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tina223

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发表于 2014-10-14 15:23:14 |只看该作者 |倒序浏览 微信分享

本帖最后由 tina223 于 2014-10-22 10:23 编辑

I awoke to the smell of Jun Guay. The smell wafted in from afar, and grew more provocative as I rose to my feet trying as hard as I can to find its causa sine qua non. It reminds me of  a cesspool filled with Jun Guay shit to the brim that has its lid blown off by a Mr Chow who's been kicking up some heat lately in the name of democracy, though, in the Jun guay sense of that word which is equivalent to anarchy in the eyes of my founding fathers.

I scouted the Jun Guay terrain using my peepers aided with binoculars in hopes of ferreting out the perps as I'd been practicing perp walks a trillion times in my mind and was chomping at the bit at every opportunity of putting it to practice.

I looked at eye level out the double glazed windows of my hotel room that my Jun Guay tour guide stuck me in. He paid a peppercorn rent, out of a significant sum he diddled out of me under the pretext of justifiable rent, to the Jun Guay land lady who grew a beard so conspicuous that could effortlessly cause diarrhea in those within a radius of 10 miles. As a matter of course and in the usual course of things, whatever is left of the funds I entrusted to my beloved Jun Guay tour guide is deemed justifiable tips to suppress his innate pilfering hunger befitting a Jun Guay.

All of a sudden, I heard Microsfot jingle chime in, followed up with a flurry of clickety-clacks grunting in the distance. Among corrugated iron rooftops, stacked chimneys, a tableau of vestiges of a former British colony, and across a big swathe of industrial shithole littered with chemical waste reeking of burnt plastics, my gaze eventually riveted upon a cage home smack dab on the opposite side. As I zoomed in on the cage home for which various government ordinances had in the past been promulgated and forced upon its residents to prevent death by excessive odor, a familiar silhouette heaved in sight, of a man at a rugged table, tapping away at the keyboard and feeding the computer processor with Jun Guay parlance at 1GB/second; rivulets of sweat streaming down his awkwardly jutted out forehead onto his mitts which he used to boast about cutting into a stack of plywood, only to be ridiculed on live telly for his failed attempt in full view of the audiences which were numbered in multiples of million. Oh, look what I've found, I whispered to myself, "a hidden treasure by the name of "Jo" who was so profoundly misunderstood  misinterpreted misjudged and misapprehended as to be put away under a lock and a key in a cage home.

As I looked on further, the excitement of anticipation gripped my heart tighter.  If I had any doubt bout who he's, I am now pretty sure he's what I think he is. Half naked from waist up, bobbing his disproportionately huge head front and back as he yapped and growled at the computer screen, Jo had intermittent bouts of what he called "highs", which others considered schizophrenia.

Sitting next to Jo is a man in his early 40s who is as remarkable as the 4 letter words he used for his ID  which seems to rekindle a patriotic flare long forgotten since Hongkong became used to the daily rut of sucking up to the trident and shield. That man's been busy posting up extracts from his biography which's been spun for as long as he's been in this world for, and is remarkable for only one theme weaving through it all, namely how proud he is playing corpse since the time immemorial.

Jo and his cage mate work unceasingly, determined to wreak a havoc upon anyone daring to stand in the way of their lofty ideals of Jun Guay Democracy.