Conspiracy Theories

  1. There has been a meeting of minds amongst various subterranean creatures on the subject of adult torture: make movies based on children’s books.
  2. Tthere has been a desert’s worth of good movies because aliens have taken over Hollywood. Spielberg? Confirmed alien, sub species bipedal four-eyeds.
  3. If you see mushrooms growing outside your house, watch out for leprechauns. Signs indicate increased activity and missing gold, explaining the sudden hiccup in prices.
  4. Porkers caught walking on hind legs and smoking cigars: invasion of Red Ham imminent.

A weird, cloaked guy with rusty scythe was last spotted walking around neighbourhood looking for strange, sand-filled contraption. Promises of death and doom for “those dratty thieves!”; “quick and painless” rewards offered for capture of camo-khakied cats last seen in the vicinity of the local bawah pokok.


I sipped my teh-tarik and imagined whole lists for the billboard, a curry-spotted affair with ah long cards stapled haphazardly. I cursed my luck and the rat collective for visiting such horrors upon me. I found myself in possession of my very own garbage disposal system: rate of garbage consumed = rate of rat population growth x number of rats per rat household. I stumbled onto my very own rat warrens while flushing the toilet. I saw eyes peeking at me from beneath my various floaters and I knew something was not right.

Further investigation brought me face to face with the big rat honcho one fateful night. Deals were brokered, pacts were made: I sold my garbage to vermin, and they paid with cheese. I feared for my soul but told no one. If you should read this and I’ve not updated with a similarly innane post, I’ve probably had my liver chewed out.

Fucking Nazis.

So I sipped my teh tarik and wondered about the evolutionary leaps forward these rats have taken. My friend Tok joined me while I marvelled at Nature’s luminescent mysteries and conundrums.

“Eh, bodoh, what’s this about rats?”

“I have a vermin problem,” I said.

“Obviously,” he said. Sly fucker. He’s about to overcharge me. “I’ll get them off your back for 50 bucks up front,” he said.

“If I give you a carrot now, will you guarantee me performance?” I said. I sounded so like my bosses.

“No, I’d make carrot stew,” he said. “Oi! Teh tarik satu!”

“You can’t make stew out of carrots,” I said.

“Yes you can, you make carrot stew with rats,” he said, grinning ear to ear. I thought I saw him salivate. What a porker.

“Don’t you find that disgusting?” I said, grimacing.

“No, rat stew in carrots is good for eyesight,” said Ali, our very own fish-eyed proprietor. He had eyes the size of golf balls and they stood 3/4 out of his sockets. Impossibly tall and impossibly skinny, like a claymation character out of a Tim Burton flick.

“Impossible!” I said.

“I’ve got some rat stew now, if you’d like to try,” Ali offered, a little too eagerly. I didn’t want golf balls for eyes, so I politely turned him down. Furthermore, I had a real fear of eating one of big rat honcho’s kind; unintended consequences abound when you piss off the head rat.

“So what do you say?” said the porker.

“Couldn’t you, I don’t know, napalm the whole damn thing? For friendship’s sake?” I said, a little too plaintively; I moderate and whine when I need favours.

“I’m taking considerable risk lah,” porker said. His curry-stained shirt and twigs in his hair didn’t give me confidence, and neither did his 80″ waist. The porker was a friend of a cousin’s twice removed (and dead). A native of parts unknown, he showed up one day at my aunt’s with his loud booming voice, a B.O. that could knock your socks off and his door-frame defying paunch.

“I think I’ll pick someone who’s less of a target,” I said, turning away. The other customers were shaking their heads. I’ll have my house back in no time, I thought. All I needed was a good plan and a shitload of cheese. Or a shitload of cheese and a flamethrower: walk softly and carry a big, fucking napalm-tossing device thing. That sort of thing.

“You should try my rat stew,” Ali said - more like ‘ventured to say’ - rubbing his hands in anticipation; you could tell he loved his rats (sauteed, braised, stewed or souped - he looked the sort).

“No, I don’t want no goddamn rat stew,” I said, frowning and waving him off.

“So was that a yes or a no?” said Ali, also frowning. Porker was roaring drunk on teh tarik by this time. (What do those people put in this stuff, eh?) and working his way through his second glass of milk-engulfed tea.

“NO!” I screamed. Ali walked off, muttering in some strange dialect. I was flustered by this time. I turned to observe my house, while porker sloshed about in a drunken rage about there being “no bloody doughnuts in this place!” It was dark, and I could just make out smoke peter out, little smoke circles floating up a shaft of horrid green light. Bloody industrial rat complex.

“Whersh ‘em bloddy ratssh, eh?” weaved my very drunk friend.

“Well bloody there, can’t you see it,” I said.

“Ooohh pretty lightshh!” said porker. I imagined my dear mum patting me on my head, going “Got your things ready, dear?”

Yes, mum. It’s napalm-action time!