generally maladjusted. The MMPI revealed Tang as alienated from both others and from himself, as strongly depressive and hopelessly oriented toward the world and other humans, and filled with specific paranoid fears of others' hostility. Tang's MMPI scores suggest that these characteristics conclusively demonstrated that he was a deeply troubled man who was unable to control his impulses.

Most shared a crucial experience: 98 percent had suffered a loss or failure they perceived as serious – anything from getting fired to getting humiliated, ridiculed or getting dumped. Of course, everyone suffers loss and failure, but for Marcus Tang, the trauma seemed to set anger in motion. This was certainly true in PHA: Marcus viewed his life as failure and failure accelerated his anger.

So what should adults look for? First and foremost, advance confessions: 81 percent of shooters had confided their intentions. More than half told at least 2 people. Most threats are idle, though; the key is specificity. Vague, implied and implausible threats are low-risk. The danger skyrockets when threats are direct and specific, identify a motive and indicate work performed to carry it out.

A subtler form of leakage is preoccupation with death, destruction and violence. A graphic mutilation story might be an early warning sign – or a vivid imagination. Add malice, brutality and a hero and concern should rise.

Clinical psychiatrists compiled a specific list of warning signs, including symptoms of both psychopathy and depression: manipulation, intolerance, superiority, narcissism, alienation, rigidity, lethargy, dehumanization of others and externalizing blame. It was a daunting list – that's a small excerpt.

Reportedly, Tang struggled to accept his anger and frustration towards the rich and well-off. In the army, as a lieutenant, he rebelled against the system and got into trouble for his excessive alcoholism and perceived bias against newly converted Singapore citizens. In one incident, he was given a written warning by his superior for posting on his Facebook page for insulting new Singapore citizens from People's Republic of China as 'foreign fuckers'. Apparently, Tang didn't lock up his Facebook and his comments were virally spread to his superiors in army. In Wikileaks disclosure in 2011, Singapore decided to let in high numbers of People's Republic of China to prep up Singapore's low birth rate among Chinese Singaporeans. This has somehow angered many native Singaporeans and has drawn ire among opposition politician candidates such as Joan Tan.

Although Tang was insistent he had had no hatred or animosity towards any of his victims, some doctors theorized he projected his self-hatred onto his victims through his actions—a classic borderline personality disorder defense.

Perhaps the most revealing explanation behavior came from Marcus himself at the conclusion of his trial. In a clip widely shown in the press, Marcus said, "Your Honor, it is over now. This has never been a case of trying to get free. I didn't ever want freedom. Frankly, when I joined Occupy Movement, I wanted death for myself. This was a case to tell the world that I did what I did, for reasons of hate. I hated the 1%. I knew I was sick or evil or both."

"Now I believe I was sick.... I know how much harm I have caused. I tried to do the best I could after the arrest to make amends but no matter what I did, I could not undo the terrible harm I have caused. I understand Mr Koh's family rightful hate.... I know society will never forgive me. I know the families of the victims will never be able to for what I have done... I am so very sorry."

Marcus Tang got his request. On Feb 14 2014, he was sentenced to death by hanging.

What made him do it? Was it evil? Was it his quest to send a strong message to the 1%s? Certainly, Marcus Tang's effort to control himself failed. He needed something beyond himself—something more powerful than himself.

No one fully understands what drove Marcus Tang to commit his heinous crimes. Those on the psychiatric teams for both the prosecution and the defense admitted they did not have all the answers. Marcus himself wondered why he did the things he did. In truth, no one will ever be able to answer "Why?"

Imagine Marcus at the end of his trial. He had committed some of the most horrible acts recorded in civilized society. He was hated and despised but yet cheered for his heroic acts. He wanted to die, but the state has refused to put him to death. Where could he go? Where could he turn?

Ultimately, he turned to God.

PHA OFFICERS ARE LIKE COLD BLOODED DEBT CHASERS!

Post date:

29 Mar 2012 - 6:59am

*TRS Contribution Piece*

Hello The Real Singapore,

Something is not right with the housing system in Singapore. Most Singaporeans will agree with this. Last I check, our PHA apartment has risen 32% in value in just 2.5 years. That's not normal right? 10-15% increase, I can still understand. But 32%? I mean, we ARE talking about public housing here.

I shudder to think what would happen if we did not buy our flat back then. We would have to fork out extra $90k if we bought that same flat today.

Yes, I get that PHA flat prices moves in tandem to the economy. But do you know that during the most recent economic crisis, private housing took a tumble, and most expected PHA flats prices to follow suit. But during this whole crisis, PHA flat prices DID NOT fall at all. In fact, it just continued going up and up.

About 6 years ago, I was out of job and my son and I could not afford to pay our monthly instalments to PHA (it was about $500 per month). As a result, I had an outstanding debt of $11K to PHA. One day we received a letter that said PHA wants to force me to sell our 3 room flat to pay back our money owing.

We went to the PPP Member of Parliament to seek help and they wrote a letter to PHA's CEO Mr Koh Kian Beng on our behalf. We then received a letter from PHA to go down to branch office in order to meet their officer, Mr Chua.

At the end of the session he still insisted we pay another $200 on top of the previous $500 per month!! We went in to ask for help to work out a solution to our financial situation and instead they suggested that we should now pay $700 a month! Is this help?!?!? We gave up realising PHA would not help us. We decided to borrow from wherever we can to pay every month until both my two sons and I can both manage to get a job!

On 25th of March, Monday night, 8.45pm there was a loud banging on my door! I open the door to find 2 PHA officers! They said we hadn't made any payments other than the monthly instalment of $500! But we already paid $1K!!

Is it because I was too polite to them in the past? Don't keep telling me your system cock up or whatever!! Do you need 1 year to update your system!?!? Those working for PHA are civil servants; they should help Singaporeans retain their home when they encounter financial problems. They shouldn't chase us out of our house and force us to live in the streets!!! What has our government become?!?!?

I can only say, don't expect anyone to help you except yourself!! I really can't wait till we vote for more opposition MPs in Parliament to bring more changes. We also don't appreciate how PPP has dominated PHA until PHA policies are interlinked and constantly beholden and held hostage to PPP's demands.

We want to change that NOW!

Mark Tang

From Yahoo News:

Opposition Member of Parliament, Singapore Democrats, Ms Joan Tan, on Sunday criticised as being "politically motivated", the latest Town Council Management Report (TCMR).

While most town councils achieved a Level 1 rating for service and conservancy charges arrears management for example, the town councils of Opposition-held wards fared worst in this area.

Ms Tan said in a media statement yesterday: "Public Housing Authority does not believe in our mortgage arrears forgiveness project and uses this to fix us. "

The Mortgage Arrears Forgiveness Debt Relief Project was introduced in the Ms Tan's ward on September 25, 2007. This act offers relief to homeowners who would have owed taxes on forgiven mortgage debt after facing foreclosure. The act extends such relief for three years, applying to debts discharged in calendar year 2007 through 2009.

Those who qualify for the exemption, will get the form in the mail if they had debt canceled. Those who qualify for the exclusion will be required to file Form 982. The exemption applies only to debt related to a primary home. Since 2007, Ms Tan said that 100 households have benefited from this trial project.

A mortgage arrears problem arises as soon as you fail to make a full mortgage repayment or only make a partial mortgage repayment on the date it is due.

Ms Tan explained that it sets out the framework that lenders must use when dealing with borrowers in mortgage arrears or in pre-arrears. It requires lenders to handle all such cases sympathetically and positively, with the objective at all times of helping people to meet their mortgage obligations.

Added Dr Liew Yin Yin, a critic against Public Housing Authority's policies said that "PHA needs to forget about hitting the KPI in reducing mortgage arrears, and focus more on needy families to solve their financial problems — the end goal is to ensure a better quality of life."

The report, released Thursday at noon, measured the performance of Singapore's 15 town councils in the year ending March 2013 — contrary to four previous versions of the report, which graded the town councils' performance on a half-yearly basis.

The town councils were measured for cleanliness, maintenance, lift performance, service and conservancy charge arrears and corporate governance.

Ms Joan Tan has initiated their mortgage arrears forgiveness project on households with financial hardships and will work together with these families to help them seek better quality jobs to recover with their arrears.

Skepticism is often the first reaction when someone who has been profoundly evil turns to God. I've worked with other prisoners since meeting Marcus, and in almost every case, I've heard prison guards speak reproachfully of the faith of prisoners—people they see as habitual liars and cheats. They look cynically at those who find God. Yet many prisoners do come to some kind of faith. But—is that really so surprising?

In the twelve-step programs made famous by Alcoholics Anonymous, a key principle is that a person must hit rock bottom before being motivated enough to make genuine life changes. The Bible tells of the Prodigal Son, who left his home and family to live a dissolute life. After much wickedness, he ends up in a pigpen feeding the pigs, so hungry, "he longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything" (Luke 15:16).

Only when the Prodigal falls so low that he has no way out does he decide to go back, to go home. Such is the rock-bottom reality that convinces a person to change.

Prison is designed to humiliate and dehumanize. Its purpose is to send a message, mete out punishment, and say, "What you did was wrong." Any hope for rehabilitation depends on the prisoner's admission that what he did was wrong. Change is required. A new way is needed.

A prisoner can grow more resentful for the treatment received in prison. Many certainly do that. Or a prisoner can develop new criminal skills and figure out how not to get caught the next time. Some also do that. Or, a prisoner can reflect on the crimes and the lifestyle that led to such a place and make a new decision: "I'll never do that again, so help me God!"

Imagine the thoughts of serial killer and terrorist Marcus Tang when he ended up in prison. He felt great remorse, which he confessed on several occasions. He had ruined his life beyond repair. If Singapore had the death penalty by gunfire, he would have earned it. Who could he turn to except God? Certainly, no human would hear the cries of his heart and believe the depth of his sorrow. Only God could.

Marcus remembered going to church with his parents as a small child. Gradually, only his father took him, and finally, his father stopped, too. Marcus couldn't see the stress the illnesses afflicting his mother put on the marriage, nor did he hear the fights that erupted when Mark Tang, his father, took Marcus to church. So for years afterward, there was no church in his life.

In his adult years, when Marcus lived with his grandmother, and especially as he struggled with his internal urges to join a terrorist group, he took an interest in his grandmother's church and her Christian lifestyle. But he never invested enough in her faith to ease his tortured mind or get whatever help he could for his inner Armageddon.

Eventually, he tried to justify his anomalous personality by the theory of evolution—which he viewed as antithetical to faith. He told Neo Chay Yan, a reporter in an NBC Dateline interview that he hadn't have to be accountable to anyone. Since man came from slime, he was accountable to no one.

After Marcus Tang left army, he worked briefly for an opposition political party, Singapore Democrats. Longtime pro-democracy leader Joan Tan ran the opposition political party. Joan had been arrested a few times for 'illegal gathering' under the Public Nuisance Act which under Section23 stated at "5 or more people" is considered unlawful assembly. The authorities had put her name on a list of 30 social civil activists who were considered an 'ongoing threat' to Singapore.

Nevertheless, in 2013, Singapore citizens still voted and sent Joan Tan into Parliament, making it one of the first time in 50 years since Singapore independence to have a female opposition politician in an opposition held ward.

After that, Marcus continued to take part in Occupy Movement protests in the United States and in rescues overseas. He travelled throughout Malaysia, the Philippines. Abortion was technically illegal in the Philippines, a strongly Catholic nation, so the protesters were treated well by local police at a centre in the Manila area. He felt an 'angel' helped him that day.

But after Marcus's arrest, a veil lifted and he began to see order and design in the universe. He began to see the case for God and to see Jesus as the only answer for the havoc he had wreaked in his life. He began to have hope for his ultimate fate.

Is it possible that God could really be in Marcus Tang's world?

Could the salvation that Jesus offers be available to him, too, despite his heinous acts? Did Jesus die for Marcus too? He began to see that the issue was not what he thought about humanity evolution, but what he thought about God. He began to study the Bible.

On 17 Oct 2013 around 1600hrs, Marcus Tang went to his mailbox to retrieve a letter. Marcus knew roughly what the letter was going to say before he tore open the brown envelope. At least he knew who it came from and why.

The letter itself was maybe five lines, typed on an old typewriter. The writer suggested that if Marcus was interested in a job, "you wish to meet me on the corner of Holiday Inn Singapore tomorrow"

It gave the time and the name of a café and a phone number Marcus could call in case he wasn't interested or found the hour inconvenient. It was signed, "Yours sincerely, Yohanan" a name that meant nothing to Marcus.

Marcus Tang was a young man of twenty-five in good health. A native-born Singaporean, he had just finished his army service in a very elite unit. He was in the security intelligence and held the rank of Lieutenant – as had everyone who served in his unit. The commandos.

"Right on," he said to himself now, and went upstairs to take a shower. Marcus came out of the shower, cool, clean, tanned to the bone and took a quick glance in the mirror before wrapping himself in a towel for his meeting with Yohanan.

When he had reported to Yohanan that day, Marcus and Yohanan were sitting in Yohanan's room at Hotel Holiday Inn Singapore. Yohanan gave Marcus precise information on one target.

The idea behind the mission, as Yohanan started explaining it, was to cut off corporate greed at its source.

"Corporate greed is a monster," Yohanan explained, "but luckily it has only about a dozen heads. We may be able to cut them off, one by one. Meanwhile, you have saved hundreds of lives. "

The longer Yohanan talked, the more interested Marcus became. This was big. This was the real thing. With such a mission, he could show them his mettle. But he was careful to reveal none of his enthusiasm to Yohanan. A poker face. Remember the psychological tests that he had to go through to make contact with Occupy Movement group. They don't want a happy-go-lucky guy, coming on with the big hero stuff. It was better to look thoughtful, even gloomy.

Yohanan was speaking again. "There is one principle," he said, "that we may not have touched or not enough. They're both important. Let me just go over them."

"First, you know the Occupy Movement's principle: punish one, frighten a hundred. Well how do you frighten corporate bigwigs? If you just shoot one, while he's out in the open, exposed, it may not be enough. The others might say, 'Oh, they got one, I will be more careful." Occupy Wall Street is structured on anarchist organizing principles. This means there are no formal leaders and no formal hierarchy. Rather, the movement is full of people who lead by example. We are leader-full, and this makes us strong. ' That's why you should go for the leader. One shot one kill."

Finally, Marcus found his voice. Never mind if he was being naïve, never mind if he should have expected it. The fact was, he did not. Was that why they had chosen him?

"Let me get one thing straight," he said, his voice hardening. "Why me?"

"Why you what?" Yohanan asked impatiently.

"Why did you select me?"

"Why, what's wrong with you?"

"There's nothing wrong with me," said Marcus "But why me? I've never done this kind of thing before."

"Who has?" Yohanan leaned forward, his voice becoming gentler. "Don't misunderstand. If you don't want to do it, say so. Nobody's forcing you.... Only your father recommended you to our organisation a few months ago."

Marcus's father, Mark Tang, passed away due to complications from diabetes, renal failure and poor health while Marcus was in the army. The relationship between Marcus's father, to all appearances, remained cordial. He made no secret about being bitter, though he would hint at why. "When it's over, it's over," he'd say. Then he would add, "If you are lucky enough and still around for them to spit on."

And Marcus would ask, "What do you mean, they? Who?"

Though father would add no details, Marcus understood what he meant. The old man – and he wasn't even that old, he was in his mid-fifties – had become a broken man after his couple of businesses failed in the midst of mounting debts such as mortgage, utility bills and rising costs of living in Singapore. It led to his marriage with his wife, Sherry to be estranged. Marcus joined the army to pay for some of the debts incurred.

Marcus never disliked the army for any of the usual reasons. For instance, he didn't mind marching nearly the whole length of Singapore, at night, carrying pounds of equipment. In the end, it was he who became a commando. One of maybe five thousand who had tried. He wore the second most elite insignia in the Singapore armed forces. After the fighter pilots.

The real problem lay deeper.

By 1980, 75% of the residents in Singapore were living in public housing. Government-built high-rise blocks of flats clustered in the population centres, of which the Toa Payoh district was typical. Although a high density of people lived in each block, the residents mostly kept to themselves, valuing their privacy and tending to ignore what was happening around their homes. During this time, Singapore was a relatively peaceful society—a stark contrast to the prevalence of secret societies, triads and gang warfare during the pre-independence days.

On Nov 5 2013, one Singaporean committed a crime that shocked the nation.

The incumbent government People's Progressive Party has worsen the people's livelihood and poised to make life harder in the years to come before General Elections 2016. But there can only be so much blame to be placed on an incompetent and out of touch government who have paid themselves too much. The ones who are more responsible than the PPP are no doubt those who put them in power. The naive ignoramous ones take in the lies, the half-truths and the threats, while the evil ones either profit from the status quo or have their monthly check issued directly from the PPP government. Yet all of them are equally guilty for the path of destruction Singapore has undertaken because of their electoral choice, whether misinformed or outright ill-intended.

Yohanan and Marcus agreed that the best time for the hit would be the period between 5pm and 6pm, as most office workers usually prefer to visit the bathroom to relieve themselves before knocking off from work.

Yohanan decided that the method of execution would simply be a .44 Magnum, the type of gun that the Robert DeNiro in the vigilante film Taxi Driver used.

Being a man of regular habits, Koh Kian Beng was not difficult to follow. The CEO of Public Housing Authority and had made it especially easy for Occupy Movement group to track him down. Koh Kian Beng's face was on the corporate webpage of PHA and appeared frequently on media. His wife, the secretary, Janice, was also listed on the webpage.

For some time, Marcus had been saying that growing income gap tension between the top 1% and the 99% was growing and that the 99% would soon rise up in rebellion in Singapore.

A year before his father succumbed to his illness, he explained to Marcus that the social turmoil he had been predicting had also been predicted by the terrorist group Occupy Movement.

By that time, the elder Tang's vision was complete. He would get his son to join the Movement and trigger the predicted chaos. Ghastly murders of the 1% by 99% would be met with retaliation, and a split between rich and poor would yield riches' self-annihilation.

It was time for target practice. Yohanan and Marcus picked a beautiful spot. The place was called Paintball Range: a winding network of unpaved roads through national forest in Bukit Timah hills. For their extended gunplay, they picked an area set aside for dirt bikers. Yohanan packed bowling pins stolen from an arcade and to use as targets. And they took a camcorder. It was important to document historic events.

Marcus shot a bowling pin full of lead. And then Yohanan had another idea. He aimed his shotgun at another imposing pine five feet away. He missed and it hurt. The gun had a vicious recoil which his army had to absorb. Every ince you cut, a shotgun back magnifies the kick. He directed Marcus to follow. "Try to hit a tree," he said.

Marcus punched a two inch hole in the trunk. They rushed forward to inspect the damage. Yohanan dug his finger around and produced a pellet.

Marcus's voice was subdued. "Imagine that in someone's fucking brain and it hurt my wrist, the son of a bitch!"

"I bet so." Yohanan was laughing now. "I've got blood now!".

Marcus picked up another bowling pin with a small hole drilled through the front. Single barrel shotguns like the Magnum require a reload every round and that would seriously impact the body count. Marcus prepared himself in a rapid shoot-and-load technique. Each shot was punishing. The blast would tear the barrel out of his band and whip his arm back like a rubber band. But he learned quickly. Soon he was riding out the recoil to catch the barrel stub as it swung around, snap it open, feed a shell, lock it down, squeeze a round, and repeat the process in one fluid, continuous motion. He pounded out four shots in five seconds. He was pleased. Marcus was now a killing machine.

Marcus had work to do. Napalm was hard. It is an inherently unstable substance. Marcus found lots of recipes online but they never seemed to produce what the instructions predicted. The first batch was awful. He tried again. Just as bad. He kept varying the ingredients and the heating process but it was one failure after another. Each batch was a chore and time-consuming and risky. It involved mixing gasoline with other substances and then heating it up on the stove, trying to make it congeal into a slushy syrup that would ignite with just a spark but burn continuously for some time when shot with force through a projectile tube.

The making of bombs, where safety and selectivity were not factors was relatively simple. The main explosive would be a stable substance like plastique which could then be fitted with a small detonator – a tiny amount of unstable explosive often of the nitrite family which could be set off by anything from percussion to a small amount of weak current. It could be activated mechanically by, for instance, an alarm clock or a simple TV remote-control switch.

Figuring out how to sneak the huge bombs into the PHA building was another problem. Each contraption would bulge out of a three foot duffel bag and weigh about fifty pounds. He couldn't just trot them into the middle of the lift lobby and plop them down in front of the security personnel and walk out without notice. At one point, he gave up scheming and may want to walk right in with the bombs. It was a bold move but textbook psychopath. Perpetrators of complex attacks tend to focus on weak links and minimise risks. Psychopaths are reckless. They have supreme confidence in their work.

On Nov 5 2013, Marcus, uninvited, entered the residential premise of PHA's CEO Koh Kian Beng's office up on the 30th storey. Marcus used a visitors pass on the pretext that he was going to another department – the HR department to submit his job application form.

When Marcus told Mr Koh's secretary and his wife, Janice, that he was looking for someone whose name she did not recognize, she informed him the place was the Koh Kian Beng's office.

Janice advised him to try "receptionist counter at Level 1". Marcus left shortly after.

Concerned about the stranger on the property, Janice phoned her sister who was also the PHA receptionist, Jasmine and realised that Jasmine clearly said that the HR department was at Level 20 and not Level 30.

That evening around 5pm, Marcus returned to the property and again went back to the Mr Koh Kian Beng's office.

Apparently, he had bribed a cleaner he found in the janitor and paid a few hundred dollars to let him has his uniform and cleaner's pass. He also borrowed a facial mask and his cap to hide his features. He borrowed the cleaner's cart which had a black trash bag attached to it. The janitor took the opportunity to earn some quick bucks without asking too many questions.

Marcus left the cleaning cart in the lift as he stepped out to meet Janice again. Pushing the cart to clean the toilet would probably arouse suspicion as toilets were cleaned in the morning. Marcus had calculated that the Napalm bomb placed inside the trash bag was good enough to do enough damage in the elevator.

Presuming to enter the office to clean the toilet of Mr Koh's, Marcus spoke with Janice, who was just coming out of the office. Janice found it odd that Marcus was cleaning the toilet in the afternoon and not the usual morning and it wasn't the same cleaner.

Speaking through the toilet inner screen door, Marcus told it was Mr Koh who called up his supervisor to instruct one of the faulty light tubes to be replaced. Janice decided to call the supervisor herself to check as he found Marcus suspicious and familiar.

A few minutes went by. While he was the pretext of adjusting the light tubes, he finally heard footsteps.

Marcus stepped off the ladder that he had used to change the lights. He wanted to face Kian Beng to make absolutely sure he had the right man.

"Now," Marcus said and in the next second, he turned, faced Kian Beng. Kian Beng was staring at Marcus, his eyes unbelievably wide, saying "No!" Kian Beng must have tripped over his feet as his heels caught the edge and he started falling backwards, his arms windmilling widly. The thought that crossed Marcus's mind was that if he missed, his bullets would crash through the mirror. He adjusted the angle of his gun slightly and followed Kian Beng's falling body, squeezing off the first 2 rounds before the man hit the floor. Twice more he pulled the trigger and twice again.

Kian Beng's body was lying on the floor as he fell, his head almost touching the traffic-light pole but his feet still dangling over the curb. He made no sound, only his shoulders were squirming. Then like a person trying to rise, he pulled up his knees and turned to his side. Marcus almost fired again but in another second, he could see Kian Beng's body relax.

Roused by the sound of Mr Koh's scream in the toilet, Janice had frozen in place when she saw the cubicle door open. Marcus held her there at gunpoint while Janice retreated backwards, "Come with me. Don't say a word or you're dead." Janice began crying and Marcus snarled at her to shut up.

When Janice finally went over to her desk, she asked plaintively, "What are you going to do with me?" Marcus's reply was blunt: "You are all going to die."

Hearing her death sentence pronounced, she suddenly jerked upright and grappled with Marcus's gun, knocking the weapon off his hands. Two of them rolling around on the floor, Janice wrapping her hands in Marcus's hair and Marcus blindly punching her face with his fists. At some point, Marcus reached down his shirt pocket for his pen, sinking the tip mostly into Janice's legs and abdomen. She screamed as she struggled as she was being disembowelled.

When it was over, Marcus surveyed the scene. His hand hurt badly as the pen hit mostly Janice's bone on her thigh. He clutched his hand in pain as he looked around.

Was it sufficiently gruesome? Janice's face was mutilated almost beyond recognition and Kian Hua's suit and business pants were saturated with gore.

Marcus remembered Yohanan told him to write something witchy in blood, something that would appear to be proof that it was the work of Occupy Movement terrorist. Marcus didn't want to use his bare hands so he found a towel in the bathroom, dipped it in Kian Hua's blood and carefully wrote "DEMOCRACY. WE ARE THE 99%" on the outside of the bathroom door.

There was a large Singapore flag on one side of the office. Marcus draped it theatrically over the sofa near Janice's crumpled bloody body. The flag prominently displayed next to the corpse would surely shock investigators and get lots of media attention. Marcus was so preoccupied with perfectly setting the scene of the slaughter that when he heard a loud explosion in the elevator shaft, he had to think for a few seconds what happened.

The bomb, placed near a lift on the mezzanine floor of the PHA building, ripped off a lift door and an inner wall was blown inwards, leaving a mass of rubble on the ground floor. Every window within a 100 metres of the blast was shattered and cars parked near the building or driving past were damaged.

The Real Singapore

Published on Nov 17, 2014 1:15 PM

When a murder paralyzed Singapore's Public Housing Authority, some Singaporeans are cheering. So loud it almost felt like National Day. For the first time in history, the PPP government is under the attack of a serial killer under a decentralized collective entity called Occupy Movement. It is technically inaccurate to call Occupy Movement a group because it has no leaders, organizational structure and anyone can simply perform a stunt like today and sign off "Occupy Movement" – so long it answers the people's prayers.

Some Singaporeans are cheering online but there is not a word of it on the TV and hardcopy newspapers, as expected of course to contain the problem online and not spread to the offline citizens.

Of course not. Most Singaporeans want the PPP voted out of power.

Judging from online comments about the recent spate of hackings, it is clear that there is a lot of support for the attack.

Separately there were also a number of vandalism cases with words related to anonymous being painted around Singapore.

The PPP should reflect on why there is a rise of such unorganized crime. Perhaps people are starting to feel so much frustration and are becoming desperate to express their anger and resentment.

No one is really born a terrorist or criminal but sometimes people are pushed to extreme acts when they feel that they are not being heard any other way.

Many people are happy that there is someone willing to embarrass the government and while they may be unable to or afraid of doing such things themselves, will support those who do.

Clearly, something is wrong with the current government when the people are happy about murder killings and others go around showing their support through crimes.

In the weeks just after the murders, the family of Koh Kian Beng victims walked the crime scene with investigators. They needed to see it. It might be horrible – they had to find out. Jasmine stopped at the spot where her sister had been killed. First table on the left. Nothing had been changed except for the removal of the personal effects which had been photographed, inventoried and returned to her family. "The emotional impact, I don't even know that I can adequately describe it," Jasmine said. But she could not avoid it. "I needed that connection, as did all of us, to get back and identify, in part, with what had happened there."

PHA staff reached the opposite consensus. They spent the next day battling for the idea of PHA. They were repulsed by phrases bandied about like "since PHA" or "prevent another PHA."

Then the tourists arrived. Just weeks after the tragedy, even before PHA returned, tour buses started rolling up to the venue. PHA had lept to second place, behind Singapore's Changi Airport, as Singapore's most famous landmark and tour operators were quick to capitalise. The buses would pull up in front of the building and tourists would pile out and start snapping pictures: the signboard, the lift lobby and the PHA staff milling about in their offices etc. They captured a lot of angry expressions. The PHA staff felt like zoo specimens. Everyone still needed to know, How do you feel?

PHA staff Brian Teo was heading back to his office on Level 7. Weeks under the microscope had been miserable; the tourists were too much, "I just want to walk up and slap them silly!" he told another PHA staff.

A week later, most PHA staff finally reconnected with the physical PHA building. It was an emotional period. Staff had two hours to go back inside and retrieve their belongings and everything else they had abandoned when they ran for it. Their family members were allowed in as well. It gave everyone a chance to confront their fears. A few stumbled out in tears. Useful tears. Most found the experience stressful but cathartic.

While in prison, Marcus Tang received reams of unsolicited religious materials from well-meaning people. But when Curtis and Sze Chia sent him a Bible and Bible correspondence course, he took notice. Both were members of the Church of Christ—his father and the courses were produced by World Bible School, a Church of Christ ministry. He usually discarded the materials he received, but he didn't discard these.

The courses' strong evangelical message resonated with his need, and he studied and became convinced of the necessity of baptism in the salvation process. The Churches of Christ emphasize baptism as an act of faith.

Finally, after years of dissolute living, Marcus, like the Prodigal Son, decided to return to his father. He made the decision to accept Jesus Christ and signed this statement at the end of the study course:

You have now studied enough of God's Word make a decision to follow Him. You will want to continue to read and study the Bible. But now you need to make your commitment. You need to become a Christian. To do this you must obey God in the He directs. You have now studied Faith, Repentance and Baptism. Now you need to take the step of having someone immerse (baptize) you into Jesus Christ. If this is your wish, please sign your name in this b>ur teacher will arrange to have someone in your area contact you. Following the phrase, "1 want to be immersed (baptized) - I want to become a Christian," Marcus had signed "Marcus Tang.

Instructions following said the teacher would "begin making arrangements for your baptism as soon as you make this request...."

Along with this signed request, Marcus sent message to both Curtis Boo and Sze Chia:

Dear Mr. Boo,

Hello, how are you today; fine I hope! Thank you for sending me the WBS introductory lesson and very kind of you! I mailed the completed lesson to Mrs. Staff so she should have it by now. Also, about a week after I received your package, a Mrs. Sze Chia, sent me the WBS correspondence, and the advanced course booklets. I filled out both and mailed them off to her to be graded. So, I've now taken the complete course, but I still have one problem. This prison does not have a baptismal tank, and Mr Lui, the prison chaplain, is not sure if he can find someone to bring a tank in and baptize me. Would you be willing to help find someone baptize me? I've taken all of the other steps; now I need and want to be baptized.

Well, I hope that this you well and in good health. God bless you!

Sincerely, Marcus Tang

Dear Mrs. Sze Chia,

Hello, thank you so much me the WBS correspondence course! Also, thank you for the Bible! I want to accept the Lord's salvation but I don't know if the prison allows me to be baptized. Mr. Lui, our chaplain, is not sure if he can find someone to bring a baptismal tank into the prison. Would try to find someone that would be able to baptize me in prison? I am very concerned about this.

I hope that this letter fill and in good health. God bless you! Sincerely,

Marcus Tang

The letters brought joy to Curtis and Sze Chia, but neither knew much about this. Both began a frantic search to find someone anyone, who would be willing to baptize Tang.

April 20 finally arrived. My appointment at the prison was set for 1 p.m., an hour before the baptism. I would spend the extra time privately with Marcus. During this time, I would take Marcus's confession of faith in Jesus Christ. I knew that Marcus believed on Jesus as the Christ, the Son of God, but tradition dictated that I formally ask him. After our brief meeting, we would be escorted to the baptism area.

As I drove to the prison that day, I wondered about Marcus's emotional state. Was he nervous about being baptized? Did he fully comprehend what we were about to do? We had discussed the need for baptism, but in all the excitement, the subject of his past sins had not even come up. Did he understand that baptism serves to bring assurance that Christ's blood "washes away sins"? Would he appreciate this biblical truth? I have baptized many, many people who have not appreciated the fact that their sins were washed away. Would Marcus struggle with a sense of guilt after his baptism?

Two events dominated the news that day. The first was a near-total solar eclipse. The second was the sentencing of the janitor whom Marcus Tang bribed for lending him the clothes, cap and facial mask. The janitor was formally charged as being an accessory to the murder of Mr Koh Kian Beng and committing bribery for lending his clothes to Marcus Tang.

As has become a common ritual, many men and women on the street were asked for an opinion about the two events occurring on the same day. I couldn't listen to a radio station or watch a television program without seeing an anonymous person crying about the appropriateness or inappropriateness of watching a janitor being sentenced on a day we were experiencing a solar eclipse.

The subject of capital punishment is an emotional one—and one that resurfaces whenever a prisoner is put to death. The fact that an execution was occurring during a solar eclipse brought a strange poetry to what I heard that day. For those against public executions, the solar eclipse was a message from God. He would not allow the sun to shine on such a deplorable act. For those in favor of Marcus's death, the eclipse was a strangely appropriate sign of the evil he had done—and again was a message from God. In this view, the darkness reflected God's condemnation of Lim and of what lay in store for him in the next life. Strange commentary!

As I listened, I wondered what these people would say if they knew what I was about to do on this day.

Rather than end a life, I was hoping to assist in a new birth. I would help a man prepare to meet his God by dying to his old sinful self. Would some see this as reason for the sun not to shine? Would they be embarrassed and ashamed that such a heinous criminal would embrace a faith like their own?

The full effect of the eclipse was eerie. The noon sky was dark and dusky when I arrived at the prison. The gloomy scene could easily be interpreted as an omen of bad to come. But I was on my way to do something good, very good. Who could dwell on bad things to come?

Later, I learned how dark and grim the hearts of some people were when they learned of Marcus's baptism, and I would remember the darkness of that day. The day a person is baptized is a day of celebration. But many who claim to wear the name of Christ rejoice with gladness of heart when they heard of Marcus's conversion.

I never heard these, but others reported to me comments they'd heard, like: "If Marcus Tang is going to heaven, then I don't want to be there." What a dark and horrible thought. Thinking of it takes me back to that afternoon and the cast of the sky before I went inside the prison.

Once again, I went through a complicated process to gain entrance. The procedure would become more tolerable as months went by, but for now it was a burden. Today, Chaplain was waiting for me at the door, enabling me to go through a little fast-ted me to a special conference room, not the small room on the right of my first visit, but a larger room on my left with a bigger table and several chairs waited nervously for Marcus to arrive. When Marcus finally arrived in his prison uniform, he was excited.

"I guess we're going to have a baptism,"

"Really? I haven't heard a thing until you told me you were here. I was wondering if the baptism was not going to be allowed. But, since you're here, I guess it's okay." I never have understood why prison chaplains kept Marcus in the dark about his own baptism date.

"Marcus, sit down for a few minutes," I said. "This is probably obvious, but I need to be sure you understand that baptism has something to do with your sins. Do you understand what baptism does to your sins?"

"Oh yes, I know it washes away my sins needed to have his sins washed away, it is me! In fact, I'm looking forward to it and counting on it."

"Good," I continued. "I need to ask you another thing, too. Do you believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God?"

He smiled as he gave his answer. "Yes, I believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God. In fact, I've said so lots of times in the various interviews I've given to the media, but each time, when the report airs, that part is left out."

"I guess this is the price of my infamy," He rolled his eyes heavenward. He would speak of his "infamy" occasions, always using that same facial expression.

"Well, I do have a question for you," he countered. "Something is bothering me because of what other prisoners have said, and I wanted to ask you about it. What are you planning to say when you baptize me?"

"Do you mean the words?"

"Yes. I've been told it really matters,?" he replied. "Well, I have always used the words of Jesus at the end of the book of Matthew (28:19). I intend to say baptizing you 'in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.' Was that what you were expecting?"

"Well, I've heard from other inmates that baptisms that use those words aren't valid. The only words should be, "I baptize you in the name of Jesus.' I don't know anything about this, but I want everything to be right."

"Let me assure you. I've performed many baptisms. I don't see any difference in the words. If you want me to use those words, I'll be glad to do that."

"No, no, I don't really care is you use. My only concern is that everything be done right."

"Let me tell you—your baptism will be done right. Since you don't mind which words I use, I'll use what I usually say. But you don't need to worry about your baptism not being valid. God understands what we are doing, and personally, I fell more comfortable using those very word of Jesus,"

Chaplain Lui returned before we were to be escorted to the whirlpool. "If redemption is what you want," he said, "you might consider what the Muslims do here in prison. They believe that by simply rubbing their hands against a rough surface, like the wall of the prison, that they can gain redemption. Have you ever considered doing this instead?"

I was shocked to hear this. I looked at Marcus, and he looked at me with the same look of disbelief. How could a chaplain claim to be a Christian suggest that we follow a Muslim custom for gaining redemption? Was he trying to stop this baptism before it could occur? I've never understood why he said this.

I spoke first. "No, I think we'll go on with baptism rather than follow the Moslem practice." As I spoke, Marcus nodded his head in agreement. By his body language, I could tell he was glad I answered.

The chaplain left to call the guards to escort us to the medical facility and whirlpool tub. On our way, we passed others. They carried mops and brooms and were on guard.

I didn't know if inmates were allowed to talk each other—I'd gathered that the rule was silence. 'Hey, Marcus, how's it going?"

Marcus was in bright spirits. He answered, "I am going to be baptized today!" The other inmates faces lit up, and others began humming a gospel tune, setting the stage for a sense of joy that was to pervade the whole experience.

Neither the guards nor the chaplain rebuked the inmates or Marcus for his reply. They seemed to recognize that something special was going to happen. The guards continued walking—one leading the way, Marcus following, the chaplain and I behind Marcus, and one guard behind us all. No one spoke again.

When we reached the medical art in and saw the whirlpool. "This should do just fine," I said. The chaplain held up a white polyester robe that someone had made—obviously for a baptism. I remembered the chaplain's concerns about a baptismal garment and I've always wondered if it had been used before, or was made for Marcus.

A guard remained in a little room would change clothes. The chaplain, the other guard and I stepped out into the hallway.

As we waited, the joy of this special occasion grew. Both the chaplain and the guard in the hallway began to of baptisms. I'd seen this before—the baptismal experience is so real and so fundamental that it brings to mind similar experiences. It is a tender moment when the soul seems to touch the divine.

I was intrigued to hear their stories and began to share mine. Each memory was about beautiful and wonderful experiences—it was amazing.

The door to the little room opened. Marcus was ready to be baptized. I was surprised to see that he had already chosen the tub, and he turned around a couple of times to figure out how it all would work. The tub was fairly small, and he would have to assume a fetal position in order to fit in all the way.

When he was ready, I placed my hands on his head and one shoulder. 1 said, "Marcus, upon your confession of faith in Jesus as the Christ, the Son of God, I now baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit for the forgiveness of your sins."

I pushed him under the water until he was completely immersed. When his head broke the surface, I said something I always say when I baptize someone. "Welcome to the Family of God!"

He looked at me with a smile of gladness, and said simply, "Thank you." He climbed out of the tub and used a towel to dry off. The chaplain, a guard and I stepped out into the hall as he hanged into dry clothes.

Again, we told of baptismal experience and this time the chaplain spoke movingly of his daughter's baptism, was reverential and sacred, and I felt a sense of spiritual bonding with these two men as we waited. The walk back to the chaplain's office seemed to go quickly. I was happy to see the bounce in Marcus's step; he obviously filled with joy.

Before Marcus was returned to his unit, 1 made a special appeal to the chaplain. "I would like to visit with Marcus on a regular basis. I want to help him develop his faith. I don't want to just slip out of his life. I'd like to see him every week to study the Bible."

As I spoke, the chaplain nodded his head in agreement, but Marcus had a shocked look on his face. "I just thought you would leave, and I'd never see you again," he said.

"No, I won't leave you. If I can, I would like to visit you every week to study with you."

"That would be wonderful!" Marcus said.

Chaplain Lui was willing to set up a visitation plan. "I'll set up what we call a permanent pastoral visitation. What day would you like to come each week?"

"Wednesdays would work fine with me," I replied.

"Good. Wednesdays will be your day, and I can set it up for tomorrow, if you like."

"No, not tomorrow," I said, "but let's set it up for next week."

I had another request of the chaplain. "The woman who sent Marcus the correspondence course has asked if she can come to visit Marcus. Can this be arranged, too?"

Chaplain Lui asked if the woman, Sze Chia, was on Marcus's visitor's list. She wasn't. Marcus knew her only through the correspondence course.

"Well, is she an officiate of the church?" the chaplain asked. No, she was a church member who sent out Bible correspondence courses throughout the world. The chaplain would consider her a layman.

"Then such a visit is out of the question," he said. "We don't allow just anyone to come visit our prisoners, especially famous ones like Marcus Tang. Why, even you could not come to see him if he had not requested it. You couldn't come here and say, 'I would like to visit Marcus Tang, please.' Only when a prisoner makes a request to see someone like you do we allow it. Someone like her, who is not on his visitor's list, and who is not an officiate of the church, can't come."

"Well, I didn't know all that. She has already arranged airline tickets to come visit Marcus, and I'll have to tell her she can't come. I'm sure she'll be disappointed."

"If Marcus wants to add her to his visitor's list, he could do that, but it will take about six months to process."

Marcus wasn't interested in adding Sze Chia to the list. He thought it too complicated, and he would have to take someone off his visitor's list to make room for her. I asked Marcus to write her to explain.

My time to leave had come. I had accomplished what I came for. Marcus Tang had been baptized and a weekly appointment set so that we could study the Bible together. I hoped to study the Gospel of John and the life of Jesus with him.

The effects of the eclipse were finished when I left the prison and got into my car. Despite the solar eclipse, it had turned out to be a wonderful day. I felt happy and fulfilled. It was a beautiful drive home.

When I got home, I had a phone call to make. One of the women in my congregation had heard I was going to baptize Marcus Tang, and asked that I call her when I returned from the prison. She worked for a news agency and thought the baptism would be newsworthy. I didn't think it was anyone's business, but at her urging, I had agreed. I told her, "Barbara, I baptized Marcus Tang today. I know you wanted to know when it happened." She was glad to hear the news and congratulated me for the baptism. She thanked me for the phone call. I was quite naive about what would follow.

20th of April started out as any other day in spring. The weather was getting warmer as summer approached. The grass was getting greener with every passing day. The songbirds were singing. Windows and screen doors were open—airing out winter and bringing a refreshing scent.

It started out as such a beautiful day. It was the day after Marcus's baptism, and my spirits were high. But the beauty of the day was deceiving. This day would bring a dramatic turnaround from yesterday's events. I was to experience my own eclipse with both darkness and brilliant light.

I arrived at my office a little after 9 a.m. and started sorting through the mail. It was a Wednesday, so I needed to get ready for Bible classes that night. Barbara, the church member who works for the news agency, called me at 9:30 to read what she had written about Marcus's baptism.

At that time, I didn't really understand the nature of Barbara's job. To me, she was simply a member of my congregation who found the story appealing and wanted to write about it. She didn't mention my name in her release and covered only the basic facts. Her report was short and simple: "Marcus Tang was baptized in a whirlpool at Changi Correctional Institution, Singapore, on April 10,2014, at 2 p.m. A minister from Singapore performed the baptism."

She asked me what I thought of it. "It sounds fine to me. You got all the facts correct," I said.

She said, "Minghao, I have a very important question to put to you right now. You may want to give some thought to your answer."

"Oh? What is that?" Little did I know my answer would affect my life drastically in coming days.

She said, "You don't seem to understand that this is big news."

"You're right. I don't see this as anything news people would find interesting."

"Well, trust me; they're going to jump right on this story. As soon as I release it, my office will be flooded with requests for your identity. I'm asking for your permission to release your name."

"Why would you need my name?" I asked very naively.

"Well," she began to explain patiently, "without your name, the story lacks credibility. It will be dismissed as a ridiculous rumor and become the fodder for jokes. On the other hand, releasing your name would give the story credibility, but it will put you under the scrutiny of the press. You will likely be hounded for several days by reporters from the newspapers and television and radio."

I must admit; that did not sound appealing.

Barbara continued to press her point. I'd conducted a Bible study in her home for several years, and she understood my great concern for the world to hear the gospel. She said, "You've always said that one of the greatest needs of our society is to hear the simple story of Jesus Christ, but people are generally not interested in hearing it. Well, nothing will grab the attention of people who need Jesus as much as Marcus Tang's baptism. You can share the simple story of salvation with literally thousands of people. But the price you will have to pay will be the sacrifice of your privacy."

"Well," I replied, "you are making a strong case."

"And more than that," she said. "Marcus's story is a profound example of God's grace toward a sinner. Marcus's story illustrates grace. If the world needs to hear anything, it needs to hear about God's grace."

I had to smile as I listened to her. Here she was preaching to me, the preacher. Just barely two years before this, I had shared the concept of God's grace with Barbara and rejoiced over her baptism. Here she was giving it all back to me. She had made her point. I decided to release my name—for Marcus, but also for Barbara. She needed to see that my actions and my convictions were consistent.

"All right, you've made your case," I said. "You can release my name if anyone asks for it. I still don't see why this would be much of a story. I don't think anybody in the world would care whether Marcus Tang was baptized or not. But, I'll let you go with the item you've written."

We said our good-byes and hung up.

I sat there for a few seconds reflecting on what we'd said. I had no interest in making a name for myself. Barbara was blowing this whole thing out of proportion. No one would care about this.

But—how wrong I was. In less than five minutes, the phone rang. It didn't stop for days.

The first call was a reporter for our local newspaper, the Singapore State Journal. "Is it true," he asked, "that you baptized Marcus Tang?" When I told him it was true, he wanted to send a reporter out to interview me and take my picture. A picture? I had not even thought about a picture.
"Let's schedule it for one this afternoon," I said, putting it off so that I could run home and grab a coat and a tie. One of the nasty truths about being a minister, at least in 2014, was that people expected you to look like a minister—with a coat and a tie. When I was in my office and not planning to see anyone that day, I usually dressed casually. If I visited people in the hospital or at their homes, I'd wear "the outfit." For a picture in the newspaper, I had to look the part. I hung up, and the phone rang again. It was another reporter, this time from a magazine. Then there was a call from a radio personality, who wanted to do a phone interview. Local television stations called. I tried to deal with each one as openly and honestly as I could.

Around 11:30, I left the office and drove home to get changed and grab lunch. I didn't want the media to hunt me down at home, and I needed to warn my family to refer callers to my office.

Of course, that warning didn't hold. Reporters came after me at all hours. One television station wanted me to appear on the 5 o'clock news. I met with reporters in my office and at the church building. I was photographed, videotaped, and recorded. They wanted to know my every detail. One television newsmagazine even photographed the car I drove to the prison! It was ridiculous, but I tried to accommodate them as well as I could

One interview with a radio announcer stands out in my mind. He had callers ask me questions. One asked if I would allow Marcus Tang to babysit my children. I thought that was a strange question and could not understand why he would even ask it.

"It has to do with forgiveness," he explained. "If Marcus Tang has been truly forgiven, and all his past sins are forgotten, then why wouldn't you allow him to babysit your children?"

"There is a whole lot more involved than that, but if I understand your point correctly, you are asking if Marcus Tang has been forgiven of all his sins. To that I would say, yes, he has. Whether he would be a qualified person to baby-sit children is another question entirely," I replied.

The most common question I heard from the reporters was whether I thought Marcus Tang should be released now that he has been baptized. Foolish question! So many people are confused about what forgiveness of sins means. They cannot distinguish crimes against the state and sins against God—which probably reflects the general vision people have about God.

Another caller asked me about my role as a Minister. She wanted to know how could I baptize a convicted murderer when I had the audacity to condemn a lesbian.

I could see that people were confused about what forgiveness means.

Among the callers was an angry Chaplain Lui. He seemed to think I had intentionally sought media coverage. "What have you done? Are you trying to make a name for yourself? If I had known you would exploit Marcus Tang this way, I wouldn't have allowed you to see him in the first place." He was very angry with me, and I got the impression that Marcus shared his perspective.

I could deal with the chaplain's anger, but I was deeply concerned about Marcus's feelings. From my point of view, I did not intentionally seek media coverage, it just happened. I couldn't believe that Barbara's little news release would have this response. I called her to tell her the baptism had taken place simply because she asked me to. This situation had developed a life of its own.

"I'm sorry this has happened. It was not my intention for anyone to know about it," I told the chaplain.

"Well, then how did the news media find out about it?" he demanded. "I mentioned it at church, and one of the women in the church works at a news agency, although I didn't really know what her job was. She had asked me to call her after I baptized Marcus. When I did, she wrote a press release. I didn't expect things to develop as far as they have."

My explanation did not appease him. "You should have known better. This is your fault!" he said as he hung up. I knew I was in trouble.

I wondered if the chaplain would interfere with my pastoral visitations at the prison. I imagined Marcus had seen the newscast. All of the members at church had seen it and were talking about it that Wednesday night.

Did Marcus see me as a preacher hungry for publicity and eager to exploit his name? I knew I had to do something. I didn't think I could call Marcus on the phone (actually, I probably could have, but I didn't know much about prisons then). I would write him a letter.

My note was brief, but heartfelt. "I want you to know I never thought things would develop the way they have. I believe, regardless of what I have done, that the story would have reached the media anyway. I'm sorry for my part in all of this, but I really don't know how else I could have dealt with the situation.

"Chaplain Lui has implied that you are as angry with me as he is over all this. If that is true, then you may not want to see me at our next appointed time. I still intend to come this next Wednesday to see you. If you don't want me to visit you any more, I want you to tell me that to my face.

"If you feel you cannot trust me, I will voluntarily stop my visits with you, but I will try to arrange for someone else, another minister, to take my place. It is very important to me that you receive visits to strengthen your new faith. Once again, I am very sorry; it was not my intention to bring you more publicity."

I sent the letter off, and nervously waited for a reply. None came, so I went ahead and drove up to the prison for our next appointed visit. Finally, I got inside and was able to see Marcus. I told him, "When Chaplain Lui called me and expressed his disappointment in me, it sounded like you felt that way, too. That's why I wrote you the letter."

His reply was a comfort to me. "No. I'm proud of you for telling the world that I believe in Jesus Christ. My main complaint with the media is that in every interview I speak of my faith, but when the interviews are aired, they cut that section out. I'm glad that you were able to tell the world that I am a believer!"

To my face, no one has ever said anything negative about my baptizing Marcus Tang. I don't know if this reflects general dishonesty in people or not. I did hear about people who had talked with me about the baptism, but later had terrible things to say on the subject. One story really sticks in my mind.

Daryl called me the morning the news got out about Marcus's baptism. Daryl was a local radio personality who had a reputation for outlandish shows and ranting and raving about the latest issue. I didn't know what to expect when I heard from him. I expected him to start raving at me! To my surprise, he was respectful during a phone interview. I was impressed and willingly retold the story of Marcus's baptism.

Later I found out that Daryl started throwing temper tantrums right after I was on the air. He belittled Marcus's baptism and mocked his faith and me. He cried out again and again, saying that if Marcus Tang could be forgiven for his crimes, then it really didn't matter what anybody does because horrible crimes could always be forgiven. He was respectful to me to my face, but far different behind my back.

Such an incident was typical of my media experiences. The interviewers would be respectful, and at times, amazed at my story. Sometimes that respect carried into their stories. But often, the reporters I talked with sounded far different in the interviews than in their news reports. The words came from the same person, but the attitude had changed from civility to harsh criticism and cynicism. The reporters passed on their attitudes to the average person.

I felt a dark cloud had begun to surround me, but was keeping its distance so I was not completely aware of its presence. I learned of the dark attitudes and profound disapproval of people only by talking with friends and church members. All I saw first hand was wonder, amazement and admiration for my baptizing Marcus.

Once, when I was visiting Marcus, a guard told me about the controversy I had caused in his church as the members were having a hard time accepting the idea of Marcus Tang as a Christian.

Sometime later, I visited a man in the hospital who recognized me from the press coverage. He was a Christian college student at the time of Marcus's baptism. The thing he remembered most was a comment by one of the instructors in a hallway. It probably captured the sentiment of many: "If Marcus Tang is going to heaven, then I don't want to be there."

How can a Christian hold that viewpoint? I don't understand it. Does it come from a misunderstanding of the forgiveness of sin? Is forgiveness limited to those who are not very bad after all?

Is there no joy in knowing that a sinner has turned to God? A gross misunderstanding of what Marcus's baptism accomplished was apparent. No one said Marcus was no longer guilty of his crimes. He would not be released from prison, nor should he be, dependent on his baptism. Baptism does not take away crimes. It addresses sins. The issue in baptism doesn't concern justice in the society. It concerns the forgiveness of God.

I suppose I can understand the anger felt by some people about Marcus's baptism. They feel justice has been cheapened or ignored. The whole point of justice is to make things right. What about justice? How does it lit into this picture?

Forgiveness is all about the mercy of God, and the nature of mercy sometimes leaves the feeling that justice has been violated. That's not true. There is a profound relationship between justice and mercy. Justice without mercy is unreasonable, and mercy without justice is meaningless. The two must exist together, and each must reflect the truth of the other.

The mercy offered in baptism exists because of Jesus' death on the cross, which fulfilled God's demand for justice. Jesus died for our sins because justice demands death as the payment for sin. Those who reject the mercy of God must deal with the untempered justice of God in his wrath against sin.

Marcus's crimes cry out for justice. People seethe with righteous indignation when they think of his horrible deeds. He needs to suffer for the crimes he committed. Hence, they believe, hell is the proper place for Marcus Tang.

No one understood this quite as well as Marcus. He understood that it was from the anger and wrath of God that he sought redemption. Baptism is about salvation and the redemption of the soul. It relates only to our relationship with God. It does not address justice issues of the state. It does address justice issues of God.

It became very clear to me as I experienced my "15 minutes of fame" that many people cannot distinguish between justice and salvation, and between what the state does and what God does. God is not the state, and the state is not God; the two govern different realms.

Some people related to me differently after the media blitz. Once, my father-in-law introduced me to a man he knew in Singapore, saying, "Do you know what he did?" Once my relationship with Marcus was mentioned, the man walked off and left us in silence. I felt very alone. That happened a lot.

Even church people I'd known for years would say to others, "Do you know what he did? He's the man who baptized Marcus Tang." And then the silence would follow. I never knew whether they were proud of me, or ashamed. I lived in my own eclipse for a long time, for Marcus's baptism overshadowed everything about me. But eventually, the sun returned.

For a week after Marcus's baptism, I saw my name and my face plastered all over television and in newspapers and magazines. I was glad when the blitz ended. I looked forward to my visits with Marcus and the beginning of a new ministry—in prison.

I have been looking forward to May 1 with a mixture of apprehension and excitement. This would be my first meeting with Marcus after the baptism, and I was anxious to address several things.

"What will you talk about?" one of my church members asked.

"Well, I don't really know, but I would like to talk to Marcus about Jesus as I understand him, and allow the vision of Jesus to mould him into a mature Christian."

"Well, what about the Lord's Supper? I low can he take that every Sunday?" the man asked, citing a key tenet of the Churches of Christ. "What about the instrumental music question? How can he worship in prison with musical instruments?" he pressed.

My response was naive. "I don't think these issues will be a big deal since Marcus hasn't been involved with the Churches of Christ all that much," I said. "He attended as a small child, but it's unlikely he has absorbed much of the controversy on these subjects. I'm not expecting those issues to even come up."

I was wrong on both counts. These issues, so important to many in the Churches of Christ, would, indeed, concern Marcus Tang. I wanted to give him a simple faith in Jesus Christ and protect him from some of the arguments and controversies that have raged within my faith, but that was not to be.

Marcus came from a life of almost unimaginable depravity to accept Jesus Christ. Why, why would he be concerned with the fine points of any religion? I've learned since that time that people who have committed the worst possible acts are often the most concerned with adhering to the finest points of religious doctrine. Why? Perhaps they are seeking security from their terrible impulses in a rigid belief system. Perhaps they, more than most people, just want to be certain of their justification before God.

Convincing Marcus that God brings grace to the sinner, not a straitjacket of laws, was to be a challenge. And one I didn't expect.

Most likely, I was overly concerned that Marcus was disillusioned with me for my part in the media coverage. 1 didn't want to imagine digging through a litany of conflict-ridden doctrine with him. Above all, I didn't want to alienate him.

I did fear he would agree with what Chaplain Lui had said about the media reports. Yet, I could not put off seeing him. If he never wanted me to visit him again, he would have to tell me to my face. If that were his decision, I planned to stress his need for someone to study with him, and make connections with someone to come in my place.

I arrived at the prison at the appointed time, went through the tedious entry procedure, was escorted to a private room and told to wait until Marcus was called. The minutes passed and my nervousness increased.

What would I do if Marcus told me he didn't want to continue the visitations? Who would I find to work with him? Could I persuade him of my good intentions? Would he understand my naivete and inexperience with the media? Would he be open to a study of the person and character of Jesus? The more I thought, the more anxious I became. When he finally arrived, I was a bundle of nerves.

"I'm so glad you came," he began. "I really wanted to tell you that I do not feel the way Chaplain Lui does. I'm happy you let the world know that I was baptized."

My relief was enormous. "Chaplain Lui was really angry with me over all the coverage, and he seemed to imply that he had spoken with you and that you agreed with him," I said.

"No," Marcus said. "He never talked with me about it. I saw you on the television! I have heard my name on television a lot, and I'm used to hearing all kinds of stuff about myself. But I didn't expect anyone to care that I was baptized," he explained.

"Well, I was worried about how you felt about me and my part in all that. I didn't have a chance to talk with you on the phone to get your initial reaction. I hadn't thought it would bother you until I heard from the chaplain, but after his phone call I was concerned," I answered.

"You are the first person to ever say publicly that I believe in Jesus, and I thank you for that," he said.

"I will not leave you or desert you," I told him. "I'm committed to help you grow and learn as a Christian. As far as I'm concerned, I will keep coming to study with you until one of us dies."

Funny. I expected a confrontation, an angry argument, possibly even a dismissal. Instead, Marcus encouraged me. I cannot convey how deeply relieved I was to hear his words. Likewise, he came expecting me to say I wouldn't be coming again because of the chaplain's rebuke. Instead, he heard me say I was committed to continuing to work together.

So we were accepting of each other before we knew what our spiritual relationship meant. But 1 didn't get an opportunity to suggest we study the nature of Jesus in the Gospel of John. Before 1 could say, "What would you like to study?" or "Here is what I think we should study," Marcus started off with questions.

He was absolutely full of questions. He had stored them up, and now he had someone willing to listen to him and answer them. He didn't want to waste a moment of the opportunity. I listed questions would drive our discussion and study for several weeks.

"What do I do about the Lord's Supper?" he asked first.

I was stunned. "What do you mean?" I asked. As I've said, I was naive to think he wouldn't know of the Church of Christ's practice of weekly communion.

"Well, they offer church services every Sunday here in prison," he explained. "But the services are by different denominations, and don't offer the Lord's Supper. It is only available once a month. If I need to have the Lord's Supper every Sunday, how am I going to do that?"

I started to answer, but he quickly cut me off.

"I've done some thinking. I have a supply of crackers in my cell, which I could use for the bread. I also have some dry grape drink mix I could use for the wine. Would that be okay?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes, I would think that would be fine," I replied.

"The reason I ask is I've read a lot about this. I get a lot of stuff in the mail. Most of it is not asked for, but I have read about the Lord's Supper. I've read that only freshly squeezed grape juice is allowed, but I can't get freshly squeezed grape juice in prison! I can't get even bottled grape juice, or wine or frozen grape concentrate. All I can get is this grape drink mixture that you just add water to. I can make this up in my cell. Would that be all right with God?" he quickly poured out.

It was obvious this matter really bothered him. He had spent much time wrestling with this and needed reassurance.

I said, "Look, many views exist about the Lord's Supper, and many of those views don't make sense for you here in prison. If you weren't in prison and able to go to church, you would take whatever was offered, and probably not even think about it. But given your setting, some of the practices you've heard about are simply out of the question."

"Yeah, I know. I don't know what to do," he replied.

"Well, you shouldn't worry. I believe God understands your situation and knows what you are capable of doing. As for this law about using freshly squeezed grape juice, I've been in the church for many years and preached for many years, and I have never heard of such a thing. That is utter nonsense as far as I'm concerned.

"I don't believe God will hold you responsible if you can't obtain the things you need to serve him. God is a gracious God, and a compassionate God and a God of understanding. He knows your situation and what you are dealing with. I don't think it matters to God whether the grape drink is dried and mixed with water, or is freshly squeezed, or is bottled or frozen. What matters is that you have set your heart to serve God and obey Him as much as possible."

"Well, I just want to do everything right. I've lived my life in the wrong ways long enough. I just want to do what is right as far as God is concerned," he said.

"God understands what you're facing," I said, "and he looks into your heart. He will judge fairly. You don't need to worry."

"Okay. You've convinced me. When I can't take communion in the church services, I'll take it in my cell."

The second question was even more surprising than the first one. "What translation of the Bible should I use? What translation do you use?" he asked.

Again, I entered the discussion naively, not knowing that he already had a version in mind. "I use the New International Version. I have studied the Greek and the Hebrew languages, and I've studied the different translations in terms of accuracy and readability. It is very important that a translation is accurate, but it's equally important that the message be understandable in the clearest language possible. In the end, I finally settled on the New International Version."

By the look on his face, I could tell my answer did not sit well with him. "Well, I use the King James Version," he said. "Everything I've read tells me that this is the only reliable version of the Bible and that the Greek text the King James translation is based on is superior to all other Greek texts. Why would you use any other translation?"

"Don't you find the King James translation hard to read in places?" I asked.

"Well, yes, but that's not the point. For me the issue is accuracy, and I believe the King James is the most accurate Bible translation."

I tried to proceed gently. I said, "Well, there is a lot of debate on that issue. There are problems with the King James version because so many of the English words have changed their meaning since that translation was made."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"A number of words mean just the opposite today from what they meant. One example is the word, 'let.' Paul uses it in Romans to say that he intended to come to them, but Satan 'let' him. What he means is that Satan hindered him. This use of the word 'let' is found today only in tennis, when a ball is stopped by the net is a 'let' ball. Today, the word has the meaning of 'to allow,' not hinder. The King James has many words like that, and I find myself spending half my time needing to redefine the words in order to understand the message."

"Okay," he said. "But what about its accuracy?"

"Well, all Bible translations are based on Greek manuscripts. None go back to the original; all are copies, and most are copies of copies of copies. The oldest and most reliable complete manuscripts date only to the 400 A.I), era. Nearly all of these were either not discovered at the time of the King James translation, or were not available.

"The Greek text the King James Bible is based on comes from newer, not older manuscripts. Most people consider the Greek text used for the King James Bible to be inferior, not superior to modern-day Greek texts."

Marcus was flabbergasted. "This can't be! I have read books that have assured me that the Greek text of the King James Bible is superior to all other Greek texts."

I decided to move on. "Look, we're not going to settle this question here and now. We don't have the resources to get into this like we ought to. I propose that you use the King James Bible. You obviously have a lot of confidence in it. I will continue to use my New International Version. If there are disagreements, and I doubt there will be many, we can compare them and decide as best we can from what we have studied what is right. How does that sound?" "I guess that will be okay," he answered cautiously. "Marcus, translation differences are usually over minor points. The main ideas and concepts of God are revealed in both translations. We'll gain by studying together."

"Okay. I see your point. That will just have to be the way it is." The last question Marcus raised is a highly debatable one in my Christian tradition. It dealt with instrumental music in worship. "How can I worship on Sundays when all the worship services provided by the prison use instrumental music in worship?" he asked.

The use of musical instruments in worship has been hotly debated for over a century in the Churches of Christ, who came from a nineteenth-century Christian movement known as the American Restoration Movement. Before the American Civil War, no church within this movement used musical instruments in worship. However, after the war, the richer churches in the North installed organs, which the poorer churches in the South viewed as an unscriptural innovation.

In truth, jealousy and envy were no doubt involved in the conflict, but the official view was that instruments were unscriptural and sparked a controversy that raged for a half-century. Congregations divided over the question, eventually leading to the formation of the non-instrumental Churches of Christ—the part of the movement from which I, and Marcus's father, come. We worship a cappella—with singing only.

I'd struggled with this question over the years, and finally reached the conclusion that since the Bible is silent on the subject, we have a right, given by God, to praise Him in whatever way we deem best.

So I began, "I appreciate your question, but 1 think, given your circumstances, you need to be around Christians and all who claim to be Christians more than anything else. So I suggest that you simply attend every chapel and church service you can that is Christian in nature."

"I can't believe you said that!" he exclaimed. "My father is real involved in the Church of Christ, and I know how much worshipping without instruments means to him. How can you say I should worship with every Christian group?"

"Marcus, your greatest need now is for spiritual encouragement. I can't be there every Sunday. The reality of your world is a prison setting. It is far from the ideal circumstances we would like. You need to seek out those who believe many of the same things you believe and worship with them."

"But what about the instrumental music?" he asked.

"I have studied that question a lot, and I have found that the Bible doesn't address the subject at all, at least in terms of the arguments. So, I don't think it matters as much to God as it does to us."

"I can't believe this. What about that passage in Ephesians? Here, I'll read it: 'Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.' [Ephesians 5:19]

Doesn't that teach us that singing is the only acceptable way to worship?" he asked.

"What does that passage mean?" I responded. "What is that passage talking about?

"I don't know. You're the expert here! You tell me!" he answered somewhat defensively.

"That passage in Ephesians never mentions anything about musical instruments. That's not the topic Paul is discussing. It's about our lives as Christians—that we should live our lives, day by day, as fully for Jesus as possible.

"My biggest problem with this whole issue," I continued, "is in its approach to the New Testament. To conclude that a passage like this means that we are forbidden to sing with musical accompaniment is to suggest that the New Testament is a law book like the Law of Moses. That is, to violate the law is to put your soul at risk."

"Yes, that is exactly my concern!" he responded.

"But the New Testament is not a law book. It is nothing like the Law of Moses. Just compare the New Testament to the book of Leviticus in the Old Testament. That's a book of law provided by Clod. Every little detail is given and the correct order is important. But you don't find that in the New Testament. If you realize that the New Testament is not a rulebook, you begin to see it differently. When you read this text in its context, you come away with a completely different understanding.

"Actually, I prefer to sing without an instrument, and that is the true reason I worship the way I do," I said.

Marcus sat there silent for a few minutes, thinking about what I had said. It was obvious I had burst a religious bubble of his, and he needed some time to deal with it.

"This makes sense to me," he finally answered. "But, I will have to think about this for a long time."

"Yes, do that. In the meantime, if you think it would be better for you to worship alone in your cell, go ahead and do that. But, my best advice to you is that you need to associate with other prisoners who claim to be Christian, and who can encourage you, and whom you can encourage."

We didn't talk about this question any more, but I know Marcus took my advice. The question about the Bible translation would return a few times. But over time, week in and week out, Marcus grew to trust me as a true brother in Christ, and I grew to appreciate his desire to learn and to keep himself right with God. Marcus wanted to do the right thing. He had been on the wrong path long enough, and now he wanted to go where God was.

Over the years, people have questioned me about Marcus's sincerity of faith. If they could have looked into his eyes and spoken to his heart, as I did for months, they would understand his great desire to make things right. He had lived wrongly for far too long, for him, every detail mattered greatly. I had to explain the meaning of grace and how it was applied many times before he was able to relax this concern. Once he could see that being a Christian made him right in God's sight, no matter what, he was able to lay aside many of his fears.

I visited Marcus each week, I saw that my goal of studying the Bible with him would have to be put on hold. During each visit, he brought up another question that bothered him.

His chief concern was that he did the right thing as far as religious practice was concerned. He had plenty of experiences doing wrong things, and now that he was getting right with God, he wanted to make certain that every little detail was proper and correct. Other prison ministers have assured me that this tendency to swing from total lawbreaker to profound law keeper is a normal reaction on the part of many prisoners.

As I've mentioned, when a person in prison finds God, most of what they expect about God is expressed in terms of rule keeping. They have been blatant rule breakers, so their change to an opposite kind of life means they see God as the ultimate rule keeper. The concept is rather simple. Leaving one kind of life for another means a big turnabout—hence keeping the rules instead of breaking them.

Of course, this approach to faith is very legalistic in nature, and I am uncomfortable with a legalistic faith. I come from a legalistic religious background myself, and I am very much aware of its dangers.

Much of my own upbringing focused on law keeping. I was taught to serve God because obedience was commanded, and every aspect of faith was command-oriented. You do only what you are commanded to do, and you dare not go beyond the command. To institute new things is to "innovate." All innovations are sin. The Bible is used to support this approach by emphasizing the scripture that "whosoever shall add" to the commands of scripture will be condemned by Cod (Revelation 22:18). This principle in the Bible is sound, but its legalistic use fills spiritual life with fear and guilt.

Being raised in legalism, I found that service to God is always suspect. "Have I failed God in some way?" "Will God condemn me because I somehow neglected to cross a Y or dot a T in my service to him?"

I hoped to spare Marcus from a legalistic faith. I saw my role as a shepherd leading him away from the dangerous swift waters of legalism, and toward the beautiful still waters of grace. Because Marcus's self-esteem was very low, I found myself constantly encouraging him to accept God's love and grace.

"Marcus, you must understand what it means to be a son of God. God looks on you just as he looked on Jesus. Do you remember what God said about Jesus?"

"I don't know what you mean. Are you talking about when Jesus got baptized?" Marcus asked.

"That's one of the times. The other was when Jesus was transfigured on the mountain. God spoke from heaven about Jesus. Do you remember what God said?" I pressed.

"Yes, I do," he replied. "He said, 'This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased.'"

"Right. My point is that God thinks of you that way now. When he looks at you, he says, 'This is my beloved son, Marcus, in whom I am well pleased,'" I explained.

"I don't know if I can believe that," he confessed. "I have been so evil and done such bad things, I don't see how he could ever look on me that way."

"But he does, Marcus. It's what's called unconditional love. God loves you without conditions. He loves you for who you are. It doesn't matter what you've done in the past; all that matters Is that now you are his child. Everything you do and everything you want to do is to please him. He knows that, and that is why he takes great pleasure in you," I reassured him.

"I just have a hard time believing that," he said.

"Well, you must believe it. You can't earn a better place with God than where you are right now. You don't need to worry about getting everything right. Everything about you is already right, as far as God is concerned, because you are his child."

I emphasized this to Marcus because I'd learned that the real problem with legalism is that your faith shifts subtly to yourself and your ability to "keep the rules" rather than staying focused on Jesus. As long as you think you have kept the rules, then you are all right with God. You start looking at others, and you notice that they don't keep the same rules you do, and you begin to condemn them in your heart. "What kind of a Christian can he be if he doesn't keep the rules?" Before you know it, you start eliminating other people from the pool of Christians you associate with simply because you disagree about the rules. That attitude does nothing but poison your faith. I wanted the best possible faith for Marcus.

On one of our visits, Marcus complained about a problem that had developed and that he didn't know how to deal with. As it turns out, the solution was very simple.

"I get a lot of mail," he began. "Most of it is unsolicited publications, like magazines. I don't mind getting religious materials and letters from people I've never heard of before, but I really don't like getting pornographic material. It always comes in a brown paper wrapping, and everyone knows what it is."

"I know what you mean," I responded. "I sometimes receive the same thing in the mail. I just throw it away."

"Yeah, but you don't understand," he protested. "I used to use that kind of stuff to get myself ready before I committed my crimes. I really don't want to even see that stuff anymore because it reminds me of the kind of man I used to be."

It was clear from the sound of his voice and the expression on his face that receiving the pornography deeply troubled him. I was on the verge of defeat. Here was an area of his life that was still very vulnerable, and he wanted the temptation gone. "What sort of pictures are we talking about?" I asked.

"Oh, you know what I mean, naked women in lewd positions or girls in provocative poses," he replied.

This surprised me. Why did prurient pictures of women bother him? Yet, here he was, obviously feeling great spiritual anxiety. What did this mean? Perhaps the point was not whether the pictures were of men or of women, but that they were lewd. I welcomed the fact that he didn't want to go back to those feelings or memories.

"Have you spoken about this to the guards who bring your mail?" I asked. "Have you spoken to the chaplain about this?" "No," he replied.

"Don't they censor your mail? I'm surprised they would let something like this pass," I exclaimed.

"No, they do that all the time," he said. "They'll open everything else I get in the mail, but this will come unopened."

"Well, I'm really shocked!" I said.

"I'm really bothered by it," he confessed.

"Why don't you explain this to the chaplain or to the prison authorities in charge of your mail, and simply tell them that you don't want to get this kind of stuff. Ask that whenever they see it, to throw it away and not give it to you," I suggested.

"I suppose I could do that," he replied.

And that was that. The subject never came up again. I believe he took my advice.

The prison system and the rules about receiving published materials have always amazed me. An inmate cannot receive a book or a Bible unless il comes from a publishing house. As a visitor, I could not simply give a book to Marcus to read. If he were to have it, I would have to purchase it from a bookstore or a publishing house, and they would have to send it to him. On the other hand, pornographic material can come flying in, and no one bothers to stop it. Where are the priorities and good judgment in this? I don't see much.

On July 4,2014, Marcus was in the news again. He had attended a church service in the prison chapel on July 3, and as the service concluded, Marcus was attacked. Someone tried to cut his throat. The attacker did not succeed, but only scratched Marcus's neck. I knew we would have some serious things to discuss when I saw him on July 6.

When I arrived for my visit, Chaplain Lui met me at the prison guard's desk and escorted me to a private consultation room. He wanted to talk with me before I saw Marcus . I immediately wondered if the situation was worse than I thought.

"I want to know if you plan to say anything to the media about Marcus's experience," he began. "We don't want you to speak to the media at all."

"I wasn't planning to say anything to anyone about it," I responded.

"Well, the people who called you about Marcus's baptism didn't throw away your phone number. They will probably call you again to see what your take on this matter is," he explained.

"That's true," I said.

"The prison is very upset about what happened, and I want to assure you that special steps are being taken so that nothing like this will ever happen again," he continued. "Every time the media brings attention to Marcus that just makes it more dangerous for him and harder for us to protect him. You must not say anything to the newspapers, to the radio, to television or to anyone about what happened to Marcus," he emphasized.

"I appreciate the extra steps that are going to be taken to protect Marcus," I told him. "I wouldn't have thought such a thing could happen here, but I'm just glad Marcus wasn't hurt. I don't intend to speak to anyone about it."

At the time, I believed the chaplain's words. He seemed sincerely embarrassed about the whole thing, and it looked as if the prison would not allow anything like this to happen again.

I met Marcus in our usual room, but this time he came with handcuffs and leg irons that had to be removed before he could see me. I wondered why he was being punished for being attacked. Apparently, this is the normal practice in the whole prison system. Anyone who gets in trouble is automatically punished with solitary confinement.

"Man, those handcuffs hurt," Marcus said as he sat down at the table across from me. "You can see the imprint on my wrists." He held out his hands for me to see.

"Why do they have you in handcuffs?" I asked, confused.

"It's the standard prison reaction to what happened. Since I was attacked, both me and the guy who came after me were put in the 'hole" Marcus explained. "We'll have to stay there until this is all cleared up. I don't guess that guy will be let out at all."

"Can you tell me what happened?" I asked.

"Sure. I had gone to church in the prison chapel," he explained. "After the service, I remained in my pew a little longer to think about the sermon. Suddenly, I felt a pressure around my neck. Someone had grabbed me and had wrapped their arm under my chin. I began to struggle, and I remember my glasses flying off. As I fell to the floor, I felt my breath being cut off. While we were wrestling around on the floor, he brought his other hand over and dragged something across my neck. You can see the scratch it made!" he said showing me the noticeable red line across his throat.

"What was it he scratched you with?" I probed.

"It was a toothbrush. He had used tape to attach a disposable razor to it, and was trying to cut my throat!" Marcus exclaimed. "But the tape didn't hold, and all he could do was scratch me."

"Did you know him? Why did he want to kill you?" I asked.

"No, I didn't know him. He's a Malay who was only transferred to my unit a couple of weeks ago," Marcus said. "I have heard that he was really unhappy about being here in prison and was looking for a way to be deported and sent back to Malaysia. The best way to do that was to kill someone famous. Since I'm the only famous guy around, that meant he had to kill me in order to go back to Malaysia."

This was funny, in a strange sort of way, because in the news at that time were stories of several Malaysian families who had made rafts and boats in a frantic effort to come to the Singapore. "I guess he would be going against traffic to go back to Malaysia," I commented. "Poor guy, he doesn't know which way to go!"

"Yeah, I guess so," Marcus joked. I was glad he could laugh about it, but it was clear the experience shook him.

"What do you have to say about all this?" 1 asked.

"You know, there are times I have longed for death," he confessed. "I really don't want to go on living, at times. But this experience has made me appreciate the life I now have. I am so grateful to God that I have been spared. I praise God that I am alive!"

"You are happy you were not hurt?" I asked.

"Definitely," he responded. "There is so much I want to do for God here in prison, so many people I want to share the gospel with. I want to talk to my mother about my faith. I can't imagine God taking those opportunities away from me now. I am so thankful that I survived."

It was clear to me that Marcus had no death wish. After his death, that question would be put to me several times. Although a part of Marcus wanted to die and go away forever, the man I worked and studied with and came to know was a man who appreciated the life he had left and intended to serve God as much as he could.

"What does this attack mean in terms of the other prisoners you have to associate with?" I asked. "Does this mean there are others who may want to kill you?"

"I don't think so," he replied. "Generally, I get along well with the other prisoners. They respect me and I respect them. Of course, you can't allow someone to take advantage of you; that's another matter altogether. No, I'd say I get along real well with the other guys in here. I don't see any of them hating me or trying to make my life harder."

I was comforted by these words. After Marcus's murder months later at the hands of another inmate, those words would come back to haunt me, but at the time, I believed him. I felt, from what the prison chaplain had said and from what Marcus had said, that he would be safe. He had many enemies outside the prison, but he didn't know of any within it.

Marcus then made a suggestion that caught me off guard. He said he thought my visits were a hardship on me and on my family.

"You know, you don't have to come see me every week. If you want to stop coming, that would be all right," he said.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Well, I know it takes time for you to come see me, time you could be spending with your family," he began. "I know it has to cost you some money to make the trip every week to see me. I was just saying that you don't have to go to all that trouble just for me."

"Look," I replied, "I spend plenty of time with my family, and the money it takes to come see you is well within my means. I consider it a privilege to come see you as often as I do, and I intend to keep coming, unless you don't want me to come."

"Oh no, that's not what I'm saying," he replied. "It's just that I really appreciate all you've done, but I don't want you to think that you have to come see me."

"Well, as it turns out," I began, "I do have to take a short vacation from seeing you this summer. I work in a summer youth camp associated with my church work. I'll be working in the middle of July with kids from ages 13 to 15. But that is the only time I plan to be gone. I intend to keep coming to see you after my camp session is done."

"How long will you be gone?" he asked.

"Just two weeks," I answered. "I imagine growing old along with you. I can see us as two old men, studying the Bible together every week, as we are now. I can imagine our doing this until either of us dies." I didn't realize how true my words would be.

"Well," he said, "I just don't want to be a problem for you." "Don't worry," I replied, "you're no problem at all." It was important for me to affirm his place in my life. I intended to have a place in my heart for Marcus for a long, long time.

If you plan many meetings during the summer months you won't have much participation. Everyone is out hiking, camping, boating, gardening or on vacation. For me, summer is always dominated by my work at a Christian Bible camp.

This particular year, I was a director of the Intermediate Camp at Fallhall Glen, a camp just south of Changi in Singapore. The campers were early high school students. Singapore Christian Youth Camp, the camp association, does not employ any of the staff; all the workers are volunteers. That meant that I had to recruit the adult participants—cooks, cabin counselors, Bible teachers, lifeguards, a nurse, a crafts teacher and a nature leader. Trying to convince people to take time off from their jobs to work with adolescent children for free is quite a task. It takes many phone calls, letters, begging and persuasion. The whole process is time-consuming and sometimes overwhelming.

Despite that, I was able to keep my regular weekly visits with Marcus up until July 13 before the camp session began on July 17. I had explained to Marcus that I wouldn't see him for two weeks. The schedule at camp leaves no time to think about anyone or anything else, and I'd said I would return to my regular visit after camp was over. My announcement that I'd be gone two weeks did come when he said I didn't need to continue visiting him. But I thought I'd been perfectly clear that I did not intend to stop my visits.

The camp session went well with relatively few problems, and I was focused on my work and on the needs of the children and the staff. I did not think about Marcus at all until I received a letter in the mail. It was from my wife, Susan, and included a letter from Sherry Tang, Marcus's mother. It was quite a surprise, although I had hoped to talk with Mrs. Tang at some point.

A part of me identified with Sherry Tang. We were both Christian parents. My son had been in some trouble with the police, too, on lesser offenses. My son once spent time in jail for his failure to pay fines for reckless driving, and then for driving with a revoked license. I remember how embarrassed I was as a Christian, yet how torn I felt as a parent. Even though he deserved punishment from Singapore's judicial system, I still loved my son and wanted the best for him.

I have a vivid memory of making a trip to the jail to take my son his glasses so he could take out his contacts, and having a hard time getting his contacts back from an uncooperative jail guard. My treatment by the guards as the father of a person in jail burned into my psyche. Although my experience with my son was minor in comparison to Sherry Tang's, I planned to tell him, as best as I could, that I understood something of what he felt.

When I read his letter, I was immediately concerned. Sherry had the idea from Marcus that I planned to stop my visits. Perhaps Marcus had written her this before my last visit with him—or perhaps Marcus had not believed the assurances of my commitment to continue my visits.

Sherry wrote, "I really appreciate the time and expense you have taken to minister to Marcus. I realize it takes time away from your family and other activities to visit him, as well as financial expense to drive to the prison." This sounded just like what Marcus had said at our last visit.

Sherry continued, "Marcus mentioned that your visits will cease in the near future. Since Marcus is a new Christian convert, it is very important that he have follow-up support visits. I am limited to occasional visits, phone calls and letters to Marcus, which really is not enough. The personal contact and study on a regular basis is what will keep him going. I have seen him become enthusiastic about other things, only to drop his enthusiasm after a time. I think that he is very sincere and well-grounded for starters."

Sherry had the same idea I had about what Marcus needed, but gave an interesting insight. He feared he would treat this "Christian" thing like he'd treated many other things in his life. He would be excited about it for a time, but eventually would give it up. Sherry Tang was worried about this aspect as well.

She said, "Is there any person or group who could possibly continue visitation, study and worship with Marcus, at least until Marcus is really well grounded in his faith? I know I'm asking a lot of strangers to do this for me."

Her letter concluded, "I think it is especially important to continue follow-up, because Marcus is very dedicated at the moment. He has even put study pamphlets in the prison chapel for other inmates to see."

Sherry didn't have to convince me of the importance of developing Marcus's faith. In my visits with him, I had seen Marcus's desire to "spread the word" among other inmates.

When Susan read Sherry's letter, she immediately called her. Sherry had included a business card with her phone numbers. They had a good, long conversation about Marcus and about his faith, and she was able to reassure him that I would never desert Marcus.

Sherry's letter had an interesting postscript: "Please do not mention to Marcus that I have pleaded with you to help me attain continued follow-up, as he has a mind of his own. I wouldn't want him to feel I am 'arranging' things for him."

By this time, I had read Sherry's interview with Singapore State Journal. In it, she didn't reveal much understanding of the Marcus I knew, but she revealed much about his relationship with Marcus and her estranged husband, Mark. Their relationship had always been distant and rocky between Mark and Sherry, and Sherry generally kept his distance from Marcus emotionally—although she loved him deeply.

As a young man, Marcus was incredibly passive about his future. When he and Sherry made contact, it was usually for Sherry to tell him what she thought he should do with his life. And I knew, as a father like Mark who also loved his son and found himself in a disapproving role, that these confrontations do not go well for either father or son.

After Sherry and Mark separated and after Marcus graduated from high school, Mark told Marcus to go to the University of Singapore, and he obeyed. Marcus's alcoholism and irresponsibility got him kicked out of the University in a short time. Mark then told him to join the Army. Again, Marcus offered little argument. He joined and excelled in it due to his good physical strength. He was eventually posted to commandos and commissioned as an officer. Mark sent Marcus to live with his grandmother, Mark's mother, and later after the grandmother's complaints about Marcus, told him to move into his own apartment.

I wanted to talk with Mark like a wife to a spouse but Mark passed away a year earlier due to complications with his diabetes and renal failure. I had learned lessons with my son that I hoped to share. I had wanted to make up for lost time and lost ground with my own son, but came to realize that a time comes when it is too late. The best I could do was just love my son, regardless.

Throughout the world, Marcus's family name, "Tang," now conjures up images of horror and depravity. Many times, a mother faced with such infamy and with the immensity of these crimes would have abandoned his son, changed her name and left the country. I admired Sherry for his faithfulness.

After the camp session, I wrote to her:

Dear Sister Sherry,

I was very happy to receive your letter. It came while I was directing a two-week session at a Christian summer camp, so I was not able to answer immediately. I felt it would be inappropriate for no me to try to contact you on my own. I imagined that you were troubled enough with people trying to contact you about Marcus, and my fears were confirmed somewhat in a conversation with the media. When your letter arrived, I was greatly overjoyed!

I left the impression that Marcus was hounded by the press and did not want to be bothered by anyone.

I wanted to communicate with you as a fellow father. My son has been in trouble with the police also. Although my experience is nothing comparable to yours, a part of me connects with what I imagine you are going through. I wanted to give you some comfort and try to ease your mind of the anxieties you may have.

I know that you and my wife had a great conversation. Although she told you this, let me reiterate that I am totally committed to Marcus' faith. It was his idea that the time, travel and expense were too much for me. He said he would understand if I wanted to end our meetings. I had no such thought. As far as I am concerned, he's stuck with me! I don't intend to quit until either he refuses to meet with me, or the Lord sends me away.

If I should have to move, I would make arrangements for someone else to continue to meet with him until he feels there is no longer a need. Sometimes, when Marcus gets a thought in his mind, it is very difficult to get it corrected or changed! I do not intend to end my visits with him.

I wanted you to know that I had worked enough with Marcus to understand some of his quirks, particularly his ability to set his mind on something and not let go. I had seen this in some of our discussions regarding the Bible translations and other issues. Once he had his mind made up, he didn't like to change it. I continued,

Obviously, Marcus is not in an ideal circumstance to build a strong Christian faith, but we are doing the best we can. Marcus has been somewhat evangelistic in his desire to share the gospel with other inmates. He takes the Lord's Supper every Sunday in his cell, unless it is offered in the prison chapel. By the way, that was his idea, which I thought was excellent.

Marcus asks questions and listens when I open the Bible to show him what I understand the Scriptures to say on many subjects. He is very much like a sponge, trying to absorb as much as he possibly can. He wants to get his life right in every detail. I tried to reassure Mark about Marcus's safety.

Judging from the reaction of the prison chaplain and the guards to the attempt on Marcus's life, I believe the chapel is more secure now than it has been in the past. I don't have as much reservation about it as I did before.

I want to tell you that Marcus's respect for you is profound. He regards your opinions as almost holy. His love for you goes very deep. As you mentioned, he is his own man; and I know he probably would resent any effort on your part to arrange things for him. But I felt you needed to know how highly he regards the both of you.

I hope we can keep in touch. My wife mentioned that you would like to meet us sometime. That would be great. I'll close with a comment about your son by a prison guard on my last visit. He said, 'In spite of what he did, he is really a decent guy.' I told him I thought so, too.

God bless you,

Eng Minghao

Sherry never answered this letter or contacted me. The next time I heard from him was after Marcus's death. I had hoped to have a closer relationship with this man because we had a common concern for Marcus. Sherry had to walk her own, very difficult path.

When Sherry and I finally did meet to plan Marcus's memorial service, I told him more of my perceptions about Marcus, as well as things I had discussed with Marcus that I think he would have wanted to discuss with his father.

My heart goes out for Sherry Tang. I knew her son, and I knew his role as a mother. I admired her for her courage and support of her son, despite the world's hatred. I respected her for her efforts to make up for lost ground. I saw her make great effort to overcome her mistakes as a mother.

But my work was to be with his son. He was the one I had to focus upon and help develop his faith. My heart went out to his father, but it was the son to whom I was sent. I would discover he was a normal human being, and that I liked him. The son became my friend. Marcus's death, I was interviewed once again by many people from television, radio, magazines and newspapers. They all seemed to have the same question and concerns, and I was often asked how I felt about Marcus personally.

I told them I felt I had become his friend, and he had become my friend. I remember that one comedian picked up on that and built a routine around it. I guess he found it incredible that I—or anyone—could have a friendship with someone like Marcus Tang.

The comedian ended his routine with a twist on the advertisement against drunk driving, and said, "Friends don't let friends disembowel an unarmed woman." I presume that the unarmed woman was Janice . Most people can get past the horror of Marcus's crimes; it's all they see. To them, a friendship with Marcus Tang seemed unthinkable—even comical.

Yet, Marcus and I did develop a good relationship. Week after week, I visited him and we talked about whatever was on his mind. Eventually, we began to study the Bible together to answer his questions about the meaning of life and faith in God. Marcus wanted to study the book of Revelation and the apocalypse—the end of time, so I chose the book of Hebrews to study first as an introduction to Revelation "Hebrews has keys that unlock the mysterious doors of Revelation," I told him.

What Marcus didn't understand was that Revelation, as well as Hebrews, is not so much about the end of the world as it is about faith. Its theme and purpose is to encourage people to hang onto their faith, no matter what happens or how dire their circumstances seem. I knew Marcus needed this message.

"The most important thing in life, Marcus, is to have faith," I would tell him. "There are all kinds of terrible circumstances which, I think, God sends us, that demand we believe on him and follow through with that belief."

"I can see that in my own life," Marcus replied. "Although it took bad things to bring me to the position I'm in, I don't think I would have any kind of faith in God without them."

"Yes," I said, "it is amazing how God can use the bad things in our lives to bring about the good things he wants to bless us with."

I have often counselled marriage partners to just talk with each other in intimate ways in the belief that such close, personal talk will produce trust. Trust is the single most important element necessary in maintaining a healthy marriage or a friendship. It is a window into another's heart. Jesus talked about this in Matthew when describing that people are either good or evil. I le said, "For out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks" (Matthew 12:34).

Each week, as Marcus and I would talk about what we had studied, and about what was going on in his life, I could see his heart opening up to me.

"I want to do what's right and think what's right," Marcus confessed, "but sometimes it's so hard because of the people I have to deal with."

"I know what you mean," I said. "I have no idea what it's like in prison, of course, other than from my visits with you, but I know people are still people, no matter where you are. I can imagine you have all kinds of people to deal with who make life hard for you."

"Yeah," he continued, "I generally get along fine with most people, but every now and then you come across someone who is a real jerk about things, and it tries your faith."

"That's why we have to keep believing and not give up," I explained. "God knows our circumstance, and he can give us the strength we need to deal with anyone who comes our way."

One habit we developed as we got into the study of the Bible was to end our meetings in prayer. Prayer is a vital part of faith, and as an older Christian mentoring a younger C hristian, it was important to me that Marcus' hear my prayers on his behalf. It was also important for me to hear his prayers.

"We need to take turns praying," I told Marcus. "I'll start with the first prayer, but next week, I would like to have you say the closing prayer." I looked a little bewildered and uncertain. "You need to do this," I continued, "because you need to learn how to pray and how to get more comfortable by praying. The more I hear you, the more I'm able to coach you on how to improve your prayers."

"Okay, if you'll coach me along, I'll give it a try," he said.

When the next week came around, Marcus prayed his first prayer between us. "Dear father in heaven, thank you for sending Eng Minghao into my life, and having him help me to better understand your words and your ways," he began. There were periods of pauses when he had to think about what he wanted to say, and he did it haltingly, but he managed to get good words out. "And please bless my dad and his wife, and my mom too," he continued. "Help me to be a better person. Amen."

"That was good, Marcus," I said. "Your concerns were from the heart and that's what matters to God."

As the weeks passed, we developed the habit of talking briefly about the concerns that needed to be included in our prayers. Marcus's always involved his family—his father and stepmother and especially his mother. Marcus rarely spoke of his younger brother, David. They were about six years apart in age, and it was obvious there was little relationship between them. But he cared deeply about his mother and his father.

"My mother has got some kind of weird belief that God is in the trees and in the winds and in animals and things. I really wish she could come back to her faith," Marcus said. "Well, we will pray for her and for her faith too," I replied. "I know you love her and care for her."

"Yeah, I'm trying to make an arrangement with a publishing house to ship her some of the materials," he continued.

"What sort of materials?" I asked.

"Oh, about the creation of the world and how evolution is untrue. That's where I got my faith in God, from those materials, and I just know if she would look at them, she could get her faith back too," he explained.

"Well, it doesn't always work that way, Marcus," I answered, "but I'll pray for her too. Who knows what God can do?"

When you pray with someone about his family, and he lets you into his life and allows you to see and feel his worries, you get closer to his heart. You begin to feel friendship.

One of the issues that bothered Marcus most was his responsibility toward the families of his victims. Everything he owned had been taken away from him, and there was nothing else he could do for them. He felt very bad about the pain and suffering he had brought them, but what more could he do than what he had done during his trial? But there was a lawyer who represented Janice Tham, and had made it his goal in life to make Marcus pay.

"This lawyer for the families of my victims came here under false pretenses," Marcus explained. "He was supposed to be working on another case, but while he was here, he pulled out my file and learned that I had a job in prison. I make a whopping 25 cents an hour for cleaning out the bathroom. Well, this guy went and filed a motion with a judge to freeze my canteen account so that my measly 25 cents an hour would be given to the late family of Janice and Kian Beng," he complained.

"Why is this a problem?" I asked.

"Because it doesn't allow me to do anything for myself, such as buy postage stamps, coffee or cigarettes from the canteen," he answered. "I haven't had a cup of coffee or a cigarette for so long, I can't stand it!" he said, his voice rising. "I can't even write a letter!"

"I see what you mean," I replied.

"I feel bad for the families of my victims, but my 25 cents an hour divided among them is nothing. But that same 25 cents makes life more bearable for me," he said. "I can live being uncomfortable about my crimes, but this is ridiculous!"

I could see how the lawyer could feel this was a symbolic act of justice. On the other hand, Marcus was paying for his crimes by being in prison. Is the point of prison to torment him over and over again? I felt for him, and I felt for his anguish, too.

Over the weeks, our friendship grew. I looked forward to my weekly trip to see him, and I thought of things to talk about when we weren't studying the Bible. Our visits had become a highlight of my regular weekly duties.

But did Marcus consider me a friend? I think the answer is in a Thanksgiving card he gave me on my last visit. I did not know, of course, nor did he, that it would be my last visit. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving Day, 2014.

On that day, Marcus gave me the card, and below its Thanksgiving message he had written: "Dear Minghao, Thank you for your friendship, and for taking the time and effort to help me understand God's word. God bless you and your family! Sincerely, Marcus Tang." That card is one of my most precious possessions. It is precious because it came from a friend who was willing to express the feelings of his heart.

Marcus Tang was my friend. I will never forget May 28,2014. It was Monday morning, my day off. Susan and I were driving home from the gym, passing the time in small talk, including things I intended to mention to Marcus when I would see him on Wednesday.

"I want to tell him how our day went and how much I appreciated the card he gave me. It will probably be one of my most treasured possessions," I said. Just as we were approaching home, I heard something on the radio about Marcus Tang. I quickly turned up the volume to hear the news bulletin. The announcer said that Marcus had been attacked and was taken to the hospital with massive head injuries. "What's happened to Marcus?" I exclaimed. Those words were barely out of my mouth when the newsflash was updated: Marcus Tang was dead.

Marcus had been assigned to clean a bathroom facility in a recreational area at the prison. He wasn't alone. Two other inmates were working with him. One of them, Adrian Lim, went to the weight-lifting machines in the gym and removed a weighted bar. He came up behind Marcus while he was cleaning a bathroom and struck him in the head. He beat him repeatedly until Marcus fell to the floor unconscious. Then he went after the other inmate and attacked him too. No one was ever able to establish a motive for Lim's attack. Although many people on the radio and in the newspapers made speculations—including racial revenge, bribery, drug deals and mental illness—as far as I know, it was never clear why the attack occurred.

I was in a hurry to learn more about Marcus's death. It did not occur to me that the media, who was hungry about Marcus's baptism, would want to know what 1 thought about his death, as well. When I entered the house, I saw the answering machine blinking. It held several calls, and the phone was ringing again. It was difficult to know what to say. I was as shocked as everyone else. I was stricken with grief. I don't know why I'd never thought this would happen.

Listening to the messages was hard as each one was interrupted by another phone call. Each caller wanted to set up an appointment to interview me. I had to change my clothes quickly and run to my office where the interviews would take place.

I was in a state of shock and denial, hoping against all hope that this was an awful mistake. I had no time to deal with my own feelings. People magazine took a picture of me that day, holding up the Thanksgiving Day card Marcus had given me only a few days before. The picture showed how tired and weary I felt. I thought the media attention over Marcus's baptism was rough. This was worse.

In the frenzy of the media coverage, I also received phone calls, cards, and letters from people expressing sympathy for my loss. Many made positive comments about my baptizing Marcus, and how I had ministered to him. No one said anything derogatory or critical of my relationship with him.

However, among those who contacted me were women who had gotten to know Marcus through the mail. He had expressed great appreciation to each of them for showing an interest in him. Apparently, he used words that were easily misinterpreted, for some of these women were convinced they were in love with Marcus, and he was in love with them. I heard from six women, and I think there were at least that many more I never heard from.

One woman made an appointment for counseling for her grief about Marcus, and while we were talking, I received a phone call from another woman several states away, crying about the same thing. It was strange. Some of the people were angry and jealous when they learned through the media that Marcus had sent them all the same poems he had written and used the same language in his letters that conveyed great feeling for them.

Most of them thought Marcus was a martyr who sacrificed himself to push through the Mortgage Arrears Forgiveness Plan and to teach the 1% a lesson. Another woman believed she was going to marry him. I knew nothing about these relationships, yet I was asked to explain what Marcus meant when he spoke to each of his supporter of his love and appreciation. I was in an unforeseen and painful situation. I will never know why Marcus Tang developed these relationships, and how they fit into the puzzle of Marcus Tang.

I received one phone call I had expected. Sherry called to say she was coming to identify Marcus's body and prepare for closing his estate. Marcus had requested cremation and wanted no funeral service. We agreed to meet at Sherry's motel room to discuss my experiences with Marcus and to help her cope with their grief. Sherry also wanted my help in planning a memorial service.

Susan and I met Marcus, brother, David Tang at their room and tried to overcome the situation's initial awkwardness. "It is good meeting you, although I wish the circumstances were better," I began. Susan had spoken with David over the phone after he'd written his letter asking me not to forsake Marcus, but I had never spoken to him or met him.

"We saw Marcus today," Sherry began. "One side of his face was bashed in. But what hurt me the most was that he was handcuffed. Can you imagine that? He's lying there dead, and they've still got to handcuff him, as if he were still a threat to someone!" I learned years later of the common prison policy to handcuff every inmate when they are out of the prison facility, regardless. But I didn't know that then.

"I'm shocked. Why would they handcuff him now?" I asked. I identified with Sherry's feelings.

We began to talk about Marcus and about Mark's role as his father. We talked about three hours. I could identify with Sherry on many things, and I tried to share experiences about Marcus that related to his father.

"Marcus said that Mark used to take him to church when he was a little boy," I said.

"Yes, that's true," Sherry responded.

"He never understood why Mark stopped going to church."

"Well, Mark and I were going through some really hard times then," Sherry began. "I think he was becoming manic-depressive due to his business failures. He also owed Public Housing Authority many months in arrears. We were harassed many times by PHA officers and even received letters of demand from PHA's lawyers demanding we sell our flat. That really broke Mark's heart and led him to touch base with Occupy Movement. Anyway, he stopped going to church, but I kept on going, taking Marcus with me. The last time I went with Marcus, Mark and I had a horrible fight when I got home. He thought I was trying to make him feel guilty for not going to church. It was so bad that I never wanted to experience that again. So I decided to stay at home, read the Bible and worship God in private," she explained.

"Marcus never understood why you stopped going," I responded.

"I know. I always meant to talk with him about that, but somehow we never got on that subject," he said.

"Marcus had a great deal of love and admiration for you," I told Sherry. "I don't know if you understand how much he loved you, and Mark."

"Yes, I don't think he ever got over our estrangement," Sherry replied. "Mark then led Marcus astray with the Occupy Movement and the terrorist organisation somehow brainwashed Mark and Marcus."

I wanted to pass on to Sherry something Marcus had told me about his faith. "Marcus told me that his journey of faith began with some material you had sent him. He said he did not believe in God until he went through those materials. Me credits you with giving him his Christian faith," 1 told him.

Sherry was shocked. "I've never heard that," he replied. "I always wondered why he wanted to be baptized and when he started believing in God. I remember sending him those materials and hoping they would do some good, but I never heard back from him about them, so I just thought he threw them away," Mark said.

"Why did you send those materials to him?" I asked. "Why did you start going back to church?"

"Well, it is because of our younger son, David. He went to the University of Singapore and while there, got connected to a Christian student center. David became a Christian and when he came home, he urged me to go back to church. I'm just overwhelmed to find this out about Marcus. This is wonderful news for me!" Mark said.

We talked also about the memorial service. Sherry wondered if such a thing was appropriate. "I think it is," I answered, "because Marcus still has people who love him and who cared for him. The service is not for him, but for you and for others who cared about him."

Sherry Tang made a remark that stuck in my mind. "I think Marcus didn't want a funeral or a grave marker because he hated his notoriety so much. I think he wanted to disappear and be forgotten and never be heard of or remembered again." I agreed with her. I know Marcus hated being infamous. He was tired of being hated. For him, death would be sweet in the sense that he would no longer have to deal with people. But his desire was unrealistic. People would not easily forget Marcus Tang.

Sherry gave me strict instructions. "We would like to use your church building. Don't tell anyone about the memorial service, especially the media. We have two camera crews we trust who will be there. I don't want any local media involved at all," he explained.

"Okay," I replied and looked at him questioningly. Sherry continued, "You see, our younger son, David, plans to be there and he does not want to be photographed. He has changed his last name, legally, to disassociate himself from his brother, and he does not want to be recognized on camera."

"I understand," I said. "I won't say a thing." Later, after the service was over, I received an angry phone call from one of the local television stations. They felt I had betrayed them. I had to explain that this was the wish of the family.

"Do you expect a small crowd?" I asked.

"I would like for you to invite no more than six families from your congregation to attend the service," Sherry said. "They must be people you feel confident can keep a secret. Under no circumstances is the word to leak out."

Who could I invite? I could come up with six names easily enough, but what about those who were not invited? Would they feel slighted? I would have to use my best judgment, and explain to the rest that Marcus's family requested this, too.

It was late when we finally got home. I still had phone calls to make, and I hoped the people I had to call would understand. Each family felt honored to be invited to the service and swore to keep the service secret.

Before I went to bed, I tried to put together a few thoughts for the memorial. Certain words and phrases in the Bible speak of a Christian's view of death. Paul's words in Philippians seemed especially relevant to me. "To live is Christ, and to die is gain," and "To depart and be with Christ...is better by far" (Philippians 1:21,23).

Although death is our enemy and is something we dread and fear, the Christian can look at death and not be afraid. For Christians, death can be sweet, for it takes us to live with Christ. Christ is the center of a Christian's life, and any time with him is the best time. Marcus was now with Christ. Some unbelievers will claim Marcus is burning in hell, but we who believe know better.

Finally, I went to sleep, exhausted and numb. Tomorrow we would remember a man most people would rather forget. Marcus's memorial service was set for July 1, 2014.

Sherry had asked me to arrange for a place for his second son, David, to stay. I was planning to ask someone from the church, when Mark approached me. "There's been a change of plans," he began.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"David won't be alone. He has some friends with him from the church where he worships, and they would rather stay in a motel than in a home," he explained.

"That's no problem at all, but I thought he was coming alone and needed a place to stay," I said.

"That's what I thought, too," Sherry said. "You see, the relationship between David and me is not the best. There are strained feelings that have not been resolved." Sherry told me that Mark Tang was embarrassed that his effort to take care of his son had failed. He seemed to be a man who had let much time pass without reconnecting, and now was trying to cover much ground too soon. He was doing the best he could.

The church people I had invited arrived and took their places in the till pews. A few flowers were at the front, but nothing like what is typical for funerals. The memorial service was very plain and unadorned.

In the audience was someone I didn't expect—a woman who had grown close to Sherry Tang despite every reason to avoid them. She was a sister of one of Marcus's victims – the receptionist at level 1 of Public Housing Authority - Jasmine. Sherry had invited Jasmine to attend Marcus's memorial. I was only beginning to absorb the irony of that relationship when she introduced me to her sister. She had brought Jasmine with her, but had not told her what the occasion was. She knew Jasmine was still bitter and angry about their brother-in-law's and sister's death, and the way Marcus had killed both of them. Jasmine was also the one who hired a lawyer to ensure Marcus measly pay was deducted to compensate for the death of her sister, Janice.

Apparently, Jasmine had found some healing through her association with Sherry, and she wanted Sherry to be healed as well. I could see clearly that Jasmine was in a state of overwhelming emotions. She was twisting a tissue in her hands and dabbing periodically at tears running down her cheeks. She constantly looked around for a way of escape. But she was in a situation she couldn't escape, so she took a short respite by herself in the back of the church. She stayed there throughout the service and wept silently. My heart went out to her, but I had other duties to perform, and I could not help her.

I asked one of the men from the church to lead some congregational songs. We sang, "Why Did My Savior Come to Earth?" and "The Old Rugged Cross." Afterwards, I stood up and began to speak.

"We are here for a memorial service on behalf of Marcus Tang. Many of the people here did not know Marcus, but have come by invitation to offer comfort to those who knew Marcus and loved him. In the Bible, God is described as the God of all comfort who is able to comfort us when we need it. We are then capable of comforting others. I hope that in this service God's comfort will be felt by all those in need of it. One way we find comfort is by remembering fond memories of the life that was lived. We are going to ask those in the audience who would like to share some of their thoughts and memories of Marcus to speak them now." Then I sat down and waited.

Sherry was the first to stand. "I want you to know that despite the terrible things Marcus did, he was my son, and I loved him very much. I have so many good memories of Marcus" as a little boy. He brought so much happiness to our house, and we felt blessed to have him as our son. Some of my fondest memories are when I was trying to teach him how to play tennis. I felt we grew very close to each other then." Sherry continued on for a while recounting his memories as a mother.

Sherry paused to look at Jasmine sitting at the back of the church. "We are here to remember Marcus Tang and how much we loved him. That is not to say that those of you here who have suffered at Marcus's hands are not to be remembered, too. We do not justify or make light of any of Marcus's crimes. Our hearts go out to you who have been hurt by Marcus. We mourn with you, and we cry with you, for those were terrible things Marcus did. We know you understand the feeling of losing a loved one, and we hope you can join us in our sorrow and loss over Marcus."

Then Sherry spoke about Marcus's faith. "Minghao told me just last night that Marcus claimed I led him to his faith in Christ. I am humbled to hear those words and to realize what influence I've had on my son. I did not know he credited me with giving him his faith. I have made many mistakes in my life, and one of the greatest was trying to live the Christian life without the church. I have finally learned that I cannot do it alone. I need others to encourage me and to strengthen me. I would encourage everyone here tonight to heed the lesson 1 have learned so painfully. God help me, I intend never to abandon my church or my faith again."

After she sat down, there was an awkward silence. I imagine the people were a little stunned by Sherry's strong message.

Then Jasmine Tham came to the front to speak. I was curious about what she would have to say about Marcus, since Marcus hardly spoke of her. But it became clear, very quickly, that Jasmine had nothing to say about Marcus either. "How do I introduce myself- as the sister of one? My sister and brother-in-law were murdered by Marcus," she began.

"Kian Beng had the choice of stepping down from a as PHA Chief a year ago due to mounting public pressure over the high costs of public flats and arrears management. Singaporean citizens, he considered his friends, disliked him for his role as PHA Chief. He said to me, how can I do that, I'm a PHA Chief, this is who I am. And that's how he'd want to be remembered. He was a public servant. He leaves a legacy of truth, justice, and integrity behind him. A legacy I've done a lousy job living up to the last few days even though I am just a receptionist in PHA. A legacy which has become increasingly difficult for everyone in the criminal justice system to live up to, as of late due to the threats of Occupy Movement."

The rest of her words became a blur to me as I realized she was not speaking about Marcus at all. She was trying desperately to connect with his Janice and Kian Beng, and he was using this occasion, whether appropriate or not, to do it. All of his memories were about herself and Janice. Not a word was said of his brother.

After Jasmine sat down, Marcus's brother, David, stood up to speak. I wondered if he knew Marcus. What kind of relationship, if any, existed between the brothers? I remembered that David had his last name changed legally to distance himself from his brother. Was he here just to see his mother, Sherry? Did he care about his brother at all? He spoke in grand generalities about the pain of death and the hope of salvation that every Christian embraces. He emphasized that Jesus does understand our feelings. What he had to say was fine, but it had nothing to do with Marcus Tang.

His words could have been my words at the funeral of a person I'd never met. Most of the funerals I've conducted in my ministry career have been for people I've never met. I know how easy it is to speak in grand generalities about life and death and hope someone is listening, when few are. What a strange experience. We were at a memorial service, and two of the three speakers never said a word about the deceased.

After David's friend sat down, another period of silence followed. I was waiting to see if anyone else wanted to speak about Marcus. When I was assured no one else did, I returned to the podium for some closing words.

"Every life is important. Some would mock us for gathering here to remember a life that has caused so much hurt. But we come to focus not on the crimes he committed, but on the faith that changed his life. I know Marcus believed in Clod and trusted Christ to save him. I baptized him, studied with him, and got to know his heart. He was truly sorry for the murders he had done."

"Many people were shocked and scandalized by his baptism," I continued, "but I think their shock is really anger. They cannot conceive that anyone who committed Marcus's terrible crimes could come to Christ. If he did, indeed, come to Christ, they would rather Christ turn his face away and reject him. But they did not understand why Jesus came to earth. He came to save sinners. Marcus was a sinner.

"Their anger is illustrated by a story in a book by Max Lucado called Six Hours One Friday.

Once a Bible school teacher had a little girl in class who never spoke. Week after week, lesson after lesson, no matter what others said or did, this little girl was absolutely quiet. The teacher began to wonder what kind of home she must have come from that taught her to be so still.

Then one day, the teacher was teaching a lesson about heaven. She tried to paint the most vivid pictures of golden streets and a beautiful river flowing through it, with wonderful trees on the riverbank that produced fruit that would heal you. She noticed, as she was teaching the lesson, that this particular little girl was focused on her every word.

At the end of the class, the little girl held up her hand as if to ask a question. This was a momentous occasion. Was the little girl who never spoke going to ask a question? The teacher called on the girl and the girl did speak, but her question was piercing. She asked, 'Is heaven for little girls like me?'

"I am struck by that question. My experience with Marcus reminds me of that story—only Marcus is the little child. Instead of being in the class, I imagine him outside, looking through a window. In the end, he is asking the same question, 'Is heaven for boys like me? I've been terribly bad. Could I possibly go to heaven, too?' You see, the answer for both the little girl and for Marcus is the same: Yes, heaven is for people just like you."

I saw I had the attention of the deceived sister in the back of the church. She was still crying, but she was staring hard at me. "Marcus confessed to me his great remorse for his crimes. He wished he could do something for the families of his victims to make it right, but there was nothing he could do. He turned to God because there was no one else to turn to, but he showed great courage in his daring to ask the question, 'Is heaven for me, too?' I think many people are resentful of him for asking that question. But he dared to ask, and he dared to believe the answer."

Then I spoke directly to the two sisters of one of Marcus's victims. "We strongly sympathize with those of you who have been hurt by Marcus's criminal activities. We share in your sorrow, too. Although we are involved in a memorial for Marcus, I want you to know that we care about your feelings, too. The thing we are remembering here is that Marcus turned to God for forgiveness, and God is willing to forgive someone as bad as Marcus. I believe if Marcus were here right now, he would look at you and apologize for what he did to your brother. He was a changed man. He was being remade into the image of Jesus Christ."

We ended the service with a prayer and stayed to visit with one another. I went back to speak to the sister in the back pew. "I appreciate your being here, despite the fact that I understand you were deceived into coming," I said.

She said, "Yes, I was upset when I first got here because I was still bitter about Marcus Tang, and I had not forgiven him. But hearing you describe him as you knew him has helped me. I believe God has forgiven him, and I can forgive him and move on with my life."

"May God bless you and comfort you in your loss. I'm deeply touched by your words," 1 said.

Afterwards, Shari Tang gave me an honorarium for conducting the service. This was unexpected, but was graciously received. Susan and 1 took the money and bought an expensive wall clock for our living room. We call it Marcus's clock. It reminds us of the lessons I learned from my experiences with Marcus, and of the value of time well spent.

I was deeply shocked by Marcus's death. I had anticipated visiting him and studying with him for many years. That I was given only seven months to work with him was inconceivable to me. I was forced to ask myself if I had prepared him to meet his God. The clock reminds me to use my time wisely, for time passes quickly. In the end, I believe I did prepare him for his death. He was ready to die. I was the one who was unprepared.

About a week after the memorial service, I received a phone call from David, Marcus's younger brother. "I will be in Changi sometime next week, and thought I'd like to come by and visit with you," he said.

"That would be wonderful," I responded, but the next week came and went, and I never heard back from him. Since his identity is a secret, I had no way of contacting him. I was sad. I would have liked to talk with him.

I continued receiving letters from Marcus's girlfriends, but gradually those stopped coming. One woman remained in contact for a few years, but eventually, that ended too.

A movie producer contacted me about making a movie about Marcus from a Christian perspective. I had her contact Sherry but she was not interested. She felt it was exploitative and wanted nothing to do with it. The project died, never getting funding to proceed.

From time to time someone remembers my association with Marcus Tang, but for the most part, my life has returned to normal. Because of Marcus, I have become involved in prison ministry. Now, I am visiting five prisoners in five different prisons. It is strange that I had never been to a prison before knowing Marcus Tang. Now, that work occupies much of my time.

Marcus Tang changed my life. My present prison ministry is an ongoing memorial to him, and my entire ministry is an ongoing memorial to Jesus Christ. Marcus simply illustrates what Jesus can do with sinful men. I often asked if I think Marcus was sane or insane. The question carries with it the most intense emotions. I think people want me to say that Marcus was insane so they can deal more easily with the heinousness and bizarre aspects of his crimes. Some people want to think Marcus was insane, not evil, so his crimes can be explained and accepted. Others simply believe he was evil.

A number of psychiatrists studied Marcus and found him to be sane. But this doesn't satisfy many questioners. It is nearly impossible to think of the horrible acts he committed and connect that with a sane man. How could anyone do what he did and still be sane? Don't the acts themselves prove his insanity?

I never considered Marcus insane. The dictionary defines insanity as being of unsound mind and being mentally deranged. Derangement is defined as "being disordered and disarranged." In other words, an insane man is one who is "out of his head" or "not in his right mind," mentally out of order and distressed. This feeling causes him to behave in strange ways that are not appropriate. Once I heard a Christian psychologist describe insanity with this story. "Imagine a man comes into church one Sunday with a bag full of hamburgers he's bought at a fast-food restaurant. As he walks down the aisle, he approaches people with a hamburger in hand and tries to give the food away. He becomes forceful, saying, 'What's the matter? You have to eat! Take it!' The man is concerned about a human need, but has lost his sense of the appropriate. Trying to force people to eat hamburgers during a church service is inappropriate. The man doesn't understand the proper order of things. He is insane."

The insane man has not lost his ability to speak his language or dress himself or even accomplish some tasks, but his focus has shifted. He is bothered by things most people consider unimportant.

Once I asked another psychologist to describe sanity. She said the definition differs with the way you view it. Sanity can be viewed in a philosophical way, a clinical way and a legal way.

The legal definition is the easiest to deal with. Two things define insanity in the courts: first, that a defendant was unable to determine right from wrong at the time of the crime, and second, that the defendant was unable to appreciate the consequences of his actions at the time of the crime.

Based on this legal definition, Marcus was sane. He demonstrated by his actions that he knew the difference between right and wrong. He showed that he understood the consequences of his actions by hiding his crimes and lying to police officers. He knew his acts would get him into trouble, so he hid what he was doing.

The clinical definition of insanity is more difficult. It involves the meaning of "mental disorder." Mental disorders have specific criteria for diagnosis. Insanity is not a mental disorder. Mental disorders are more specific—depression, anxiety, psychosis. Insanity is simply too big a word to fit into these kinds of definitions.

Mental disorders are significant behavioral or psychological syndromes or patterns that occur in an individual and are associated with present distress or disability or with a significantly increased risk of death, pain, disability or a loss of freedom. A person demonstrating deviant behavior doesn't have a mental disorder unless the behavior is a symptom of a dysfunction in the individual. In other words, although Marcus's crimes were horribly deviant, they were not fueled by a mental disorder.

Marcus did suffer from borderline personality disorder, and many people would classify that as a psychological dysfunction, but it did not reveal itself in his normal behavior. It was something he fought within himself, and only came to the surface when he finally gave in to his evil urges.

The clearest way to be determined legally insane is to demonstrate a psychosis. People with psychoses are out of touch with reality. They see things that others don't, hear things others don't and sometimes even smell things Others don't. To them, their reality is as real as any object you or I would examine. They have delusions—that is, ideas in their heads that are out of touch with reality, but seem completely real to them. The authorities who examined Marcus concluded that he wasn't suffering from a psychosis.

Thus, when asked, I usually say I don't believe Marcus Tang was insane. I never saw anything in him to indicate to me that he was off track mentally. As far as I could tell, Marcus was as sane as anyone.

Over the years in my ministry, I have had to deal with all kinds of people.

Many of them have had serious problems. Some have acted in bizarre and unusual ways. One person in my office began complimenting me about something, and the very next moment began screaming at me for some slight I supposedly committed. Another person I dealt with was calm and lucid, but suddenly began telling me about hearing voices and of conspiracies in the making. These people were not "in their right minds."

On the other hand, I have sat with people who were so emotionally distraught they could not make any decision without asking for my opinion, advice, or preferably my decision on how they should decide. I have been there when people experienced the death of a loved one, when they suffered disappointments and losses and when they were told of their own coming death. I have seen people in nearly every emotional circumstance imaginable. None of these people would be classified as insane. All of them had profound problems that were not easily addressed, much less solved. Yet none of them was as composed emotionally and mentally as Marcus was with me. He came across as normal.

Once, while we were studying the book of Hebrews, I made the point that sin will destroy you, and that there is a deceitfulness to sin.

Marcus's comments, I think, demonstrate his sanity. He said, "I can relate to that. When I was committing my crimes, I felt that as long as I could hide them away so no one could see what I'd done, I wouldn't have to deal with my crimes or think about them. 1 could go about acting like a normal person, and feel like a normal person."

Isn't that like all of us? As long as we can hide our bruises with long sleeves, no one has to know about the beatings. If no one can see the needle marks, no one will know about our drug habit. When no one sees the tears, no one will know of our heartache or our problem. We can go to church, go to the store, go to work and interact with other people as if nothing had ever happened. If we never talk about the sexual abuse at home, our children can act like normal children at school. As long as we cover up our crimes, we can pretend they never happened. That's what Marcus did.

The psychologist I referred to earlier told me an interesting anecdote about the sanity question. She said, "In a class in graduate school, one of my professors gave us a test profile and some background of an anonymous person and asked us to determine if this person was sane, that is, able to tell right from wrong and able to appreciate the consequences of his actions. It was an interesting exercise, and we all agreed that the person probably was sane. Then she gave us the punch line—the test profile was of Marcus Tang."

There you have it. The authorities concluded that Marcus Tang was sane.

But this conclusion brings with it cause for concern. The ramifications trouble us. If Marcus could do what he did and still be sane, what about the rest of us? Are we all capable of such heinous crimes ourselves? Could we do what Marcus did? I think the answer is yes.

Marcus was a sinner. His life proves there is no limit to our capacity to sin or be cruel to other people. We are all candidates for murder and mayhem. It doesn't take crazy people to do such things.

What it does take is a total disregard for other people I think it is faith in God that makes us care about others. When God is ignored, and we live our lives as if He doesn't exist, there is a profound effect on our actions and psyche. This is not to say that all atheists become murderers, but it is to say that not believing in God allows us to justify the most evil treatment of other people. Marcus's faith in God changed his perception of people.

This all suggests something frightening—that any of us could become monsters. I believe any of us are capable of everything Marcus did, if we leave God out of our lives. Marcus's life declares the message that believing in God is a necessity.

Dr. Ang Yong Chin, psychologist, asked about Marcus's sincerity of his faith. And I usually hear this from Christians. They ask if Marcus was truly sincere in his desire for baptism and in his Christian life. My answer is always the same: Yes, I am convinced he was sincere.

This question bothers me. Why question the sincerity of another person's faith? Baptism represents a change in lifestyle. A person is expected to change after being baptized. When people don't change, we begin to wonder. Why were they baptized? Did they did not really comprehend what was involved?

I can understand those kinds of questions.

But Marcus's circumstance was different. The people asking me didn't know about his post-baptismal life. They were basing their question on what he did before he was baptized, not after. That bothers me.

Marcus was judged not by his faith, but by his crimes. The questioner always seemed to hope I'd answer: "No, he wasn't sincere." The questioner seemed to be looking for a way to reject Marcus as a brother in Christ instead of seeing him as a sinner who has come to God. The subtext of such questions was simple. They didn't want to think of Marcus as a brother. Such ungraciousness is contrary to the Christian spirit.

Was Marcus saved? Were his sins taken away? Was he a Christian believer? Did he repent of his sins? Or was the blood of Christ shed on the cross somehow too weak, too thin, and too anemic to cover his sins? Did Marcus mean it when he said, "I'm so sorry for what I've done. Cod help me, I'll never do that again"?

Why was it inconceivable that Marcus Tang could come to faith?

I became convinced of Marcus's sincerity by one happening. On a certain visit we came to the end of our study time together. The prison guard had given us the signal, but right then, before I stood to leave, Marcus bared his soul.

"I feel very, very bad about the crimes I've committed. In fact, I think I should have been put to death by the state for what I did."

"I agree with you," I said. "You should have been put to death by the state for the crimes you committed."

He replied, "If that is true, am I sinning against God by continuing to live each day? Why can't they put me to death tomorrow but still need to wait for 1 more year before I am executed?"

"You sure picked a time to bring this up," I answered. "We can't go into all this now, but I can see where you are going." I asked him to read the first half of Romans 13 (13:1-7) before my next visit. "That passage relates to your question," I said.

"I will. Take care—I'll see you next time," he said as I left.

On the drive home all this ran through my mind. Marcus was thinking of suicide. Would he take matters into his own hands and kill himself? Did he feel so bad about himself that he no longer wanted to live?

The subject of suicide goes deep into my soul. Once in my life I contemplated suicide. I was fired from my position of many years as minister of a church in Jurong after I breached the code of conduct. That year, I hosted an annual Men's Poker Smoker. It's an outreach event planned by men in the church. Each one, including the pastor, brings a six-pack of beer, some cigars, and 200 poker chips to the event. It went overboard and soon, we were drunk and were complained by a church goer's wife for leading this husband astray. He came home drunk and got into an altercation with his wife and the wife blamed me the next day after. The area was relatively remote, and the church was unable to find a replacement. When I couldn't find another position in another church, we reached a compromise. I would continue as minister for another eight months, after which time we would part company.

As a minister and a preacher, I was a failure. Every time I went to church and faced my congregation, that message came through. Some of the church followers demanded my resignation because the lesbian pastoral staff threatened to take legal action against me and the Singapore government. My self-confidence and self-esteem eroded. I began to believe the church's opinion of me. Had I wasted my life as a minister? The ministry was the only thing I knew; it was the basis of my identity.

I began to lose interest in my work, and my conviction grew that my life had no meaning. I wanted to escape, but there was no place to run. Increasingly, the only option that had any appeal was death. I wanted to escape this human experience. Even facing an angry God was preferable to this.

Finally, it was Susan, my wife, who brought me out of my despair. I mentioned to her once, "I think things would be better if I were dead." She shrugged off my words and said, "Don't be silly." She responded the same way the second time I brought it up and the third time, too. After the fourth or fifth time, she stopped and looked at me long and hard.

"You really mean this, don't you?" she asked. I nodded my head and said nothing. I was driving the car at the time. She began to weep hysterically. She was inconsolable. Her reaction took me by surprise; I didn't expect her to cry.

"How could you think such a thing?" she said between gasps. "What will happen to us?"

"What do you mean?" I responded.

"If you are gone, where will we live? Who will take care of us? What are we supposed to do without you?" she cried.

In my deep depression, I hadn't even considered the effect my suicide would have on Susan, my son, my daughter, much less my parents, my siblings and others who mattered to me. I hadn't even thought about that. I was so consumed with my feelings that I hadn't thought about anyone else. I was not in my right mind. I was not insane, but I was not rational either.

"You're so right. I'm so sorry. I'll stop this," I told her and dried her tears.

Susan had delivered me.

At my next meeting with Marcus, I began with his question, "Am I sinning against God by continuing to live?"

I told him, "Romans 13 does say God has placed a sword in the hand of the governing authority. That's why I agreed with you last week when you said you thought the state should have put you to death."

"Yes," he replied. "But has the state failed its duty by not putting me to death earlier? "

"I can't answer that question. I can say that God has put a sword in the state's hand, and the state has that right from God. This state has apparently chosen to lay down its sword and take up a rod instead.

"What is our responsibility to the state?" I asked him.

"Well, Scripture says the Christian must submit to the governing authority," Marcus replied.

"Right. We aren't to judge the state for what the state has decided to do, but submit to the state. By continuing to live, you are submitting to the state."

"I see," he said, thinking about what I had said.

"What that means is that you must try to be the best prisoner you can be. You must not disobey the rules, nor subvert the system. You accept your position as a prisoner of the state for life, and serve God as best as you can for as long as God allows you to live." "Okay," was all he said.

But I wasn't finished with him yet. "When you ask, 'Am I sinning by continuing to live?' are you implying that you are thinking of suicide?" I pressed. "Yes, I admit I've thought of suicide."

"Well, I'm going to make a confession to you. I have thought of it, too," I told him. "There was a time in my life when I couldn't bear the thought of living any longer. I wanted to die."

"Me too. But when I thought I should take my life, I just couldn't do it," he confessed.

I confessed my experience as well. "When I came to myself, I realized I hadn't been thinking right. I had no concern for others, for my wife or my children. All I thought about was myself. Suicide is a selfish thing."

Marcus listened intently to what I said. "My main concern is that I do the right thing," he replied.

After that, how could I question Marcus's sincerity? Marcus wanted to please God. I le knew he had done terrible things, and he needed me to tell him that his life mattered regardless. I could relate to how he felt. I understood his heart.

After this discussion, I begin to revisit what had brought me to the point of suicide. I was able to reframe what had happened to me as God's workings in my life. What had happened prepared me to help Marcus.

I had already studied the religious issues that perplexed Marcus, and I had resolved them in my mind. I had faced suicide, and I could help Marcus think differently about that, too. God had prepared me to minister to his needs. God, in His Providence, shaped and molded me to meet the needs of a young man He knew was going to be in trouble. He brought me to against my will. I would have never left that church on my own, and I left there with bitterness in my heart and anger toward God. Realizing all this helped me put my bitterness away. I no longer blamed God for what had happened to me. I finally forgave those who hurt me years ago. They were doing God's work without realizing it. They were part of God's Providence.

Chaplain Lui called me shortly after Marcus's memorial service to arrange a time to interview me. He had written an article about Marcus's baptism for a Christian magazine, and now wanted to write another about my friendship with Marcus. Rob has felt close to the story since he was the one who called me originally about baptizing Marcus. We set up December 26,2014, the day after Christmas, for the interview.

Rob began, "Like I've told you, I had a hard time at first telling the story of Marcus's conversion and writing the article I wrote for Wineskins. I've had a hard time moving from calling him Tang to calling him Marcus. In Singapore, it was Tang, Tang, Tang—that's what we all called him. But as I began to think of him in terms of your studies with him and his conversion, I began to work on calling him Marcus. It didn't seem right to call someone that you're trying to teach 'Tang.' But I noticed that you call him Marcus, and I'm interested in that. Was that a request of his? Why did you call him that?"

"It came naturally from knowing him," I said. "He wasn't just Tang to me. Calling a person by his last name is alienating and distancing. It reminds me of being in physical education class in high school where I was only known as Eng. It's a good way to distance yourself from another person to avoid getting to know them."

"Each week, Marcus and I sat down across from each other at a table. We would shake hands. I would show him my Bible. He could read right out of my Bible, and I could read out of his," I explained. "I could point out different things from our different translations. We were able to connect person-to-person."

"He became a real person to me. In one way, I was blessed, as I had a certain ignorance of all the gory details of his crimes, so I didn't have that to inhibit me. Later, at the insistence of Susan, I did read various books about Marcus's crimes. I was deeply shaken by the details. But that did not alter the connection I had made with him as a person. Me became a real person to me, so I referred to him the same way I would anyone I knew personally."

Since that interview, I've contemplated Rob's point, and I find myself more firmly established in my position. I challenge others who refer to Marcus by his last name. Usually, those who write me begin by proclaiming their Christian faith and praising me for my role in Marcus's story, and then they ask me about Marcus—using only his last name. I respond by asking, "If he is a brother in Christ, why not speak of him with the same familiarity we use for others?"

The greatest thing I learned from Marcus is that he was a person with needs, just like the rest of us. He was just as disturbed about his crimes as everyone else. He had fears and concerns and dreams and hopes as we all do. He was a person, not a monster. He needed God, and when he found God, his life was enriched and blessed.

I am a better man for knowing him. I didn't see this at first. After Marcus was murdered, and television and radio reporters interviewed me, they often asked, "How has this experience changed your life?"

My answer was that it hadn't changed my life. I was still too close to the experience. I needed time to reflect on the changes in me because Marcus was interposed into my life. Now that more than ten years have passed, I can look back and see the effects more clearly.

The way I value human life has changed. A quotation of Marcus's from his Dateline NBC interview often comes to mind. How did he feel while committing his crimes? "I felt that I didn't have to be accountable to anyone," he said "Since man came from slime, I was accountable to no one."

His words have a certain logic. If human beings are nothing more than refined slime or complicated amoeba, then killing other creatures, especially those less complicated or clever than you, is justifiable. But once you accept the reality that humans are specially created in the image of God, the value of human life changes. Once Marcus embraced his faith in God, his view of humanity changed. He began to value human life and recognized his responsibility to protect, not destroy it.

As I think my way through Marcus's changing value system, I find that I too have devalued human life. I have never killed another human being, but I have certainly thought badly of others. Knowing Marcus has taught me to listen to Jesus' teaching in the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus speaks out against murder, but focuses more on our anger toward others. God values people. So should we.

I've also learned that great harm comes when we disconnect from other people. In his early life, Marcus disconnected from his fellow human beings. When we choose to depersonalize someone—whether Marcus, by using his last name or making him the object of jokes, or someone else—we are starting down the road of disconnecting.

It seems a strange thing to say, but I think I've seen viciousness and cold-bloodedness from those who talk about Marcus that rivals the viciousness of his crimes. I've heard of Christian people saying, "If Tang goes to heaven, I don't want to go there." How foolish. Our God is a forgiving God—that's His business. Are human beings worthy of Christ's death? No, but he died for us anyway.

Because of Marcus, I value church life more deeply. The church has always been a basic element in my experience, but I've seen the other side of the tracks through Marcus. With no foundation of faith, how can families cope with the great difficulties of life? I believe profound things happen to children when they see adult role models expressing faith in God. Marcus's father had faith in God, but when problems arose at home, Mark quit taking Marcus and abandoned the church. I have often wondered if someone or something could've helped Marcus—if his father had taken him to church. The value of church life has become more precious to me.

The emotional distance between father and son in this tragedy is profound. My heart goes out to Mark in his efforts to reach out to his sons after years of emotional distance. It is easy, when there are serious problems between husband and wife—as was the case with Marcus's parents—to shut off the children as well. In marital wars, children are usually the greatest casualties.

Marcus and I talked a lot about his parents. He loved them both. He grieved over their wars. After being divorced for many years, their relationship was as bitter and harsh as the day they parted. Most of the prayers we prayed were on his parents' behalf. Whether his family's turmoil gave birth to his crimes is unknowable. But it is significant to me that Marcus's first murder took place the summer he was abandoned by both mother and father.

Marcus fostered in me greater compassion and understanding for those imprisoned. I now work with prisoners in several prisons. Some of them openly confess that they are guilty and deserve what they are getting. Because of Marcus, I can look into their souls and see real people.

Several years ago, I was working at my Christian camp, with a group of 13- to 15-year-olds. At that time, Court TV was producing a documentary on Marcus and insisted on interviewing me at the camp. Bringing in a television camera crew introduced Marcus's story to our campers, who were generally unaware of my involvement with him. After the interview ended and the camera crew left, we talked with these young teens about the forgiveness of sins.

A few days later, I had to call a boy—a wrongdoer on a downhill path— to my office. He was caught for throwing rocks at a cat and tried to drown it with a bucket of water. I gave him a punishment that would last until camp was over, but my heart went out to him. I talked to him about the place of God in our lives. When I looked into his eyes, I was thinking of a young Marcus. What if someone had sat and talked with him about God and faith when he was this age? Could it have made a difference in some way?

All in all, I want the world to know that I called him Marcus. He was my friend and my brother in faith. I look forward to seeing him in heaven, for his sins are washed away. God snatched him from the fires of hell. Jesus came and died and rose again for him. Marcus's story is a powerful one of a transformed life, but it is more than that. It shows how far God can reach to save a soul. It shows what God may do in the life of a person like me to prepare him for God's work. A younger version of me could not have dealt with Marcus Tang. God was working in my life for His purposes. Marcus's story is the story of a God who works in this world.

In Psalm 8 in the Old Testament, David views the heavens at night, looks at the stars and glories in the majesty of God. He asks, "What is man that you are mindful of him?" We are so insignificant and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Why does God care? Given His greatness, His care is overwhelming. It matters when we fall and when we cry and when we need Him. God loves us all, no matter how badly we have messed up our lives. II God can love Marcus Tang, he can love you and me, too.

I hope and pray that Marcus Tang's story and my story will be a testament that helps you see the story God is writing for your life. In the end, that is all that matters.

The Tan Cheng Juan Story: From Systems Analyst to Security Guard

This all started happening to me seems to me must have been a long time ago, my first job since I was retrenched as a software engineer in a local bank two years ago. There was still a silent war between foreigners and Singaporeans.

It was hot and humid. Filth everywhere. Just like now. I didn't have any love in my life. To speak of. No love at all, and nobody to care for. Just very little self-respect.Whatsoever.

There are certain Singapore mornings when just about everybody wakes up crazy. Even the native Singaporeans. You can see it on their faces. Such misery and unhappiness. Well so this other person was hanging around too, on his lunch hour and he seemed very extremely unhappy. Said the security guard at Public Housing Authority knew him as a troublemaker. Said his name was Kian Heng. He's a property agent who has to go back to work or he will be out on the streets for good. He's plainly worried about himself a lot as he needs to hit his sales quota. Said he didn't like being recognised and started at because this was his free lunch hour to do with as he damn well pleased.

Also I'd been thinking that spending all of my all-too-free time at the Public Housing Authority was basically a step in the wrong direction. For staying up all those nights with insomnia, I suspected I should be paid.

A few mornings later on this hot humid filthy mother of a day, I went up to Public Housing Authority security guard office, job hunting.

Unreal. Divorcees, foreigners, skunk, pussy everywhere just don't go to make up a city in my book but there you are; that's basically your Singapore early in the morning. Well thank God I'd seen worse.

In my head I was making all these notes: real cunt of a day,

Well that day, too, I began to keep this journal. As a keepsake. Something to keep me from going completely crazy. Keep me busy.

Public Housing Authority security guard room is a small faded blue office with a few closed circuit cameras nailed and screwed to one side of the wall.

Caution signs. Check-in logs tacked to the walls. Organisation chart hanging in another.

My dairy says I saw this person at the entrance next to the chart. That personnel office was also unreal. I took my chances on the man with a white spot in his right eye. He was sort of skinny at one end and sacklike on the bottom. Not very pretty to look at.

Once he sees my Singapore Computer Engineering Association patches, he wants to know if I was retrenched.

"May 2010...."

"What's that?"

I say "That's my approximate date of retrenchment. From Hewlett Packard Singapore. Jobless for 2 years doing temporary jobs but really want a job."

Emphasizing a lot so he would see I had respect for him, meant no harm. Well I really wanted work but I also mean business.

He stopped me. "From the influx of computer engineers from India?"

He seems to have all sorts of different things on his own mind except my getting work.

Well I don't seem to seem rude. "I came here to see about getting a job as a security guard, I think."

"Oh," says the guy. "I bet you have seen our advertisements before. You think getting work here in Public Housing Authority is a great big cinch."

"I'm willing to work... is all..."

"Any troubles with the law?"

"No sir."

"Willing to work night shifts?"

"Yes."

So just then there was a lot of commotion, couples screaming, car exhausts, Somebody has slammed some doors along the corridor.

The man squints at me hard and over all the noises I can hardly hear him when he asks, "So... why do you want to work as a security guard? You are overqualified, you have a degree to be accepted as a member of the computer engineering association...."

Well I don't happen to think that's any of his business anyhow. Though I am not ashamed.

I tell him very straight: I can't seem to find a job at my age and with my qualifications.

I said, "All companies prefer to hire fresh graduates or foreigners. At my age 40, it's hard to find a job when you are retrenched."

Well he says the cab companies are always looking for drivers.

Me, disregarding his insult: "I know. I was not able to pass my driving license."

He still won't let me be, won't let up. "So what do you do now?"

"I ride around nights mostly buses. Have been going for job interviews for the past 2 years. Figure I might as well get paid for it."

"We don't need any misfits around here, son."

"Who else would want to work as a security guard in Public Housing Authority breaking up couples' fights every day?"

I've been speaking to him like my mind don't know what my mouth is saying and now I am getting angry. Riled.

"You got others to take the heat off you at the Human Relations people. It's ok with me."

The guy brightens. Says, brightening, "You are willing to work permanent night shifts?"

"Permanent night shifts, day shifts doesn't make any difference. What have I got to lose? I'll work anywhere anytime. I can't be choosey."

Then he wants to know if I have an arrest record and when I tell him I'm clean, real clean, "as clean as my conscious," he says, "listen, if you are gonna get smart, you can leave right now."

I apologise. I don't mean to seem so smart. So the guy asks can I pass a physical, how old am I, if I am moonlightening. Stuff like that. Words to that effect. He seems to like it that I'll work long shifts.

"Hell," he says, finally, "we just ain't fussy around here. There's always openings on one position or another."

He asks me to fill out a bunch of pink yellow white forms, leave them with the girl at the front desk behind the window. They would call.

Good to break the ice anyway. On the way out saw myself in plate glass again. This thin dark shadow. I read my Association patch backwards.

By March I was working and it had been raining days ever since I started, well, practically. Lousy wet syrupy weather. Like the beginnings of a miserable spring.

Well at least the divorcing couples and the crowds in Public Housing Authority bicker less in that weather.

"When couples fight, the boss of the PHA is the security guard," all the guys in the control room say.

I started out working the day shift but that got to be too much for me. Too many higher-class people can be harder on your nerves than some divorcees. The higher-class people expected you to know all sorts of very strange things.

I am walking down the aisle with a half chewed burger in my pocket. I have no time for giving reports on lift breakdowns or lighting failures, just no inclinations.

"Listen," says this guy in a business suit one day, "Is the lift working today? The repairman changed the motor parts?"

"I suppose so," I tell him. "There is no big crowd at the lift lobby today."

Man says, "You know that for a certainty?"

"There is a board meeting with visitors from China. It does mean something, don't it?" he demands, moments later. "Do you know or don't you?"

My hamburger tastes like solid brown fog in a bun. Through a mouthful I ask if he has tried telephoning the the company.

"In other words, you don't know?" This guy is getting me crazy.

"Well," he snarls, "You should. Should know, dammit or who would know?" Stuff of that sort. A lotta blah blah. Says, "Do you know who I am? I am the Deputy Director of Corporate Communications."

He's pointing out to the lift like a schoolteacher. Says, "Why don't you stick your head into the control room and find out who I am!"

I had a laugh. He must have been angry to know a security guard didn't know who he is.

Mostly, when I had my break, it's at the McDonald's three blocks from my work.

There was also a woman in full dress and she was selling tissue paper at a dollar to us. She asked if I knew her son Adrian Lu in Hewlett Packard after she spotted my old jacket with the Singapore Computer Engineering Association. She had gray hair. Doused herself a lot with lilly-of-the-valley water. She said Adrian Lu was her oldest, such a good boy but was retrenched last year, had I ever known him? She quipped, "Private companies are already infested with foreign talent and economic refugees."

She says her name is Tara. That if she had a job, she'd be at that job, but instead she's here talking to me. Asks if I'm up from Nanyang Technological University or wherever the hick I'm from, and if I aspired to downgrade myself to be a security guard and so again I tell her about Adrian Lu, and how we was ex-colleagues in different departments in Hewlett Packard and look at our lives divergent, and she shakes her head and says, "Fucker stole my future. And look how Tembusu Holdings and our politicians left you. Sure you don't want some tissue?"

It's true I have not slept in days due to my insomnia and maybe also the truth that I have not had the heart to tell her the truth about Adrian Lu, and it's nice that this old lady cares because when no one cares, you think about dropping dead all the time.

It comes easy to chant her grief out loud.

"You have been fucked by the political system," she told me.

I wasn't sure what I was going to say to her but then I saw her lips and brow twitching, I said, "Hey,. . what're you doing? Are you crying?"

She wept, "If he had graduated and stayed on to the basics of finding a job, this wouldn't have happened." she said, in between sobs.

"Well then, The politicians will be telling you — foreigners create jobs for Singaporeans, help to improve our salaries bottomlines. If they slow down the mass import of foreigners, Singaporeans will all become jobless. Of course, the politicians won't tell you that slowing down mass influx of foreigners will make their businessmen, Tembusu Holdings and CEOs friends very unhappy, and reduce the GDP which will then reduce their bonus & pay and good way of life."

She fought for control and at last the tears stopped and there was only an occasional sob. "Why didn't you stand for the President's election and fight for us then?"

One night, in the morning in the Public Housing Authority, there was a Pinoy in short mini skirt. She was going to a bar at a few blocks away as a masseuse. I get picked up by her and says she wants to give me a massage when I go off duty as a guard. Well I said no. And when she sat on a chair, she has her feet up inside the stirrups with her legs spread and she is sticking herself with this long glass tube in the hot spot. I asked what's going on and she explains that she was extracting her blood. Seems she did this every month so she wouldn't have to have her period. Her boyfriend liked her better that way and she said she had more control over her body.

Well she said she was going over to the bar to see her boyfriend tonight and was staying over and she would almost forgotten. She wanted to surprise him that way again. Well she liked me, said I could come home with her sometime if I wanted. She drank a lot I think. I don't like that sort of forward woman. Afterwards I would still be lonely.

As usual. I look up into the notice board, I see her skirt hardly and barely enough to cover her hot spot.

So forward. Just like animals. All too many of them. I suppose if I said yes maybe so if not for that boyfriend.

Also I liked to think they would come to my place and my place was a mess. Really pretty awful.

Well I had this room and a half on Toa Payoh, a ratty old mattress on the floor, a chair and a table. I almost never got calls at my place so the phone was disconnected. There were also some porn photos, I'd collected too and a kitchen full of grease and roaches, a stopped sink.

Well that was no place much to hang out for long, and I didn't. I just fell out there to sleep, if I could, after a day's work.

I was working very hard, six to six, sometimes six to eight in the AM, a stretch shift, it was a hustle, kept me busy. I could take in extra shift allowance by working the nights.

People never seemed satisfied. That face in the aisle as they come into work in Public Housing Authority. The buzzer in my security room means that I have to vacate my post to come settle some dispute. A lotta distrust and disapproval makes my stomach queezy.

I was exhausted all the time now, back achey, too from my scars. I almost never got a chance to write in this book much in those days, didn't even see a movie a week at a time.

By April 10, I was doing stretch shifts.

I knew I had to do something about my loneliness aside from talking to colleagues but I didn't want that sort. That kind of colleagues can get really heavy, depressing. You find yourself twisted. This way and that.

I guess like most people I wanted to meet someone I liked have some fun. Eventually maybe make her a commitment. Just to be with another person. To have a friend.

I felt I was capable of giving and getting. Had been so ever since I came home. Well you know I really couldn't prove it but I felt there were these things inside me that had to come out on another person. With another. Good things and bad. A man is not a fountain pen, you know> I wanted to care and be cared for. Well it was a heavy time. Bad days those. The people I saw. The things I did.

At least, I think she was a sort of a girlfriend. I guess she liked me a lot better than I ever liked her. She really wasn't my type, I'm afraid. No class. She said she loved me but it felt like she was taking me over. She called me Juan like a rhyme. Her big dill Juan. Said she needed a bit of my dill morning, noon and night. Said, Sure I liked her but not that much. She wasn't any dream to me, just another woman.

I guess I hurt her feelings. I imagined she thought with a face like hers she would have to get her hooks in somebody or else, pretty soon. I imagined I was too young for that. That sort of thing. When I left her she cried. More like a mother to me than a girlfriend really.

Well, as I say, working in the day shifts, I saw things happening me being unemployed a lot better in some respects. I saw people at their worst. Whatever that means. The PHA is hardly a fit place for making friends and influencing people.

I would go back to the back of the security guard room to clean stuff off people who left their belongings, mostly umbrellas, sometimes mobile phones they left behind when they sat down. The seats were bucket shaped, meaning their phones tend to drop out of their trouser pockets due to the inclination.

Those poor women in shawls eating out of garbage cans at 5:00 am, well, sometimes I'd think there'd never be anything but hard times like this. So many guys sleeping out in the street, at least I had this roof over my head. First thing I did when I came out of the unemployment days was to put that roof over my head.

Most of the time, I couldn't straighten up after an evening and I would always be getting these terrible cricks in my back. I booked in sloppy sometimes. My head just fuzzed on me was all. My head fuzzed.....

One night, I dreamt I got back to my former workplace in Hewlett Packard after a typical day with over three hundred bucks in my pocket and all the food court seats were taken by Indian foreigners. The food court had been converted to sell Indian food to suit their tastebuds. I'd have to go back out again on another shift. All I could see were signs on the walls: BE ALERT! The computer programmer is always ready for the unexpected.

That girl in the massage parlor who spread her legs open as walking past the glass panels and I thought this was just like hell. Hell surely.

People are really weird. The woman who signs your time-sheets thinks she's got something on you. So goddamm unfriendly.

I guess she thinks you stink on ice just for being a security guard.

One night I asked for her name. "Come on," she said, "Just because I work in a joint like this doesn't mean I am that kind of girl. I am too good for you." And she wouldn't give me her name. Even after I told her I was serious: "Really".

Well, then she says, "Want me to call the boss? What you want?"

So cruel and cold.

I ordered a big coca-cola – without ice – and a large buttered popcorn, and.... Some of the chocolate covered malted milk balls. Kind that makes you cavities ache. It came to $1.47 and they didn't have cokes so I took a Royal Crown.... That's when this little sorta diddy started going around and around in my head: "Whatsa life without a wife a cunt without any kindness?"

Little bits and pieces to that effect. Over and over again: "What's a cunt without a heart a heart without a cunt?"

I don't say it's topflight, topnotch, really great stuff. I was only trying to express myself. Honesty. Better that than go altogether weird like the others. Those other security guards.

Those other security guards I knew, all they ever did was hate Deputy Prime Minister Suman Shammugan and the dinge. Even the dinge. They hated him too and all they ever did was jabber. Everything's a remark. Must be because they were so bored they just had to let off some steam heat.

There's Rizal and they just call him Freak-me-Out some people because he liked to do crazy stupid things at night with the zipper on his trousers in the front seat.

Says a guy can get a lot that way too.

He used to say his wife had taken this lover and he would kill the son of a bitch if he weren't so grateful.

Morny is in love with a lady property agent. Big bull dyke, she won't give him the right time of day. He wants to soften her. She aims to be a top 20 in sales. He's always keeping tabs on her when she is around PHA. He knows her customers, and where she eats and who she is seeing after work. Well she calls Morny a pig and he isn't, he's just extremely jealous and possessive of his right to know her. She calls all the security guards pigs. Liked to have slapped her one sometime only Morny would get pretty mad at me if I did. He's a married man too and he needed all his friends he can get. Not to say she was much.

There was this one Chinese security guard Charley. I used to see a lot with Morny and everything he said was a big racist remark. It was never just a customer he was seeing but a Malay or an Indian or Eurasian, a colored customer. That's why he called his own. Colored. We are all hanging out and he has remarks galore for everybody who passes by or is in the place. Like he tries to show he knows who you are by speaking your own language.

Despite all, I'd never known how to share my life with others. Shared only the worst of it. If at all. But human beings are not bullies. They enjoy experience.

All my life I'd known that, it seems to me and I still could not convince myself it was so. Seems like I was just living in this motel, couldn't pay the rent, couldn't leave. Waiting for that money from home.

All my life, I thought needed was a sense of direction, someplace to go.

Those near and dear to me.

Between shifts, I got to spending a lot of time on the corner of Toa Payoh. The Shanmuggan Campaign Headquarters. A store front: "Singaporeans for Suman Shanmuggan for President of Singapore."

The primary was July 20. A long way off. People seemed pretty excited already.

Suman had something. He was no middle-class bullshit artist. He looked like he could be your friend for life or your friend's friend. A happy man. Lotsa positive vibes. Had one of those nice clean honest faces. Middle-aged, smiling with thin lips, wiry gary hair. Used to wear seersucker suits and pink shirts. Nice ties. I thought I would vote for him though that was not why I was hanging out.

That day, I picked up an iPhone that was dropped along one of those bucket seats. When I picked up the phone, I saw 3 missed calls and one SMS message. I called the number and it was answered by a woman with a Pinoy accent. Initially, she berated me for holding up the queue in PHA and calling me a 'useless hubby who will be forever unemployed'. Upon realising that I was not her husband, she froze and changed tune and apologised. She wanted me to return the iPhone to her husband who was working in XingPost Limited in Paya Laba as soon as possible.

Apparently, she was the wife and worked in the Suman's campaign office. The SMS message read "meet me at Josephine Chow's office tomorrow to see my lawyer. Don't you dare not turn up".

Today was the day when I would return the iPhone back to her. Apparently, she is quite a beautiful lady as evidenced by the photos kept in the gallery of the iPhone. I didn't even know her name but she was beautiful, tall and brunette and clean and cool. I liked keeping an eye on her, watching her with the other workers. There was a guy she talked to a lot. A chub, cute with a big shock of curly brown hair and glasses. Sort of a kid brother type. He reminded me of my second lieutenant. Well I don't think she liked him that much but he liked her.

Me, I had eyes for her too, liked to watch her a lot, all the time. She was one of Singapore's 'chosen immigrants' to prep up our falling birth rates. I sometimes think, so beautiful and fortunate. When she walked out on the street to get coffee, she always seemed to float above any of the others, suspended. She was certainly better than your run of the mill. I didn't know what she did, we never spoke. Once in a while, our eyes touched through the glass and then she had to look away, or I would get a stare. I thought if it was ever going to happen this was it. I could only stand so much. Like being inside a tin can, holes for peering out. I had the cab fitted out with a rubber portable fan and a little transistor radio, but it was still not all the comforts of home: And I would always park across the street and stare at her typing or talking on the phone, such a beauty.

Well, one day, she pointed me out to her friend and she was coming at me through the door so I just put the cab in gear and drove away, fast. I wasn't so sure I wanted to get involved. What did I know about politics anyway? A lone wolf like me. The're all no good, I thought but she was so very beautiful.

I thought she was my dream woman. She always wore this nice long yellow dress or a Suman T-shirt, jeans. Built nice. She spent so much time on the phone, too, talking and looking happy and she typed with only 2 fingers. So stylish, slender, a little pug nose,brown hair, a yellow dress that clung to her body, among the masses on the street, untouched by the crowd.

Well she was like an angel out of this open sewer, out of this filthy mass. Alone; they couldn't touch her. I would call her – what's wrong with just her? Names wouldn't change a thing about the way I felt for her. I'd call her Her....

But that day when her male colleague started out the door, I got so very frightened and angry and started to drive away because I could see her pointing me out to him.

I don't think he meant to chase me away. He was just being protective of her. That's all...

By that day, I had given her a birthday. April 15, the anniversary of our eyes first meeting a week ago. I still didn't know a thing about her except that I was madly in love with this person, if she was who I thought she was, my woman I could respond to.

I tried writing notes to leave for her: "I am a working person vitally concerned about the welfare of our country. I want to help Mr Suman and return your hubby's iPhone to you. Can we talk? I want to meet."

"I think you are a lovely clean young woman... Could we be friends?"

There was also a sort of poem I scribbled to myself, though I would never send her that: I bring you my lonely death with open arms to love you. Like a flower that smells sweetest whenever you are bending over it

Well, I never finished that one because it seemed she would not understand. All that week, my favourite song was, "Killing me Softly with his Song,"

I wondered what her favourite song was. Deep in my thoughts. A dreaming time. I'd have to buy her an album with my letter of introduction and poem when we got acquainted. One thing was certain, she was very well brought up. You could tell.

Well people do such things when they are about to have a relationship and I was talking to a lot of people about a lot of things lately. In my day shift, a property agent says to me, "Singapore is always cold when it's hot and hot when it's cold, ever wonder about that?"

At the PHA at 3:30 one morning, I'm with Morny and we are comparing our shift. The usual shit: How everybody tries to drag the security guard into their quarrels if they can. How they talk to you. How lonely it is in the night.

How they don't even care sometimes if you are listening. And customers, they like to chisel you.

A fat guy with a sob story about his divorce. The guy was a bad drunk and he said he felt all mixed up, ethically and professionally. Words to that effect. When people tell you these things. They don't really want you to hear really. In my journal, I write, Fat men carry their lives in a big bulge.

On April 14th, I wrote the following in my journal:

"Dear Diary – this really happened. I got up the nerve and went to Suman Shammugan's headquarters today to see her and return to her and return her the phone."

No kidding. I got all dressed up: Tie, pressed my jacket with the Singapore Computer Engineering Association and slacks, shined my shoes, shaved, walked right through that door on my own two feet.

Entered the place quickly, at a quick step march, headed right for her desk. That guy she sees with the curly hair trotted over, too, though I ignored him.

Me: "I want to volunteer."

I was feeling a little panicky but OK, I guess, except for wear and tear from lack of sleep. So he comes over to her right then, too, and interrupts: "If you'll come this way." Didn't even call me sir like they usually do.

Well, I give him the elbow. I'm not budging. I didn't have enough time to notice what's going on with her.

I just plant myself there and say, "No, I want to volunteer to you." I took out the white bony iPhone to her and placed it on her table. "And at the same time, return this phone to you. It has 3 missed calls since you lost it yesterday."

He sort of warns her, in an undertone, "Sienna." Now I know for certain that's her name. But she waves him away. Everything is going to be OK. She is looking at me real warmly, I think. Then he goes about his business and she says to me, "Why? Why is that?"

Me: "Because you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And here is your phone. With 3 missed calls from your husband."

"Soon-to-be-ex husband." She corrected me. She seems to like that, in a mild way. She knows I'm coming on, gets startled, though not angry. Those lovely greenish-blue eyes are watching me close.

She: Smiling all the while, "Is that so? But what do you think of Suman Shanmuggan?"

"Who, ma'am?"

"Suman Shamuggan. The man you want to volunteer to help elect President."

"Oh, I think he's wonderful, a wonderful man. Make a great, great President."

"Do you want to canvass?"

I'm trembling. We are sort of playing around, I think.

"Yes, ma'am."

She's grinning a bit now.

"What do you think of Suman's stand on minimum wage system?"

She's a real teaser, no doubt about it.

Me: I'm feeling as though I can finally speak my mind to a friend.

That guy is shuffling his papers a few desks away.

"Minimum wage system," I asked very respectful at first, and polite. Well, even though politics is not my bread and butter, I have my views. "Well, I'd say he wants to get all the lazy people off welfare, all them old coots. Make them work for a change."

She gives me a funny look again and then another, unreal, a little more interested.

"Well, that's not exactly what the incumbent President has proposed. You might not want to canvass but there is plenty of other work we need done: office work, hanging pictures."

Me: "I'm a good worker, ma'am, a real good worker."

She says, with her cool little smile, "Call me Sienna, that's my name. If you talk to Tom over there, he'll assign you to something."

"If you don't mind, Sienna, I'd rather work for you."

"Well, we are all working tonight."

When I tell her I drive a taxi at night, she lifts her eyebrows at this, asks, "Well, then what is it you exactly want to do?"

"If you don't mind, ma'am, I'd be mighty pleased if you would go out and have some coffee with me."

Well so did she. Seem pleased. Real pleased, even smiled, openly. "All right." Then she seems to be thinking again. "All right. I see you are not just another pretty face. Well I am taking a break at four o'clock and if you are here we will go to the coffee shop at the corner and have some coffee."

Tom over there didn't seem too pleased but I was.

"Oh, I appreciate that, Sienna, ma'am. I'll be here at four o'clock. Exactly."

"Sienna," I went on.

"Yes?" She was delighted with me.

"My name is Cheng Juan."

"Well, thank you, Cheng Juan."

And after 4pm, I added the following little note in the same book:

"Sienna even nicer than I thought and very well brought up, too. Lives a broad. Sienna wouldn't tell me much. Said her parents had been cruel to her when she was little. Well, I don't see how, the way she looks. They must have loved her a lot, though she wouldn't tell me more. Said it was time she grew up."

Which all goes to prove I took Sienna to the Mayfair Coffee Shop and had only just returned when I started writing in my book again.

Me: Black coffee and apple pie with melted yellow cheese. I think that was a good selection.

Sienna: Coffee and a fruit salad dish. She could have had anything she wanted.

She told me at first about her work with all the volunteers. Hundreds of them. Said, "The organisational problems are just staggering."

Me: "I know what you mean. I got the same problem. I just can't get things organised. Little things, I mean. Like my room, and possessions. I should get one of those signs that say, 'One of these days I'm going to get organised.'"

Well I guess I ended up grinning at myself and her like that because she matched me with her own grin then and laughed, threw back her head with all that blond soft hair and said, again: "Cheng Juan, you really are not just another pretty face. I never met anybody like you before."

"I can believe that." Though I was blushing.

Sienna asked, "Where do you work?"

I pointed into the direction of PHA building and explained how I had this regular job for a while days doing this and that computer server maintenance stuff. Didn't go into any of the details about the server room and stuff. Why should I?

Why should I reveal that I am just a security guard to ruin my chances with her. No Pinoy girl would fall in love with a Singaporean male who earns lower than her. But I did tell her I never had much to do nights. That I got kinda lonely and that's when I decided to work nights coz at nights, we do server maintenance so that it doesn't get disruptive to the other staff who work normal day shift working hours.

That was when I picked up her husband's phone in one of the bucket seat when I went down to the customer service counter.

"It ain't good to be lonely," I told her, "you know"

Sienna says, "After this job, I'm looking forward to being alone for a while after my divorce. Things haven't been working out well ever since he was demoted from being the post office worker to a financial consultant. That's why I shouted at him over the phone when you picked it up yesterday."

Me: "Yeah, well... the forces of globalisation and privatisation of state-owned enterprises have done wrongs to Singaporeans in general and with people like you......" Trailing off, as I might be referring to the influx of foreigners like Sienna.

Sienna asks, "What kind of people?"

"Just people, people, you know, just people."

Well, you know, again, I didn't want to go into any of the amazing unreal details. Just stuck with the obvious. Bullshit like that. Didn't mention that sickening security guard job.

I felt she was pushing me a bit, so I said, "Oh, you see lots of freaky stuff when you work in PHA."

I wasn't exactly trying to impress her but it was getting me down being there like that with nothing more to say (a person would never understand, I thought, if I said what was really on my mind).

Sienna cut me short with another question, "What hours do you work?"

I explained how it all came to about seventy hours a week. Sienna (amazed): "You mean you work seventy hours a week as a computer engineer in PHA?"

Me: "Sometimes we work overtime but because we are white collar workers, there is no overtime pay. Sometimes, things can get unpredictable. For example, changing a new server may take 2 hours but the data transfer would take more than 6 hours which means my weekends are burnt. It keeps you busy."

Sienna: "You know what you remind me of?"'

"What."

Sienna smiling again. "That song by Springsteen, in 2009, he wrote his first song about a "guy that wears a tie in his album Wrecking Ball". The financial crisis reportedly convinced him it was time to write about the people and forces that brought America to a breaking point to Occupy Movement."

Well you know, as soon as I heard the word, breaking point, I half shut off on her. Grew a little riled.

Said, "I'm no anti-foreigner or anti-globalisation......"

"Oh," she said, all wide-eyed. "Well, I didn't mean that, Cheng Juan, honest. Just the other part.... About the guy that wears a tie..."

Words to that effect. As I recall. Bullshit like that.

Well, so I said, "Who was that you said, again?"

"The singer?"

Told Sienna I didn't follow music much.

"Bruce," she said, slowly. "Springsteen."

I confided to my journal why I went to HMW to buy her that Bruce Springsteen Wrecking Ball record:

"Now that I know her, Sienna," I wrote, "I can give it to her if we ever go out. A good first meeting. Didn't like being pushed so much about me. What do I know about her except she is lovely. Real pretty."

"Such a beauty. Stuff like that. Guess she must just be stringing her husband along. Who am I to her? I always get uncomfortable around a woman after the first few minutes because I am living a lie."

"I think I talked too much. She was real easy to talk to. In some ways. In others not. I had to lie a little. Anyway, she always got more out of me that I got from her. No fair. Don't want her to betray me. Ever.

Decided finally I can't walk around with a broken heart rest of my life over what's not going to happen with me and some women so I brought her the album. Approx $10. Maybe I'll take her to a movie. If only I could find out her last name. Must remember to ask her things like that and maybe racial and religious origins."

In case you don't know it I'm the sort of person there's always a crisis moving up I'm not doing too well at. It's always a case of overwhelming odds, I think, except maybe with Sienna. Lately things were always happening to me in PHA I didn't know what to do about.

That very same afternoon, the gal who spread her legs open came by again and said, "Hellow Cheng Juan, how are you?"

"I'm fine..."

"Good," she said. "My name is Myra. Can I suck your cock?"

"Well I don't know about that." I found myself asking him, "What did you say your name was?"

"Myra," she said, "But you haven't answered my question."

"Sorry, I don't think we ever met before."

"Well, if we had," she says, handing me a five dollar note, "even if we had, would that matter? I just want a Singapore husband to stay in Singapore a bit longer to prostitute myself."

My journal reports that on April 27 I called her finally at the office, of course, and she said we could go to the movies together after she got out of work tomorrow, my day off.

Other things would happen too: Like with the tourists. A woman comes to PHA from China and asks me how to go to the PHA Auditorium. Well, I was so upset I didn't even know where it was. I carried this little blue book but that doesn't help.

In those days, I was living for nice smiles, but in between shifts, I somehow managed to walk past Suman headquarters for another look at Sienna.

My journal reports that on April 27 I called her finally at the office, of course and she said we could go to the movies together after she got out of work tomorrow, my day off.

On that very same day on the way uptown, a party of three very nice well-dressed men stopped me and one of them was, guess who... the man Sienna is working so hard for, Mr Suman Shammugam himself. Her boss. Her hero.

Well he looked so much more real in person. Sort of a nice-looking fellow. Like a TV commentator. Well, I just had to check the rear view mirror to know just who I was seeing. But my eyes certainly did not deceive me.

The candidate was talking about how to line up delegates from Singapore when I interrupted him.

Said, "Say, aren't you the candidate, Mr Suman Shammugan?..."

Well, I guess that happens to him all the time with his face as big as life in color all over Singapore but he said, only mildly irritated, "Yes, I am."

He cleared his throat. "Well," says I, "I'm one of your biggest supporters. I tell you and everybody that comes into PHA, they should vote for you."

I can feel his eyes moving from my shoulders to the Singapore Computer Engineering Association badge on my jacket. He's smart.

Suman says, "This is going to be a crucial race here in Singapore. A tight race with many voters unhappy with globalisation and growing income disparity."

Me: "I'm sure you will win. Sir. Everyone I know is going to vote for you."

"In fact," I tell him, "I was going to put one of your stickers on this jacket, but the company said it was against their policy."

"Well," Suman says, "I've always respected the opinions of computer engineers."

So now he stopped relating to his other friends and seems interested in me. "Tell me, what single thing would you want the next President of the country to do most?"

I told him just like I told Sienna: "Reduce the widening income gap. Improve our unions. Robin Hood style – tax the rich and give to the poor." Words to that effect.

"It's filled with filthy greed," I told him. Words to that effect. "Greed is like an open wound. It's too open, it can get infected. We need a President that would clean up and flush out the greedy pigs in every organisation."

I figured he was not some professional bullshitter but a real person, a real man, if Sienna liked him so much. And he looked OK to me, too, as I say, but I guess he couldn't help but be a little vague. Said something like "I know just what you mean"

His friends were looking more upset than he.

Suman said, "It's not going to be easy. Look at Sweden, their union is so strong that each employee is drawing too high a salary until the employers cannot fire them or reduce their income. In the end, this affected the fresh graduates from Sweden universities who can't even find jobs after graduation. We are going to have radical changes but not so soon."

Me: "Damned straight."

Afterwards, I felt lonely again.

Felt a little let down.

Well I mean I had this Wrecking Ball Springsteen CD for Sienna and all gift wrapped by my side and I was going to be with her in just a while and I knew I couldn't breathe a word about that to the Mr Suman and there he went all slim, neat, and trim from the shoulders down, up these steps, through the glittery entrance to the Plaza.

Well, I just had to go right home and clean up because I had to let Sienna see me as a computer engineer and not as a security guard.

The rest is history. My journal records: She was smartly dressed when I went to see her tonight all blue. I can't describe the exact outfit but it was neat. For sure. Sienna seemed very glad to see me too. We are walking down.

The big moment: I give Sienna her CD and seems very very please. It was a limited edition Bruce Springsteen. It had one more extra bonus track titled "Calling You".

Says, "Terrific. I told you you weren't just another pretty.........."

"Face," I interrupt as we walk.

"Really, you didn't have to spend your money."

Well, she saw the seal on the album hadn't been broken and said, "CJ, you haven't even played this."

Well I lied to her, my player was broke but assured her the album was just fine.

Sienna was pointing to the CD. "So you haven't even heard this song yet?"

"No." I took a chance on Sienna then, said, "I thought maybe you could play it for me on your player later."

Well it was the wrongest thing to say. I know that now. Her face just turned off on me. She looked really worried, bit her lower lip and made a little laugh.

Well I asked could I carry the CD for her and then I turned her on the corner from Toa Payoh to ERA Centre. Eng Wah Cinemas was showing Lost Weekend, a revival. We went next door where they advertised in big letters, "Swedish Marriage Manual," because I wanted her to know that I was a serious person. Not just in this for kicks. I said, "You stay here and l'll buy the tickets."

She actually started pulling on my hand, then my elbow: "What are you doing?" Unreal again, the look on her face.

"Buying a couple of tickets."

"But," she sputtered, "these are movies that normal people go to."

"No," I tried to explain, "These are the kind that couples go to. They are not like some others. All kinds of couples go all the time."

I wanted her to follow me. I wanted her inside that movie theatre with me. Wanted her to see with me.

Sienna wasn't buying any of that. "CJ," she said, "these aren't the kind of movies normal people go to."

"Well, mostly...."

Again, that look. She slapped her brow with one hand, weakly, "My God!"

Well it was very crowded there with the usual freaks and degnerates staring at us when she started walking away back toward the corner of the street and Sienna started pulling me by the elbow to another movie poster, "We can go to this movie if you'd like. I don't care. There's plenty of movies around here. I haven't seen this yet." She pointed to Fifty Shades of Grey. "I'm sure this one is all good."

Sienna looked so filthy when she said that. She seemed determined to watch Fifty Shades of Grey, stamping her foot and looking at me very grimly, her lips tight: No, CJ, you are a sweet guy and all that but I need something dirty.'

"You mean," I asked, feeling embarrassed in front of all those people, "You wanna watch something porno?"

Sienna seemed practically in tears, "Yes."

We sat in the back row in the movie theatre. The whole stretch belonged to us as those were unpopular seats. They were in a corner and you can't see the full screen without craning your neck out a bit.

Ten minutes after the start credits started rolling, she had put her hand on my crotch again but I battered it away, maybe harder than I should of because she took it up her mouth as if to suck on the fingers, and I got real distraught then, said, "Sienna, I don't need this now."

Sienna wouldn't stop trying. Kept coming on. "You can't make it can you? I can help you. Let me help you."

Then she brought her head over me as if to go down on me and it was like this rag had fallen right across my lap. I jumped away from her. I swore the patrons in the row before us could hear our conversation.

My fly is still open. You can see the white of my underwear showing though, kind of dirty gray but I don't let my tiny cock be exposed yet. Not yet. I don't like certain people to get that close. Didn't like her pulling all those tricks on me.

Said, "Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck you!"

Because you see, I was very angry at her for pulling those tricks on me when I was at the movie.

She surrendered and stopped groping me for a minute. A moment later, I flicked back to the other view to find Sienna's legs even further apart and stroking her inner thighs, teasing a finger along her labia about ten minutes into the movie.

The risk of getting caught is what makes having sex in public so exciting. Without that, there wouldn't be any novelty in doing it. It's fun to challenge yourself to not make any noise while having sex.

There were two instances in which people walked by the aisles between which Sienna was rubbing me. It was like a game — having to frantically put our clothes back on and immediately pretending to be interested in the movie while panting and giggling hysterically.

"Please do," pleaded Sienna. "Jesus, I've never cummed so hard before." Every now and then as a spasm of pleasure passed through her, her grip would tighten and move up her legs again.

"Is it OK to play with your cock?" asked Sienna somewhat nervously.

Sienna gasped and flinched again, as obviously her cunt was again entered by some part of my hands. "This is how you should treat me in future when I am your wife. I want a Singapore citizenship soon." She moaned.

It was clear now that Sienna was trying to let her legs part, desperate to increase the contact between genitals. She forced my hand onto her pussy and dragged it towards her wet vulva.

"Oh fuck, I shouldn't be doing this. Gees, fuck,...aaah." I continued to gently probe back and forth at the entrance to her vagina.

She began to give me a massage on my palm and fingers, which I enjoyed. Sienna started moving her hands down my body. I was kind of shock as I thought she was clean. But this time, I did not stop her.

My tiny cock bounced up against my abdomen with a little "thwack".

The music soundtrack had long since stopped, allowing me to hear not only Sienna's moans.

"Come on baby. That's it, let it go." I whispered. "Let go of your hands on me. I don't wanna let you see my cock yet."

"Why? Had enough massage for one day? Or yours too tiny" she cheekily enquired. For a second there, I thought she had already felt my micro penis through my underwear. "Let's get married next week after I divorce my husband."

The movie ended but I was in abysmal misery after that. Apparently, the storyline of Fifty Shades of Grey was about a sadistic relationship between a college graduate from America, Anastasia Yue, and a young business magnate, Christian Seubert. Anastasia would sleep with Christian to get that Swiss citizenship while Christian wants his shot to deflower a virgin like Anastasia.

As I stomped down the street in a fury, I obsessed about Sienna in voice-over, as if the voice had leaped ahead of the action, as if he were already writing in his diary. "I see now that she's like the other Pinoys. Cold and distant. Many foreigners are like that, women for sure. They are like a union fighting against us." That's a bombshell in appraisal. I am angry not just at Sienna but at women in general. I will unconsciously sabotage his relationship with Sienna later on by giving her the cold shoulder so that she would reject him like all the rest.

After that I spent a lot more time at home writing. I was on a real slide down. I tried everything. Vitamins. Aspirings, Booze. I developed a special liking for apricot brandy because you couldn't taste the bitterness so much. Well you know, I spent a lot of time just sitting about and then hanging out on Facebook and check out "Sienna Macapagal-Arroyo".

Highlighted and selected some text on her comments on her Facebook wall. Went to Google Translate and pasted it in the box. A rough translation of her Pinoy blog post read: "It's so annoying to have gangster Singapore uncles stare at you when you bump into them. There are more dogs than humans here in Singapore including my no good ex Poh Quee."

One day was no different from the next. I watch Poh Quee's facebook and the stuff that he put on her wall, sleep a little, scribble in the journal.

It's a fact that our elite Ministers will never be able to understand the life of the peasants!

Singapore is increasingly populated by two groups of people: the Hawker and the Banker. I am the Hawker who has seen my salary stagnate and deteriorate and the Banker get fatter and fatter in bonuses.

From what I could tell on TV, Suman was doing well because he was being interviewed all the time and once or twice. I caught glimpse of Sienna too, at some rally, cheering up the crowds for him, just like a little girl beaming up at her father as he spoke on anti-foreigner sentiments.

He said most Singaporeans understand the need for immigration and are comfortable with diversity, but feel the competition on space, jobs, public housing, transport and opportunities.

He said that the government is already addressing these issues by increasing the supply of flats and enhancing the public transport infrastructure.

However, he pointed out that there is still a small group of Singaporeans taking a negative view on foreigners, and they are currently dominating public discourse. He said the majority of Singaporeans should speak out against such views when they do not agree with them.

He said, "Treat others like how we would like to be treated. Although we may not agree with the number of foreigners in Singapore, we should still treat another human being like a human being." Well, that would get me so angry. I thought that I could had that admiration, all that love and all the attention.

She tried calling me. Pleading with me. I would no longer come to the phone. I knew it was my fault, knew I should have seen the true colors of Sienna and leading her on. But something stuck in me, a feeling that it all might have been different if she wasn't a Pinoy or facing a threat that her dependant's pass may be cancelled once Poh Quee divorced her.

I felt it was never too late to explain. That she saw me wrongly as just a convenient excuse to hook up to any Singaporean male. I really was misunderstood.

She made one last attempt to see me at PHA. I hadn't slept in days when I walked in about noon time on a blinding hot day.

Sienna was standing near the rear of the office but when I saw her, I ducked from sight. Then Morny stepped in and asked her what department she was going to. She pointed to the organisation chart up there, presumably the 20th level which is the Information Security Department and after that Morny shook his index finger at her and telling her that the level was out of bounds to members of the public.

Well, I quieted down I guess. I realized then how much she was like the others, so cold and distant. How many people are just like that.

I looked into your Pinoy dreams one night and they were full of dollar signs. They were full of people getting by on their Mercedes, their two maids, their country club membership or Singapore citizenship. Getting by and not living. Getting but not achieving. Buying and selling but not giving.

You like to hold on to this idea of being this clean, perfect Pinoy when really it's the dirt that makes you who you are.

I guess I gave up on myself then. Gave up even on my security guard rounds. I just wasn't making it at all. The week of the rank-and-file picnic, I slept all day and worked only nights, got stopped by a foreign prostitute asking for directions. When I said I was off duty, she got mean with me. "You mean you don't know?"

"No, I am off duty."

"But how come you are wearing the uniform and the badge?"

I took off the badge pinned on my pocket. Pointed to the area. "See it was off... all the time..."

"Like hell it was."

"Hell it wasn't." She cursed.

So disagreeable. The way it was I thought, seems like I don't have a friend in the world. Everything stunk suddenly. The dinge they just seemed to know when I was down and out and the whoe black world started singing the blues at me.

Well I can also remember this young gal student or hooker from China and she says in her accent: "I bleed a lot from my cradle. Doctor said it was fireballs from my uterus."

Shit, and I thought I had troubles.

The people you sometimes meet along. You feel so helpless to do anything for anybody and all those young couples coming out of the bars really just turn you off inside out.

Well I was still all alone again by myself, naturally. A loner. Words to that effect. Bored stupid most of the time. To say the least. One night late I went to Jurong Point Shoppin Centre to look up Poh Quee.

"Ya see that woman there?"

"Yeah."

The dude's really chattering like he's swallowing pills too big for his throat. "That's my wife, gulp, but it ain't my wife soon. She left me a month ago, gulp, it took me this long to find out about her"

I turned around to look at him. He was real sick-looking, white with big hollow eyes, crazy man.

By now, I'd saved a couple thousand dollars that I wore in a money belt about my waist. I felt heavy and sluggish a lot of time. Lowly fat. A real thug. Well nobody expects a security guard to be Tom Cruise.

I can remember the day that I had to go to Toa Payoh to meet this friend I found on Facebook. Andy. I was on aspirins that day out of the giant econo-size bottle three and four at a time plopped in my mouth and chewed like chicklets. My teeth.

They came riding over in an off duty taxi. Andy, a nice-looking guy about twenty-nine: a dark pin-striped suit, white shirt, floral tie, long modish hair.

We went into a cab to a kind of hotel, Hotel 81, a little run down but not, you know skid row and then followed Andy to his room. It was just then as we are going through all these corridors in the hotel and I am feeling pretty cranky from lack of sleep and maybe reds a little groggy, a speed hangover, you know, that I began to become aware again of this dream I was in. Call it the dream-of-almost-certain-death.

In Andy's hotel room, everything is barren, clean. A bed a bureau, little picture of the Blue Boy on the wall no signs anyone real lives here. No hot plates.

When Andy locked the front door behind him, he walked over and unlocked the one closet in the room, pulled out these two light blue Samsonite cases - the kind you can drive a truck over.

Said, "It's all out of Singapore stuff, clean, brand new and top quality."

He placed the cases on this freshly made white bed-spread and they looked heavy, many, bounced a little, made the springs sigh. They were equipped with special locks which he quickly flipped open and then he lifted the lids and all I saw stacked in gray packing foam were row on row of brand new hand guns.

Well, I knew what I wanted. A.44 Magnum but Andy said, "That's an expensive gun."

"I got money."

Andy looked me over and sort of nodded and he slid out this leather pouch all soft like something you put jewels inside and he zipped it open and there was this .44 Magnum. Holding it like some precious treasure. Just took the edge of his fingertips and ran them along all that heavy blue shiny metal. A small cannon. Unreal.

"The .44 Magnum." He whistled. "It's a monster. Could stop a car - pull a bullet right into the block. A premium, high resale gun. Three hundred seventy four bucks - that's only a hundred twenty-five over list. He was like some salesman showing off the fall line, fast talking, a hustler, the type who sold lottery tickets in a high schoool. He really seemed proud of his goods and I had to admit, that was a monster, a mother.

I reached out to hold the gun like out of my dreams but Andy drew back from me. Said, "I could sell this gun for five hundred today 0 but I just deal high quality goods to high quality people."

He was looking me over very carefully again. Said, "Now this may be a little big for practical use, in which case I would recommend the .38 Smith and Wesson Special. Fine solid gun. Snubbed nosed. Otherwise the same as the service revolver.

Now that will stop anything that moves and it's handy, flexible. The Magnum, you know, that's only if you want to splatter it against the wall. Worth every dime of it."

He hefted out of this shiny silvery pistol like in the detective stories. Said, "I'll throw in a holster for another thirty bucks."

Andy let me hold the gun and I hefted it this way and that, pointing it out the window toward the bank and then citing along the eyes of Blue Boy on the wall. Andy was smiling as he watched me. He said, "Some of these guns are like toys but with a Smith and Weston man you could hit somebody over the head with it and it will still come back dead on. Nothing beats quality."

I was clicking back the safety as I drew it from my belt and Andy watched me and then he said, "You interested in an automatic?"

I told him no. I would take just these, the Magnum and the .38.

Andy seemed very pleased with me now. Said, "You can't carry it around even with a permit"

Well I knew what he meant but I wanted to go through that open door, wanted to touch the trigger. I asked if he knew of a good firing range in the neighbourhood.

"Oh sure, here, take this card," Andy said, handing me a small embossed white business card. "You go to this place and give them the card. They will charge you but there won't be a hassle."

Well, so then I was pulling out my roll and counting off seven brand new hundred-dollar bills, just like that, seven of them, seven big ones and Andy watched me and seemed pleased with himself and with me and the light in the ceiling fixture flickered a little and turned waxy orange overhead and I heard him ask, "Say, you must have been a computer engineer before. Couldn't help but notice your jacket."

Well I was started, managed to say, "Huh".

"HP Hewlett Packard." Andy said. "I saw it on your jacket I was formerly a computer engineer too."

I just handed Andy that stack of bills and he counted them and crinked them and then counted them again. And then looked at me waiting for me to say more.

"Yeah, I finally said, "One non renewal of contract and then out I went."

Andy wet the top of his finger and counted again. As he counted, he let out a few lines as if he had rehearsed them all along.

"Computer engineering and software IT are a sunset industry in Singapore. If someone wants to stay in this industry, better work in public sector or they will end up like me as a criminal. If possible, those working in the IT field in private sector should make their exit before hitting 40 years of age and go into lecturing, on any executive jobs in public sector or even in the social services sector where there are more Singaporeans."

Then he pocketed my money and for a second, I felt the loss, heard myself saying in a loud voice, "They would never get me to go back. Never. They have to shoot me first."

Well then I realized I was just talking. Talking too much. I mean what was the point? I asked Andy if he had anything to carry the stuff in and he found me a little blue nylon gym bag from under the bed and dumped the stuff out and wrapped the guns into an old sheet and put them in a bag and zipped it oup and handed it to me. All the while he was doing this, he seemed a little scared f me, I thought, like I said a little too much for him just then. The light seemed very bright in my eyes and when I took the gun bag in my hand, there was a spark where my fingers touched the material. Andy looked away to close up his suitcases and look them again and stick them back in the closet. I started out the door. "Wait a second, CJ," he said. "I will walk you out."

From that day on, it was practically all dreams for me. Day after day of getting organised. Fixing up the apartment: charts, pictures, newspaper clippings and maps. There was this thing that I had to do and I had to do it right. It was my whole life, you might say. To compensate for my weakness from being wounded and the scars I did twenty, thirty, forty push-ups a day. Too much sitting around had ruined my body. I had to get in shape. I practiced Yoga too and resistance to pain and suffering. I would try to pass my arm through the flame of the gas burner without flinching a muscle, for instance, on the theory that total organisation was necessary and every muscle must be tight to be effective.

At that range, Andy told me about I always got down to business in a hurry, learned how to stand rock solid with that Magnum at an arm's length. My body would shudder and shake, my arm rippling back and I'd be sprung bolt upright from the recoil but I held my position, firing as quickly as I could round after round on the big Magnum.

Well it seemed you know that there was this.... There was this thing that I had to do, the moment I had been heading for all my life like going through that door, as I say, the door to someplace, but my body fought me always. It just wouldn't work hard enough. Wouldn't sleep. Wouldn't shit. Wouldn't eat. I worked so hard for it. Swallowed pill after pill. Wrote all night long in this journal, making calculations, and learned to make myself comfortable to the feel of the gun. Some nights I would just stay up watching TV with the Magnum resting on my lap. It was like the guns were new arms for me, they had to be that if it was going to work.

One show I watched a lot in those days was "Rock Time," the late afternoon local teeny-bopper dance show. Those kids would be bopping and dance and the camera would zoom in on your firm young breasts.

Watching that show I couldn't feel my face anymore. It had become granite. I was like stone. What was the world doing out there to me in here? Why did assholes like that get all the beautiful young chicks?

After the show, I went to a drink stall and was disappointed with how the stall assistant treated her customers, and that the stall used to provide good service.

I was at Rochor Original Beancurd. I bought some food and I requested to pay for the takeaway beancurds at the same time. Upon seeing the staff packing the beancurds I wanted to take away, I told her we will be collecting those later, and the rest was for eating here.

She got a bit unhappy, threw the packed soyabean drink into the basin on the floor and then raised her voice saying that she will leave the takeaway beancurds in the fridge.

Seeing her rolling her eyes and her unhappy tone, I was displeased and asked for her name. She rebutted, 'you have no right to know'.

Then out of curiosity (and since I've never seen her working here before and with such bad service), I asked how long had she been working there.

She rebutted, 'Two years! Who are you? What right do you have to ask? You Singaporeans think you are so great here and bullying us! I can work for one more year and buy one big house in China. You? You work for 30 years in Singapore and you still can only buy one fucking pigeonhole! Don't think you are so high and mighty!"

Singapore has tried to attract foreign talent and foreigners while at the same time encourage native Singaporeans to reproduce. However, 2 polarising scenarios have occurred - foreigners bad-mouthing Singaporeans and Singaporeans bad-mouthing foreigners.

And yet, Singapore politicians keeps encouraging this to take place by bring these 2 groups who hate each other together.

If this is America's Funniest Home Video, this is a very funny joke. How sick is it?

Pretty soon, I started taking the pistol with me wherever I went. It was like having an insurance policy. I started parking near the XingPost HQ at night. I was looking for Poh Quee, I guess. Not to harm him but to show him I was still around. Still there. Even more so. There were always a few people working late at nights. He was probably out with someone else. That sign in the window read: "ezy Cash in 10 minutes" It comes to a man at such times when he is like that with such equipment on him that his real safety, if he wishes to preserve himself as he is, is in the dangerous places. That he must do what is he is afraid of doing sometimes.

I guess I really wanted to know what would happen if I ever had to use one of my pieces. To make that dream somehow visible for me.

You see I had this plan to make myself somebody at last, a celebrity. To go down in history. Had this plan I was working on, though, in the meantime, I needed to stay as real with myself as I could. Because when you think of all those other guys. I thought I couldn't fail otherwise. I had just as good brains education-wise, had the guts, was getting to be a sharpshooter a very good shot. It was all a matter of how real I could stay for how long. I thought some guys let their problems get the better of them.

I thought a guy was better off keeping his problems to himself, under the circumstances, because everybody has problems, don't they? No use projecting them onto the whole human race. You just do what you have to. Go bam.

What with me it was a little bit this unreality thing. The feeling of it I mean. To go down in history I needed to be real every minute of the day I could inside the dream of night. Well it was in driving, cruising like that, I guess, that I was able to keep in touch with myself that way.

Like I was there inside the control room while life went on and on outside. And I knew I had only to take that piece in my hand and punch a really big hole in the glass separating all of us. To be somebody in this world. Really go down into history.

On the streets people looked so out of it. Raw face like steamed pork. The whores, scam artists, foreigners. World without end amen.

All that night as I went back to the control room I thought to myself that man in his pathetic outfit and his pale face and that there was nothing any decent person could do about it. That was just part of the condition of life. I thought it was an outrage that he should be such a victim of foreigners like that and I let his namecard just lie there on the seat next to me until I clocked in for the midnight shift and then you know I took the namecard and stuffed it into my jacket pocket and signed in.

That night I just couldn't sleep at all. I had so much work to do. The idea that had been growing in my brain for some time now took entire hold of me. I had collected all the material I could find on Suman's itinerary from Airport to the Hotel and about the city. I knew the allocation of secret agents personnel from clippings in the papers and was compiling a kind of action or game plan. Words to that effect.

The only solution seemed to lie in true force. After I memorised Suman's route, I strapped on the empty holster of the.44 and practiced late into the night at drawing and squeezing off imaginary rounds. I had devised this system of metal gliders along my inner forearm so that the .44 could rest hidden behind the upper forearm until a spring near the elbow was activated. I had also figured a way to strap a knife to my calf with a slit cut in my jeans so that the knife could be pulled out easily. The problem was concealment. The guns bulged on me everywhere. I looked bulky and armored. It was only by wearing two shirts, a sweater and a jacket that I was able to obscure the location of all my weapons but then I resembled some hunter bundled up against the arctic winter and the weather was getting very warm outside. The rest of that evening, I sat at the table dumb-dumbing forty-four bullets, scraping Xs across their heads. I had a big poster of Suman's head in the room and I would sight at him through the scope of the .38. At last all bundled up in my shirts and sweater, my jacket and guns, I fell out on the mattress into my half-sleep, like a big furry animal drifting into his own world. Last thing I remember is writing in this diary: Listen you screwhead. There is a man who stood up against the cunts, the digs, filth, the greed and extreme capitalism

Capitalism and market competition, in extreme and especially as it is advocated in Singapore, means to each his own. You do well, you enjoy your good life (even to the extreme). If you don't do well, that's too bad. Its your own fate or fault.

Today we are so much richer - one of the richest country by per capita income. But I am not sure if the SENSE OF UNITY, SENSE OF PURPOSE & NATIONAL TEAM SPIRIT between the people and the Government have all become stronger. Not everyone is doing as well. Not everyone earns as much as the per capita income number. But property prices had skyrocketed.

Naturally with one of the highest income in the world, our cost of living here is also one of the highest. Everyone understand this.

About that time, sometimes late at night, I began to frequent this all-night deli in Novena for snacks when the streets were relatively deserted. Well this one particular night I had just gone over to the fridge to get a pint of fruity alchohol when I hear a very nasty low voice talking to the lady cashier and I turned around the counter and saw one Pinoy man at the automated teller machine. The dudes and the cashier hadn't noticed me yet.

Cashier said, "Hey, dude! I was here first. Stop trying to cut the queue!"

Pinoy Said, "Dear.... You have been at the ATM for more than five minutes. Give it up will you! If you want do more transactions, go back to the end of the queue!"

Cashier said, "But who gives you the right to push me? Can't you just ask nicely?"

Pinoy Said, "I don't give a shit to a lady who can't even remember her own password on her ATM card!" One of them used his forearm to block her access to the ATM.

With my pint of milk in hand, I stepped closer towards them. One of them stepped on my feet in the midst of melee.

"Watch it dude. I am holding a glass bottle. Don't you have manners talking to a lady? A Singaporean?"

Surprised, he turned towards me and said, "Go back to home and fuck his own mother some more. Because that's where you come from and you miss her cunt hole."

But I refused to take no for an answer.

I confronted the Pinoy and berates him for 'being like all the others – foreign fuckers'.

I socked him. Socked him hard on his cheekbone. He fell sideways and crashed into a can of coke. Knocked him out for a couple of seconds.

I instantly drop into a menancing karate crouch. The intensity of my rage raised. I am still trying to hold myself together. It's like watching someone trying to cork an exploding bottle but I am unable to contain it myself.

Well, I couldn't feel anything else except the trembling in my hand as the grits came tumbling down and then the lady cashier sort of came apart too and screamed. Sort of leaned or fell across the cashier counter as she scrambled for her own baseball bat in her hand.

When I turned to go, I saw her pick up the phone to dial the police. I waved a finger towards her and warned her not to dial, "The punch is for all Singapore citizens who stood up to the injustices"

He's also smiling in a shit-eating grin mixed with just a hint of predatory bared teeth as he reaches for the exit door. Realising that I am seriously disturbed, the cashier tries to humour him and even offering him a drink for the 'angry little Singapore man'.

I know I am being humoured and it pisses me off.

As the saying goes, when a man has taken blood, once a man has taken blood like that, there is a definite dent in his life and it isn't anymore the same as it was. Time has a different feeling. And it just blends one minute into the next. The film over life seems to slide back and forth so that one minute you are inside this horny dream, all wild and hot with blood and the next it is like some sort of soap opera.

I told myself that one day, someone would clean up the city. "This is my home and I should have priority in the queue. This city is like an open sewer and someday, I will flush it down the fucking toilet."

I stayed home more and more after the killing. My place became a cave to hide in. I cleaned and recleaned the Magnum. Watched TV. Ate out of jars. To be silent and careful and exact so that I might go down in history too. I don't know it was like nothing mattered to me anymore except to do what I had to do and that would take time.

It was boring a lotta the time but it didn't seem that way to me then. I didn't know whether I knew what it was to be bored. There was this game I used to play when I watched TV. I would be wearing all my guns and I'd be watching the TV with my feet up on that crate.

And as the people in the little box hussled each other, I would sort of take the heel of my boots and sort of rock that crate slowly back and forth to see how far it would tip over before falling. It was all a question of balance, I guess, a teeter tottering kind of thing. This beautiful young man would be talking to the beautiful young woman earnestly about their relationship and how she had hurt him, maybe and my heels would be on the melon crate rocking it back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, everytime just a little bit more, until one day, the inevitable happened and the crate tipped backward and that TV went crashing to the floor.

And there was a short smelly flash and everything turned white like a cloud and the box was all jagged and broken glass. Dead knobs That image had fled, "Damn," I said to myself, "damn." I said to myself "Damn, damn."

That image had fled. There wasn't even anything to watch on TV anymore.

Recently, I read some news online that a husband passed his wife HPV and had cervical cancer. It got me thinking about how it's like to be be a HPV carrier and why, for some of us, it's never easy and why some of us choose to 'let it go' and eventually put ourselves in a position where we have unprotected sex.

The cute thing was that the husband and me shared something in common. We both had micropenises or some say buried penises.

1 out of every 200 men is born with what's medically known as 'micro-penis'.

I was born with a condition called micropenis which means my dick is smaller than 0.5 inch erect - a very small size. I'm 37 years old now, so I can't expect my penis to grow for me even a few mm. My penis is also bent severely to the left when erect, which I understand to be the Pelagius disease.

I had always wondered why I never did fall in love or go into a relationship when I was in secondary school when I've heard of the stories of so many others meeting their first love when they were in school. What was I missing? Was I not good enough? For a long time after school, I kept on with the idea that I wasn't good enough a person. Until recently when I reflected on my time in school did I realize I had many missed opportunities!

Desperately, I asked one of my closest friends for advice - they advised me to go to a penis building club, at least they said it was a penis building club - truly it was a swimming club, and I was forced to hit the showers, only to face ridicule and shame, due to my little man.

As a penultimate resort, I decided to try penis building pills, and go in for surgery that could straighten my embarrasingly bent penis, but, the pills made no difference, and I could not afford the surgery. I have also taken herbal teas and remedies known for increasing penis size, only to be let down again.

In my first year of school, a girl had made a hand sign – I love you – with his thumb, index and last fingers to form, "I", "L" and "Y". Then I didn't realize what it meant. I kept doing the same hand sign back at her, oblivious to his hints.

In my second year, a gal would always come to me in the Student Councillor's Room and sat on my laps. She had always said how he was curious as to how it felt to be sitting on someone else. We had a close relationship for a while but I didn't think too much about it. I would stay back after school in my third year to wait for her (she was in his second year and in the afternoon class and I was in the morning class).

When the discipline mistress decided to take her off being a student councillor because her closeness with me became a point of discomfort for her and some of the teachers who were teachers assigned to manage the student councillors, I was there to comfort her. I knew then why they did it but didn't quite understand why they needed to – I hadn't realized that the closeness that two people have could become a point of contention for people.

There were one or two other missed opportunities but I never had the awareness to realize what they were! And I held on to the notion that sex with someone else I loved was all about kissing and hugging that person you love – the intimacy. That was until I was 15!

While on the way back home after an art class, at the back of the bus, a man who was possibly around 40 years or so came and sat next to me, at the back row of the bus. I was perplexed, as the rest of the bus was quite empty. After a short while, he started asking about how my parents were and reminded me that I should take care of them. This man was quite thoughtful, I thought to myself! Was he here by some association to teach me how to respect my parents? And then the conversation veered towards something a little more sinister.

"Do you play?" he asked.

"Well, I do, yes – games, right?"

"I mean, do you play with yourself?" he ventured further.

"Oh!... erm... well... yes..." I wasn't quite sure where this was going.

"Do you want to play together?"

That got me a bit curious, and I agreed. When the bus stopped at the bus interchange, he took me to the toilet at the Ang Mo Kio Bus Interchange, where the toilet at the old interchange used to have stories of the sexual activities of other men at the toilet scribbled at the back of the door. I would sometimes go to the toilet to read the stories inside the largest cubicle at the back of the toilet.

That day, I was in that cubicle. Uncle-with-a-social-conscience-who-wanted-to-use-being-filial-to-my-parents-to-get-into-my-pants pulled my pants down and did what he wanted to do with his mouth. I showed him my 3 inches or smaller in erect size. Very puny and pathetic looking.

He laughed, Like a maniacal hyena! "Dude, do you need some help finding your micro penis in order to take a piss?" He then took his out and showed me his 12 inches.

Initially, he said he had loved me dearly, and, I can assure you are the best I will ever find, he was just scared of my penis and scared it may damage his reputation if anyone found out.

Once the deed was called off, I ran out of the toilet. I remembered thinking to myself, when he took his first dip – Woah, you mean mine is so short?!

So, there goes my romantic idealism of lovemaking and what the kissing and hugging it would entail.

Morny had asked me, "The thing is I am worried about, what if a woman meet a bad guy, and he decides to infect a wife with HPV?"

Morny at that time was pissing in the men's urinal. I was washing my hands after a meal and rinsing my mouth when he broached the subject. Based on the reflection in the mirror, he had a very long foreskin and his piss parlayed into split directions due to the crumpled skin.

"I don't know. Why you ask?" I told him while bending down in the basin trough to splash some cold water on my face.

"Coz that time, when I tried to fuck that prostitute, she told me to use a alcohol swop to clean the tip of my penis as she said that another hooker got cold sores on her mouth after blowing another customer."

I said, "Well, it's better that you realize early, rather than if you had found out later through her."

"Perhaps that's the way for you to find out – by dating more people and seeing if they get cold sores after that."

That night, I clicked Human papillomavirus (HPV). It is a virus from the papillomavirus family that is capable of infecting humans. Cancers of the cervix, vulva, vagina, penis, oropharynx and anus. This process usually takes 5 years, providing many opportunities for detection and treatment of the pre-cancerous lesion. 37% of 582 Mexican army recruits positive for high risk HPV. They were told not to wash their genitals for 12 hours before sampling.

Uncut are left with all pitfalls of that tiny flap of skin.

All penises have a unique smell. And smegma (the white cheesy stuff that appears from nowhere under our foreskin) is meant to be there. But to get smelling cheesy, you do not wash under your foreskin every day, mix it with warm milk, a bit of cheap apricot brandy to marinate into that area and leave it unwashed to incubate for more than 2 days. The sugar and the proteins in the milk and brandy will be a great playground for HPV.

I have no clear recollection of the days that followed. I had gotten into the habit of tracking down every single Suman rally. Making an appearance there. It was just important to me to see the candidate in action. If I was to go down in history I had to make an appropriate plan.

Looking back I don't know whether I got to certain places on my own or because I arranged to take a fare there. Can't even recall any of the words Suman said those days. I can remember the city, though feeling very much like a cage. Doors everywhere. You squirm around to get what you needed. Needed to be on the scene with Suman.

I walked on, calmly watching him drop. There seemed no way of knowing the expression on the man's face except to note those of the pedestrains on the busy street. The people in cars. The people sitting in the plazas near fountains or coming out of bars.

People seemed so hard and clear, as if they all had purposes to lose themselves in, all those determined city striders they seemed stamped against the building fronts like pressed tin.

The man high up momentarily waded in the air and moments later, I thought I heard his screams as conversations of shoppers drifted back at me to the din of traffic horns from the various arcades.

Well I was feeling pretty shakey, I guess, and that same afternoon in Queens there was this rally for Suman in the parking lot of a supermarket. Everything all dressed in red, white and blue bunting.

Maybe five hundred people milling about. Music on loudspeakers. I had gotten so I could recognise the secret service men from their metallic gray suits, their sunglasses and big linebacker physiques and I knew hot to position myself so as to stay always out of notice. Especially when I was carrying hardware.

I got there just as a whole bunch of local political types and some of the Suman workers were being seated on the platform and I saw Sienna and she was talking to another worker. Looked beautiful as ever. You better believe it. Well as I say, I was trying to be inconspicuous as hell but that Tom looked up for a moment to his left and then back down into his clipboard and then he seemed to look my way again. Watching me sort of very closely and I didn't dare to hide. After a moment, I saw him go over to Sienna and point my way. They started whispering together, I could imagine what they were saying. I saw Sienna and she started salivating.

I was all in a sweat in this bulky, bulged out army jacket with my hardware. I almost bumped right into this secret service guy. Better I thought to brazen it out, if I could hardware and all.

"Oh say, pardon me," very boyish, "are you a secret service man?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I have seen a lot of suspicious-looking people around here."

The agent gave me this very chilly look for a moment and then he asks, "Who?"

"Oh, lots. I don't know where they all are now, there used to be one standing over there." And I pointed over to where I'd been.

He followed me with this look... actually followed the tip of my finger for a second and then he was staring at me hard and I just had to improvise fast. "Is it hard to get to be an agent?"

"Why?"

"Well I kind of thought I might make a good one," I said, "Because I am observant."

The agent was getting interested in me now in his sly way. "Oh?" He was looking at me hard and cold.

I used to be in army as a sniper.

Said, "Listen mister, if you just give me your name, I will send you the information on how to apply to the organisation."

Thinking of what to do next. Said, "You would, uh?"

He took out his notebook and said, "Oh, sure."

There would be eight more rallies next week. My time was coming. One way or the other.

"The name is Tan Cheng Juan. I live in Blk 10, Lor 7 Toa Payoh Level 9 Unit 33."

"Sure. We will send you all the stuff."

Like I recalled how I used to say as a kid, someday I am going to do something and nobody is going to stop me. Ever. I felt that I could, if only I dared to, because there was nobody who dared to stop me not even the secret service agent.

Well, it was in the next couple of days that I started going to Xingpost again. I thought I might see that man again. Something about his look made me think he would help me if I could help him. Something about a friend in need. It didn't take me too long to find him.

We had a typical date, dinner and a movie, but this time the sexual tension was thick enough to eat with a spoon.

We were at a local pizza parlor, and it was packed full of people! There was a huge lineup to order and the lady working at the cash register looked tired and unhappy with the current state of the restaurant. When we approached the cash register, I simply asked the lady how she was doing.

In a quiet, defeated voice, she said, 'Okay'. At this point, I almost got ahead of myself, and forgot to take the time to listen carefully for her response, and interpret her energy level.

The laws of attraction would believe that you would attract to you those people that are similar to you in nature. Negative thinking would usually attract me to people like that defeated cashier counter lady.

In addition, you will be repelled away from those professionals that are fundamentally different from you. Just like Sienna and me.

After she responded with the answer of, 'Okay' to my question, I took a few seconds, looked at her and said, 'That is good to hear.' I didn't just say this, but I meant it. She could tell that I meant it as well.

"A wastrel old man" that's what Sienna calls Poh Quee during our conversation and dangles a $5000 cash cheque in front of me, asking me to consider her indecent proposal.

My eyes are stone cold and his body is so tight with anger that he looks like metal wind-up toy.

While the money is tempting, I am horrified at Sienna's utter lack of humanity and full of shame but doesn't back off from my rescue mission.

Sienna, for a moment, being impatient and all that gets annoyed. A manic smile contorting her face.

"Hey, mister, you are being insincere...... I took the initiative to ask me out for a movie date, touched my crotch, I even exposed my panties to you but still refuse to consider my marriage proposal."

There is an immediate animosity between us. I think the people on another table would have heard our conversation.

Sienna is nervous energy – she never stops talking and moving – even if she is only shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

I can smell Sienna's desperation. Sienna knows that something about me is not quite right but she can't pin it down as she herself is desperate to get any Singapore guy to register for her scam marriage in order for her to extend stay in Singapore. Her dependent's pass was expiring sson.

Sienna explicitly told me what the plan was. Once she got rid of Poh Quee, she would try to get the earliest date available to register a marriage with me. In return, she would pay me S$5000 upfront and then another $$5000 once the marriage is confirmed.

Said, "Where you get the cash?"

Sienna was confident, "From that old man. Women's Charter Act. Once I get half the house's sale proceeds, I can pay you the money."

"You have the S$5000 now?" I asked, cautiously trying to cross the minefield.

She was so horny she didn't pay any attention to the movie and barely tasted our food.

Her eyes stayed on my crotch. She couldn't see anything but she thought it was because I kept turning my hips away from her so she couldn't see...teasing her.

"Sure. I can write you a cheque." She whipped out a pen and cheque book. "Got the money from that buyer. They paid a deposit of $5000 and gave it to me first."

Gosh.... Poh Quee... this woman Is so cheap and ill-behaved.... a scum that you scrap off your shoes

We got through the date, made it to my place, turned to each other, and almost caused bruises on our lips because we were so hot for each other we just couldn't wait any longer. She whipped my top off over my head.

I flipped the sign on the Hotel 81 door of from 'Please Tidy Up The Room' to 'Do Not Disturb'; she closed the vertical blinds and smiled to herself. The copulation was only minutes away.

When she unbuttoned her shirt, her breasts were real small like pathetic. These two little birds maybe hiding from a wind. I didn't like looking at her without her clothes on like that. It got me kind of jittery. She was being too forward.

Without looking at her small breasts, I scrutinized her trim figure and tight ass as she sashayed down the sidewalk on her high-heels.

Sienna thinks I am a little timid john who needs some encouragement so she tried to tease me seductively.

"Fuck; I'd like to help myself to some of that!" She doesn't seem to mind that I talked dirty to her. Women like her are trash and loved to be manhandled.

The women employees of the Suman's office adhered to a strict dress code. They wore navy-blue skirts, white blouses, flesh-toned hosiery and black pumps. In winter they wore matching navy-blue jackets. Being good girls they were elegantly coiffured and wore heavy makeup and lots of jewellery; they left behind trails of exotic perfume as they strutted around the bank attending to business.

I stared at her ass: Sienna's curved and taut. She wore varying shades of flesh-toned pantyhose and black high-heels. Her exotic perfume mingled with the smell of fear and wafted up from her body.

"Who's going first?" Sienna asked teasingly.

"You go; I'll watch."

"Ok. Let you see my money maker!" She grinned impatiently. "Watch,"

The woman slowly lifted her skirt and I watched appreciatively as the hems of the navy-blue skirt crept up the legs. She wore tan thigh-high hold-up stockings and the lace trimmed elasticised welts dug into the white flesh of her thick thighs. She raised her skirt higher revealing a pair of red satin full-cut panties with a small bow in the centre of the waistband.

"This behaviour is sinful and God will punish you for it!" she exclaimed. This woman is so drama.

"Well I believe God helps them that helps themselves," I commanded and bellowed in my loud voice "Shut the fuck up and show me your dirty pillows!"

Sienna was scared this time and looked at me for a second. My expression wore the look of an army commander. She liked it. Liked it when I talked obscenities and treated her like a bitch she was.

Her attractive face was heavily made up with dark mascaraed eyes, rouged cheeks and ruby red lips. Her face was framed by a brunette bob with burgundy highlights through it. She had small soft breasts that thrust out the front of her white satin blouse.

My calloused hand slid up her legs, rasping on her pantyhose, and then disappear under her skirt and fondle her buttocks through her panties. From the way she moaned in ecstasy, I knew her husband hadn't touched her that way in years.

Poh Quee was quite content as the postal worker of XingPost and despite the revulsion she felt at being commanded and ordered by me she had to admit she felt a tingle of excitement when I squeezed her ass.

She looked at my crotch again but still couldn't see anything. She started groping and sucking on my nipples.

Initially, she had a great method of suggesting sex, getting me excited, and telling me to do the Pretzel. Apparently, the Pretzel is the best way to hit her G-spot. You kneel and straddle her left leg while she's lying on her left side. From here, she would bend her right leg around the right side of your waist—allowing full access to her vagina. She said that this setup gives you complete access to her clitoris for manual stimulation.

With that suggestion, I whipped my pants and light grey boxer briefs down. She stared at my dick. Her mouth dropped open.

"That's it!?" She said as she busted out laughing.

My face flamed. I was paying for forgetting to tell you that I was small. I forgot for just a few seconds how small I was and how big she expected me to be.

When I finally calmed down and caught my breath I said "What do you expect?!"

I was doing an almost full body blush, so embarrassed. But my little dick was still hard...her laughing even seemed to have made it harder.

She told me, "Well I guess it'll be easy to suck you off". She said between giggles, "You were just too tiny to do me any good. No need condom! No condoms will fit you unless I cut the condom into half!"

Furious, I took her by the hand and dragged her into the bed; her heels slipping on the polished floor. For a second, she was caught by surprise at my violent nature. She sobbed and balked at the rough yanking.

I pushed her face down over the pillow and positioned myself behind her. The girl was whimpering and at first I thought she was talking gibberish but then he realised she was praying. This time, I laughed and kicked her feet as far apart as the hem of her tight skirt would allow.

"Just don't use your fist to fuck me, use your small dick." she begged. "That way, I won't get hurt."

Small dick?! Small dick?! All my life, all the men have laughed at me for my small dick, whether I was in the army or at the urinal! I was getting really furious with her now. Whatever I lacked in length, I would compensate for speed and agility and high frequency of my thrusting.

"Hot Damn!" I groaned and pushed the bulge hard against Sienna tight ass.

She sobbed and prayed at the same time, asking all of the saints in heaven to save her. I didn't give a shit about her pleas and prayers; he just needed a fuck to get even with this cheap slut.

"Shut up bitch or I'll tape your mouth," I grunted in response.

I positioned myself between her legs and pushed against her thighs to hold her in place and pressed her torso back down on the pillow. I roughly pulled the gusset of Sienna's panties to one side to expose her pubis. Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed, I could feel the stubble on his fingers as I groped her cunt.

She screamed when I used my hand to slap her across the face.

"Noooooooooooooo!!!!!"

Sienna was quivering with fright and revulsion; praying for salvation and cursing herself for tempting me. I ignored her and positioned the head of his cock at the entrance to her vagina.

I pushed forward and the head of penis was immediately constricted by Sienna's hymen. My cock pushed against Sienna's hymen and then he thrust forward hard until there was the sound of my things slapping against Sienna's butt-cheeks. She howled.

"Oh my God; it hurts! Slowly!!! She whimpered.

That's the way to do it. Although I have a micro-penis, I made sure that my thrusting was rock-hard solid until the sound of "Thack" flesh slapping can be heard with each thrust. Each thack would mean that my pubis knocking real hard against her buttcheeks. Enough to do physical damage to her buttocks. Sienna felt the man clawing at her buttocks and thighs as his penis quivered and throbbed inside her.

I kept pushing forward until my shaft was completely buried in Sienna's tight cunt and my pubis slammed against her skinny ass. Sienna exhaled and tried to force herself to relax the muscles of her vagina. The damage had been done now; her chastity was taken and there was nothing she could do about it but to limit the pain she was experiencing. Her head filled with thoughts of sorrow and self-disgust;

How could a micro-penis do so much damage?

She pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on relaxing her vagina.

As I began to thrust in and out of her in a steady but hard rhythm she tried to take her mind off what was happening to her.

She did not use contraception but she knew that there were 'day after' pills that could be taken by women to prevent them from becoming pregnant.

But she still dreaded the thought of this thug depositing his sperm inside her. She screwed up her eyes and, panting and quivering as I pounded away at her sore cunny, she tried to take her consciousness away from the situation but she couldn't.

Then she felt the man push himself deep inside her and his pubis slammed against her buttocks and he ground himself against her and emptied his seed deep inside her.

She could feel the warm ejaculate splash against the walls of her vagina. At least the man's semen lubricated her vagina and eased some of the pain.

"Oh yeah baby! Fuck that tight pussy!" I howled as I climaxed.

"Ok; when is the next $5000 ready, you cheap slut?" I sniggered.

Well I was high on cheap apricot brandy by the time I got there in XingPost Ltd. He wasn't too hard to find. Slightly with a tummy paunch and hairline slightly receding. Looked about in his forties. Strutting some brochures down the post office retail shop with a slightly awkward gait. Must have been tired from all that standing.

I stopped and observed for a distance at the XingPost Retail Outlet Shop. You notice, the large sign / billboard at XingPost Post Office or its advertisements it's on Financial loans at the front area. "ezyCash now offers you a loan amount of up to S$100,000. With attractive interest rates, you don't need to fell the pinch when repaying your loan."

Only when you walk further into the shop can you find the parcel services, franking and postage services. Services that hardly give revenue to XingPost.

I pushed the glass door open and I was feeling a little shy. Said, "Hellow." As he kept on walking and I walked beside him.

He asked, didn't stop moving. "What? The parcel services that way." He pointed, without giving me eye contact.

"You offering personal loan?" I said, pretending to read a stand-up banner.

"Sorry, you must be employed." Poh Quee sized me up, looked up and down. Probably saw that I was a poor guy with tucked out shirt and cheap bermuda shorts.

"What makes you think I am unemployed?"

"You smell like a walking glass of brandy." That's because my crotch smells like one too.

"Can't I drink and still work? I multi-task."

"Probably," Poh Quee sighed and directed me to another table with seats. He took out a pen from his shirt pocket. "How much you want for a loan?"

I sat down. Finally his eyes and my eyes met. I drew out his iPhone from my shirt pocket as well. The distinctive Hello Kitty casing drew him. His eyes lit up finally. "Hey, where did you pick up my phone?"

"From PHA. You dropped it there. Your wife said you worked here when she called you."

"Ex....." Poh Quee looked away from me again at the mention of Sienna. "Tramp" He muttered under his breath. "So what brings you here?"

"As I said, I need a loan for my house renovation."

Poh Quee swept his hands across the table to pick up his iPhone. He ran his fingers to check for missed calls and found that they were all from Sienna and cursed again.

"Expecting a call from your clients?"

"Yea. If not I can be fired soon for failing to meet the quota." Poh Quee pushed the mini-photocopying machine forward and requested for my latest pay slips and identification card.

"Drats. I forgot my pay slip."

"It's ok. You can send a copy through this mailbox." Poh Quee took out his pen and namecard. He reversed the card, paused for a second before he wrote down his mailbox address.

Finally, I relented. "Listen. If you need help, talk to me. We are in the same boat."

He broke into small laughter: "I don't know who is weirder you or me."

I felt nothing was impossible, people can talk to one another if they make the effort. I thought Poh Quee and I could make the effort to befriend each other. I said, "Well, working in Xingpost doesn't seem like such a bad place."

"Why do you think Sienna dumped me?" He was on edge. "There ain't nothing between us now. She clearly is a fair-weathered Pinoy with no scruples or morals." He pushed the namecard to me. "Just mail it to me. I will process the loan in a few days time and the money will be deposited into your bank account."

Said, "You can't live like this. It is hell. If you ain't sick now, you will soon get sick."

"God, are you square," Poh Quee swore at me softly. He looked away. Started drumming away at the table with his fingertips. "XingPost lied about selling of assets and they lied when they said workers' jobs would be safe. I was relegated to a sales position and telling white lies to customers like you."

I said, "Like a marriage going bad?

Poh Quee said, "Nay. Being demoted is never such a total shock because the signs are always there. As a general manager in XingPost I knew there was the possibility that my position would be made redundant. First they hire Pinoys is the first sign. Then after that, they promote their own people to higher ranks. I am top-heavy – old and too high salaried so they slowly redesignated my vocation and here I am, begging you to buy any financial package I have."

I asked, "So what you have?"

Poh Quee pushed me a few brochures, "Loan of $10,000 or 4X your monthly income, whichever is lower. Minimum annual income of $20,000.Your approved loan amount will be credited directly to your designated bank account."

I broke into a small laughter, "What's the catch?"

Poh Quee had this mischievous glint in his eyes, "15 per cent annum. S$300 per month..... I am a legalised loan shark. In addition, I have to do debt recovery by chasing....."

A rough nasty tap on his shoulder. Poh Quee turned around and a Pinoy (probably his boss, his name tag spelled Bobby Velaquez) signalled him to look behind him. A woman dressed in some branded fashion apparel and dripping with heavy jewellery were looking at some shopping products in the glass cabinet.

"Excuse me. Sorry. I have to serve her now." Poh Quee got up and left me in my seat. I picked up his namecard and left.

I tried not to alarm him. He was looking at me strangely as I walked past him and I said, "I will fix it."

I assured him I meant what I said. I said I had to get on now but I would be in touch with him soon. Couldn't stand to tell him more. I left him there. Too much on my mind.

I emailed Poh Quee on his Facebook. His rest day was on Monday. He agreed to meet me but only on the condition that I am not a faggot who is interested in gay sex. Maybe he thinks I am but at that juncture, he seemed quit desperate to befriend anyone who could lend a ear to his woes.

Now I see it clearly. My whole life has pointed in one direction. There has never been any choice for me. If I can save someone, it has got to be Poh Quee.

At breakfast the next morning in this coffee shop at 1:30 in the afternoon. Poh Quee was wearing such a nice sweater and clean pressed faded jeans. His face was washed, Hair combed out. He looked no different. We had large glasses of orange and coffee. He told me all about himself.

How he and Sienna gotten together. How his marriage fell apart when he was demoted from a post office branch manager to a financial consultant.

Apparently, Poh Quee worked in a local government job and have done for about 14 years now. He started when he started when I was 20 and have loved my work since the day he started! He lived for his work!

When he started there he was young and naive. Times were good and things were simple as a post office customer service worker in 1995. It was a homogeneous workforce. As part of the government's plan to privatise telecommunications services, XingPost was incorporated into in 2003, it was listed in the Singapore Exchange. XingPost Limited was listed on the mainboard of the Singapore Exchange (SGX-ST) on 13 May 2003. In April 2007 Singapore became the first country in Asia to have its postal market fully liberalised.

He had no idea about office politics but oh boy he learnt very quickly when XingPost Limited became corportised. They slowly tried to replace our postal counters with financial products such as minibonds, unit trusts, structured deposits and personal loans and renovation loans, things which would have generated more money and revenue for the shareholders of XingPost Limited.

Sienna and some other Pinoy staff came into Singapore on a work permit. It was more like cheap labour to me. An economic refugee hired by XingPost corporate to depress our locals' salaries. With Pinoys like her, Poh Quee has been held back from promotions and all sorts just because they didn't want him. It's as if his face doesn't fit in.

"Top-heavy," Poh Quee explained. "That is the term they used when they assess you in their appraisal. When you are old and drawing high salary, they describe you as top-heavy."

Slowly, he was relegated to being their XingPost financial consultant to peddle their financial instruments to sell bonds, unit trusts and renovation loans for PHA. They call it a promotion but it is in fact a demotion. Every day, it was a challenge to hit the quota.

Singaporean employers prefer foreigners mainly because of their flexibility to take up jobs that locals avoid, cheaper to hire, work longer hours, were more diligent.... In other words, willing to abused or raped.

He got used to this and occasionally used to let off steam by throwing a hissy fit with the manager who by now is a Pinoy by the name of Bobby. He started divorce proceedings a few months ago, much to the Sienna's chagrin.

This time however Bobby and Sienna have developed a special relationship. They have the type that they could no bet separated inside work. Basically they could not tell the difference between a working relationship and their personal one. So they started ganging up on people, everyone had their turn. They started doing dodgy things like handing in time sheets with incorrect records and doing basically whatever they wanted in the office.

Poh Quee saw that I had tampered with his iPhone when he saw that I had used the search engine on his iPhone to search for both Suman and Sienna. I had forgotten to clear the cache. Not that he is pissed at me for invasion of privacy. Poh Quee was probably weary and jaded and probably won't even care if I insulted him directly in his face.

"How's Sienna? You found her supporting Suman?"

"Busy sucking up to Suman and to whoever Singaporean citizen she can find and marry. Women's Charter is strong in Singapore. So strong that she will try to use it to her own advantage. And Suman is the politician who has a strong foreigner stand who said foreigners help create jobs and will lose its competitive edge globally if it closes its doors to foreign talent. And whatever Suman spouts, I give him 50% discount......."

Suddenly, Poh Quee's eyes lit up. Hit the nail on his head. We had something in common.

"You.... You ok?" Poh Quee asked. "What brings you to Xingpost?"

"I'm here to see a man. To help him."

"Who is he, may I ask?"

"You. You have a big rat to kill. Vermin to kill. You need help. The Women's Charter in Singapore is very strong. If you want to divorce Sienna, she will do what she takes to claim half your assets, your house and your money. "

"Listen. I don't want you to kill anybody on my behalf. And I don't even know you. Why the sudden generosity?" Poh Quee was defensive.

"A disgrace. That woman. She's a tramp." I uttered.

"She is probably a lot of things, some of them I don't even know myself. But a tramp....." he said, trying to stifle his laughter. "How do you get a tramp out of this?"

"A tramp," I said definitely.

I had tried to make it neat. It was not neat enough.

"I'll come by day after tomorrow. But if I can't make it," I said, "You may not see me again, for a while."

He asked, "What do you mean?"

Maybe it would have been different if I could have convinced Poh Quee to go away right then and there but when he wouldn't my life had to go on. I felt it pointing in that one direction that there was no other choice for me.

I left Poh Quee and went directly to the shooting range. I had the Magnum in the trunk of the car in that bag and the other little gun and I kept shooting. I must have shot a hundred times, bam, bam, bam. To that effect just like that. The burning smell in my nostrils. Home again I wrote in this journal:

"Loneliness has followed me all my life. The life of loneliness pursues me wherever I go: in coffee shops, stores, sidewalks. There is no escape. Not to love is to die. All my work hides my essential unemployment.

It is indeed strange. A Government should look out for its own citizens. But this one consistently looks out for the foreign national. If we did not make this complaint loudly in the social media about how we cannot secure a single job in Singapore , our own country, this Government will pretend not to know and continue to sing the praises of the Foreign Talent.

I have this 'victim' mentality too. I blame others for my unhappiness and the areas of my life that were way below average. It's just the easy way out. It's far too easy to say..."My life sucks because my parents, my boss, my friends and my boss driver make all my decisions for me and they are no good.".

This is a man who can't take it anymore.

I am not a fool. I will no longer fool myself. I will no longer let myself fall apart, become a joke and an object of ridicule. I cannot continue this hollow empty fight. I must sleep. What hope is there for me?

I drove most of the night watching the world go by. Everybody matched up in pairs, me without. God for a friend to have a friend in my life. I wandered from store to store in the morning to make acquaintance of the shopkeepers. Wandered about all over. On my feet. To be noticed. Smiled at. Exchange a pleasant word or two. Went to the bank. Just wandering along on my feet. I went to the bank, as I say.

Folded them up in a letter, put them in an envelope, addressed it to Poh Quee.

"Dear Poh Quee, this money should be enough to last you a few months. It's money from the buyer's deposit. Do not delay. By the time you read this, I will be dead. I am willing to sacrifice for you. Get a hair from Sienna, have her sequenced for HPV. That's all I can tell you."

I wrote another letter about my plan to get Sienna infected and reminded to collect a skin or saliva sample from Sienna once the deed is done. I went and wrote down the name of a medical doctor who supposedly does routine personal genomics screening of diseases and cancer. It provides genetic testing services through healthcare providers and health and wellness organizations, with prices starting at $299. This company provides testing for over 1,200 common and rare diseases and traits, including heart disease, cancer, autoimmune diseases.

All my life, I have been alone.... I am the one who walks alone, is likely to find himself in places no one has ever been. It satisfied me to give money to the downtrodden Singapore men. I liked to have that power.

The first time Sienna wanted to have sex with me, nothing would have pleased me more than to be able to give her my all. I could imagine all Singapore men's happiness when they realize what I did for them was revenge and survival for ourselves.

It wasn't just vengeance for all Singapore men, it was relief, the relief of being able to eliminate one more foreign fucker from Singapore. I would have liked to have endless ammunition to be able to give to all those who had nothing, as once I had nothing.

Most of all, I liked to be able to give opportunities to Singapore men which I would very rarely gave it to women. They could get married and get a divorce and half the assets goes to them later on under Singapore's draconian Women's Charter Act. Without money or a job, Singapore men were forced to suffer hunger and humiliation while their women spent their money shopping and cosmetics.

I am sure that most people who work in private sector won't be able to say confidently that they will still keep their jobs once they hit above 40 years of age.

It seems that once an organisation hires foreigners, salaries do tend to get depressed but bosses' wallets are fattened up. Rich get richer, poor get poorer.

I believe that in the future, more and more older Singaporean PMETs working in the private sectors will be losing their jobs to Phillippinoes. This will result in many social issues such as marital breakdown due to financial woes, depression due to job insecurity/loss, and a reduction in quality of life for average Singaporeans due to the many readily available cheaper and younger Indians, Chinese, Phillippinoes who depress Singaporeans' salaries.

To sum up, most foreigners choose to stay here for utilitarian reasons, unlike the reasons why native-born Singaporeans live on this island.

A few days in, I saw a video of a jobless man being dragged out of the park by a police officer without any evident justification and despite my misgivings about staging a protest, I felt for those who were at least doing something. The Facebook comments populated the day the photo was uploaded. I saw the YouTube video of a police officer pepper-spraying 2 young women on the sidewalk which outraged me. "Look, we are twenty years old. We are never going to have a real job. Who would dare to tell them to take it easy? Earnestness was the new counterculture. It became clear that our protest movement was striking a deeper chord in society.

I cleaned the apartment. Put everything neat and orderly. Shaved, changed my clothes.

I posted one Facebook comment using my account, "We come to you at a time when corporations which place profit over people, self-interest over justice, and oppression over equality, run our governments. We shall assemble here, as it is our right, to let these facts be known." In my posting was a link to a YouTube video depicting the assassination of former President JFK "We should re-enact a version of this tomorrow at PHA Auditorium!".

I created a bogus Facebook account and uploaded Sienna's face on it and with a few other pictures taken with Poh Quee from the iPhone.

I posted a photo on my wall and posted on the Facebook page of popular football forum KallangRoar.com.

The photo is a snippet of a Straits Times article from 2011 highlighting the large Filipino turnout at the Singapore-Philippines friendly at Jalan Besar Stadium, but with a red X marked over it.

Posing as Sienna, I commented "whatever some rotten locals here have to say, we Pinoys are here to stay.

and most are working under Us that's why some are bitter cos they are working under Foreigners' while they are in their own Country. Don't blame us for this, if that's the case then 'mabybe' rotten locals 'up there commenting' are not good enough. But don't lose heart, you can improve overtime and maybe start with your manners. Peace."

I logged on to my own personal account and commented.

"Look at this proud Pinoy FT working in Seagate calling us locals 'rotten'. She refers to Singaporeans as 'rotten locals', calls us 'bitter', and says most of us are 'working under us (Pinoys)'."

I said a silent prayer and hoped for viral to spread the hatred.

Went out in the street again.

"Stop," she said.

I had almost made it. I had been taking side streets to get to Toa Payoh, carefully walking around Toa Payoh Garden Park, so I wouldn't run into them. Not yet. Them. The Secret Service. I thought I had found a good street, far away from anyone with a tattoo and dyed hair, anyone with that annoyingly determined and noble expression, but this girl stepped in front of him.

"Don't do it," she said.

I stared at her. It was Tara, Adrian Lu's mother.

I was afraid she'd yell at me, but her voice was actually rather quiet.

"Why?" I asked.

"Don't do it" she repeated. "Adrian showed me your Facebook message to him."

What the hell did this mean? Fair? I had worked hard to get to this Hewlett Packard job, I spent my entire youth by helping Hewlett Packard — making money. And it was good. It was good because he could call his mother in Bukit Ho Swee and tell her, "My bonus is going to be a million dollars this year," and he could hear her gasp over the phone.

"Why not?" I said.

"We should protest and go on strike" she said. "At the most"

"I suffered," I said. "Other people should, too."

She gasped and stepped back. Wrong answer. What was I supposed to say?

"Give yourself a chance," she said. "Give yourself a chance that you need not resort to this. Come on."

I laughed.

"No one gave anything to me," I said.

I thought hard. Sienna once told me that her parents loved her when they were around, but she was greedy; she could not explain the greed, but it had resided within her forever, before she had ever held a dollar bill in her hand.

"I guess," he said. "Every man for himself."

I was starting to feel that strange dryness in my mouth when I started thinking of these questions. It was time to go meet my destiny before it was too late. I began to step, slowly around her. She lifted her hand. I struck her around the nap of her neck and knocked her out.

The storekeepers were all grinning failure in front of their cramped little displays: Everybody was selling out, everybody looked sad: Business was slow. Life was something you shrugged at. Something you put up with. The books you might have read. The kids you might have loved. All the money you would have made if your mother had been kinder to you. The fun you could have had with a friend. From under their soft gray mustaches they produced little yellow plums of phlegm and recipes for happiness. They kidded me with gossip the high cost of living and the uncertain leather. Suman was speaking in Toa Payoh. No more time. I thought long live death. It is all any of us believes in anyway. Thought long live death. Thought nobody can help anybody Suman can't help. He can't be helped. Storekeepers couldn't they couldn't be helped they couldn't. Words to that effect. You don't take the kid who steals coins from your newsstand and make him your cashier. Hitler is a bum tiddle ym, tum, tum. To that effect. A little diddy from my childhood acres of truth to that. To that effect.

So then I refixed the metal gliders for the Colt .25 on my forearm and split the little kangaroo and the kookaburra too. Lickety split splat just like that after fitting the .38 into my holster. Checking out the Magnum in the back of my belt. Still had on that Army jacket. Couldn't stop sweating.

To bestow my blessings of death on this man I loved. Admired. The President candidate, Suman Shammugan and this great nation Singapore which taught me how to kill. To finally open that door to so much hate in myself, so much anger, and be inside, loving myself there, was different than Melio with his grocery store. A matter of poise. I wasn't thinking do or don't. First time in my life, Unreal. To be in motion going somewhere at last in time. History, as a cut-out almost two dimensional.

It is usually after we have suffered ourselves, one way or another, for one reason or another that we become the wiser for it.

Toa Payoh looked like yellow teeth sticking up from the bite of the river. Rushing past the Squibb Buildings and The Watchtower I was pushed, shoved, blared at, then honked. Stalled and stuttering, in the heat, down the ramp, and onto the long stunted boulevard Kim Seng Road.

No love in my life except death.

I thought Sienna would be terrified. Disappointed in me, too. That for once, this was a manly feeling.

I thought she did not, could not, love him as a man, the President, but as her idol. Some God..... Didn't see Sienna anywhere, though, and felt so sad but sadder still for Poh Quee. Not to know me as I really was. Ever. Thought Suman would surely recognize me and love me as his assassin. I had some respect for him or why else kill? We would share this out-of-the-way passion. No more corruption. I would make sure. The garbage gets collected because he is a friend to man.

He speaks at a union hall at the corner of the street. Grandstands built out of sections of board painted gray. For the VIPs. Stuff like that. All in straw hats. The crowd cheering, laughing, gnattering. Even from a block away, they seem restless for his love. Gray mice in a cage of shadows. Secret service men everywhere in metallic suits.

Me at three blocks away when I see his limo glisten. It moves a little at a time into the crowd. Like hot lava. Secret service men running along both sides for protection. Cameras clicking, whirr of TVs, and those men with big weapons like bars on their shoulders. A mash of VIPs, and these damn secret service men of course around the President candidate. He makes his way through the crowd with all his excellence adored. Cheering him for simply being there with them, I think they are fools who deserve to be slaves to such masters. Keeping my thoughts to myself. Me with all my guns like heavy wrenches walking slowly toward that mob, boots burn my ankles. Stayed way in the rear near the fringes, slightly hunched over, hands shoved inside of my pockets. Removed them only once to pop a coupla reds. I felt drained. Wilted. Glasses pinching to the bridge of my nose. There would be red marks tonight again on the sides of my nose. I stayed. Stayed back. Out of sight at first out of mind. Must remember be still. Quiet. Sullen for the sake of death.

The red dyed hair was a sign that I was in killer mode and should be left alone. The effect is startling as if I had finally broken with any semblance of sanity and was now totally in the grip of my psychosis.

Deputy Prime Minister Suman has launched into his "We the people" spiel as I applaud every turn of his event.

I now know. There is a power - higher above others - that rests in the light. The rays, they pass through my skin, warming my inner soul. The shine reaches into my depths, and springs my spirit forth in a bounce. From my long sleep I awaken with new vigor, my feet now gripping into the ground; a smile creases across my face. Yet the power that courses within me is nothing like the past, it is a gentleness, a breeze of delight that tingles through my entire body and to the fingertips. I gasp, in a good peaceful kind of shock, for I find within me is a full, abundant well filling with hope. It brims, ready to pour and seeking to fill unto others - not a time does the inner voice seek a selfish glory. It is pure, this spirit, and I long no longer for the darkness that once I called home. Thank you God.

Saw that same secret agent guy I spoke to a week or so ago. On the platform, next to Suman and Sienna's Tom. No Sienna anywhere. Periscope face of secret agent scanning through the crowd. I duck behind a woman's bare freckled back to an applause from the crowd.

Suman speaks: ".... And with your help we will go into victory at the polls Tuesday...."

Big applause me moving closer. The closer I get the louder his voice. He steps back. I lunge forward. I have my hand on the gun through my open jacket.

".............You come from many different backgrounds, from many different parts of the world. Asia, Europe even a few from Central America; all ages, young and old; different professions. But you all have one thing in common – you have adopted Singapore and Singapore is now your new home. So, welcome to our family!........Your loyalty – which is your country, who are your fellow citizens and the emotional attachment of you and your family, the places, the memories, where you feel you really belong. I also encourage Singaporeans to make the effort on their part – to help the new arrivals to integrate and to settle in, especially on a personal level."

Secret service agent motions to his buddy. They are pointing my direction.

I have my hand on the gun: Access to the holster. A numbness. Suman starts down the stairs. He will come down the stairs, toward me. Come toward my gun.

So amiable. Like three frogs in a swamp. That nice thin smile. And hardly any sweat on his face. He is coming toward me in the crowd. The secret agent leads the way, scanning through the crowd. Access to the holster means I can now do as I wish.

Suman and agent and me.

I start to run. "Detain that man"

I am wanted. Suman knows I do not love him as I should. God for the love of one person. Poh Quee.

"Detain that man!"

They are after me I know I can hear them but I am fast and only I know where I am going.

Suman speaks, "We do good from the bottom of our hearts. Regardless of race, language or religion. Blood only has one colour. They are everywhere due to globalisation same goes with Sporean working abroad they are also foreigner. So you telling me a foreigner meets with an accident and requires blood you will tell blood bank to give it the the fellow cos he/she is a foreigner? What logic is that? Treat people like how you wish to be treated."

Big applause me moving closer.

The crowd loud against its hands claps big paddles being waved. Cries "You said it Mr Suman."

"We're with you.........."

The closer I get to his voice, a little dimming my ears all headachey. "And on... to victory next November!"

I am wrestling with this old man he is the corpse of all old men, of death and I am strapped underneath his one good arm so I can barely reach that knife.

Calf of my right foot this knife I bless against the large downrushing palm of the old man.

His hand is stuck against my knife screaming pain and more pain: Don't kill me Don't kill me

Why not? The police are coming. I can hear all their sirens.

I cradle him like a lover as he pleads: Don't kill me don't kill me

One old man with an open mouth frightened of death.

Someone shouts, "Don't kill him! Don't kill him!"

Why not? I've pinned him beneath me. I have this gun.

I guess I always had this pretty bad temper. A very bad temper. Why the hell not?

Pain

Shouts.

Well I didn't like feeling so helpless. I felt so weak suddenly tired and drained as if it had all exploded inside of me and there was nothing left. Nothing to live for blowing it that way.

I put that gun to my head. Well I was going to kill myself. I opened that door.

I said, And Doing This ALL FOR YOU, as I started to squeeze that trigger but my hand was weak from the knife sticking through it. Couldn't squeeze quite hard enough before this police officer person bursts through the open door with his gun drawn and he shoots me.

Shoots that gun right out of my hand.

Hits me on the wrist so it thudded on the carpet.

Then some other officers came through the door.

My voice croaked inside of me. I pointed a finger at my head went, "Pgghew." And that's all I remember.

Riot Sweeps Singapore

One Singapore citizen attempted to assassinate President Candidate Suman Shammugan yesterday, causing panic to the new Citizen swearing in ceremony and sparking unrest in the later part of the day. Presidential Candidate Suman escaped unharmed.

"Apparently, the lone gunman was retrenched as a computer engineer and had to seek a lowly paid menial job." National Police spokesman Sr. Commander. Zulkarnaen said.

Morny Teo, a security guard who was colleagues with Tan Cheng Juan at Public Housing Authority said he was astonished at the news.

"He basically was socially awkward but not to the degree that would warrant suspicion of mass murder or any atrocity of this magnitude" Teo said. "I did not see any behavior he exhibited that indicated he would be capable of an atrocity of a magnitude like this."

But Singapore Police Commissioner Ray Goh said he "clearly looks like a deranged individual."

"He had his hair painted red. He said he was The Joker, obviously the enemy of Batman," Goh told reporters, referring to a character in the Batman comic and cinematic universe known for committing acts of random, chaotic violence.

The unrest yesterday at Toa Payoh PHA Auditorium was under control and an investigation has been launched, Zulkarnaen said. After the assassin was arrested, another 10,000 strong crowd gathered to protest and sing the National Anthem. Apparently, it was sparked off by a Facebook comment posted, ""We should re-enact a version of JFK assassination on our grandstand during our new Citizens swearing in ceremony in PHA Toa Payoh Auditorium tomorrow!"

"It was a spontaneous action. However, the Singapore Police is now investigating to determine if Cheng Juan was the one who sparked off the riot with his Facebook comment," he said.

Singapore Police chief Chief Commander Nora Phang immediately went to the scene to try to disperse the crowd who comprised of new Singapore citizens from Philippines, Myanmar, Indonesia, China and India.

"I am on your side. I want you all to stay in Singapore. Your families are waiting for you." he told the crowds through a loudspeaker.

One witness said that xenophobia was at the core of the violent unrest.

"This is about national pride, so he was angry," said a man identified as Kien Boon. "Angry at the world, angry at Singapore's pro-foreigner immigration policies and causing widespread unemployment among Singapore-born citizens, angry at the income disparity, angry that he has to work 30 years before he can retire while our foreign counterparts need only work for 4 years to retire."

Then, an hour later, about 10,000 Singaporeans, most who were believed to be unemployed, were later observed outside the PHA, singing the National Anthem and other patriotic songs.

Zulkarnaen also said 100 new citizens from the ceremony were escorted out by 400 Police officers, including members of the elite Mobile Brigade "There is no report of fatalities. The mob only destroyed 12 vehicles," he said.

The foreign born new citizens were evacuated by police cars. Four were injured in the clash, including an Indian citizen identified as Wilendra, who is being treated at an undisclosed hospital.

The Ministry of Manpower and Transmigration on Thursday dispatched teams to try to resolve the conflict and mediate a solution between the Singapore protesters at PHA.

"We regret the incident, which was caused by a misunderstanding," Manpower Minister Iqbal Iskandar said at his office. "We have dispatched a fact-finding team to resolve the matter. The team will monitor developments in the case and prevent similar incidents from ever occurring again."

The team is led by Simon Chee the director of industrial relations dispute resolution, the minister said.

The incident was just the latest social unrest to take place in Singapore.

Last month, Singaporeans are up in arms over a foreign scholar's derogatory comment that "there are more dogs than humans in Singapore".

The Ministry of Education (MOE) scholar in question, Su Xu from China, was referring to his unpleasant experience with Singaporeans as he brushed against them.

A rough translation of his Chinese blog post read: "It's so annoying to have gangster Singapore uncles stare at you when you bump into them. There are more dogs than humans here in Singapore."

His comment has outraged Singaporeans, who questioned MOE policies. Some have even called for Su's scholarship to be revoked.

Two Cabinet Ministers have taken a strong stance against brewing xenophobic sentiments in Singapore.

Mr Suman described the vitriol towards foreigners, especially in online discussions, as "out of our Singaporean character" in his Facebook post on Monday.

"Bad behaviour by a small number of foreigners does not justify spiteful comment about foreigners in general, or all foreigners of a particular race. It does no one good," he wrote.

Poh Quee's Afterword

I went back to his work because for some reason, Bobby treated me better after the riots broke out. What else can I tell you? Suman lost his Presidency but had to share a coalition with another unknown candidate Chua Kim Poh who is formerly an accountant with KPMG. For a while, I had quite a reputation in XingPost. The boss called me up and said he is leaving his job in Singapore for Philippines because his work permit was rejected and not renewed. Looks like there are major policy changes to these immigrants after he lost his bid!

Sienna came back to meet me yesterday to sign the final divorce papers. Said she is leaving me for Bobby to go back Philippines. Said she will contest me for the house and will hear from her lawyer on a pre-trial conference soon. I took a small saliva sample from a straw she drank from.

By Friday I had totally forgotten about it and around 5:30 my phone rang and it was the doctor himself! I thought wow, this new doctor really goes for the personal service and then it hit me, this must be good. My heart began to race. So he says, "Your wife's test came back abnormal. There are some abnormal cells. I have no reason to believe it's cancer but you need to come back in for a biopsy of your cervix. You also tested positive for high risk strains of HPV (the virus that causes cervical cancer)" That rings in my head, biopsy...never fun.... of my what? Now the thing about CIN 1 Type 3 cervical dysplasia is really is the best kind to have. It is supposedly not genetic and it is fast growing you could just one year before you actually develop cancer. Think all that warm milk and not washing your foreskin for 1 week really breeds the virus!

