Title: Calling my Exes - Nanny in Weapons Movie
(Directed and produced by Chris Stuntmann - my favorite movie blogger turned stuntman. Starring: Murakami, Kafka and Nanny - all played by my exces)
Blog #2
Mamak night. One limau ais. One cheap cigarette. One broken heart.
Who do I call? The only person who will pick up: May.
Me: "Where you?"
May: "Backlane escape again.'
Champion sprinter. Gold medalist in the 100m Vanish With Slippers, off course with silicon strap on top.
Eight years ago, I woke up to a shock - the kind of twist that flips your whole life like a bad movie ending. My own Crying Game (1992 film) moment. Except mine? Norwegian Wood, minus the wood.
Promises gone faster than Britian's EU membership. Wallet gone, Gril gone. Still can't talk to women. Loser status: Premium Plus.
At home, I call Selome. She picks up, hangs up.
I call again.
Me: "Pretty, what you doing?"
Selome, "Sorry, I thought you were scammers."
Me? Scammer? Please, I don't even know how to scam Good Morning, Vietnam.
She talks. Talks. Talks.
Less Before Sunrise, more Before Coma. I sneak into the toilet.
There he is, Kafka the cockroach, waving his tentacles like a gangster.
'Qi Murakami, stop copying my work. I was here first not on the shore, in the toilet bowl."
Next to him crouches a Murakami cat, blinking like it already knows my ending.
Selome: "What you doing?"
Me: "Collecting rent from Kafka. Feeding the cat."
Truth: just peeing, half asleep on the bowl.
Then hallucination hits. too much limau ais.
Suddenly, I'm in that famous horror scene - axe in hand, bathroom door creaking.
But instead of Jack Nicholson shouting, it's her - the Nanny from Weapons
My ex, but older. Uglier. Still grumbling like she never stopped.
Wrinkles for battle scars. Mouth for machine gun. The final boss of heartbreak.
*Supposed to put my exes' photos here but that would outgross Weapons at US$20m. Soinstead, kafka hides in the shower, and Murakami's cat guards the slippers.'
At 2.17 a.m, I give up.
In Weapons, the kids were flipping their hands, rushing out of the house into the darks.
Me? I turn into a baby sea turtle, flipping my front hands, diving not into the ocean, but into my waterbed.
Fifteen years later, I'm still calling my exes. A cheap Netflix sequel: Lost in Translation: Toilet Bowl Editon.
Moral: Never call you ex. She won't return as your lover only as Murakami, Kafka, or worst of all, the Nanny in Weapons.
P/S: This month is Chinese Halloween Month, limau ais - cold lemonade water.
P/S 2: This is the funny version. The literacy one lives inside my novella Rain and Sun.