Sunday, June 11, 2006


"I’m not sure if I want to go through with this”

“Huh?! Did I just hear you want to chicken out?”. It was Uncle; the man was not happy – his brows furrowed and despite his dark glasses, I sensed two burning orbs ready to bore a hole through my slight five seven frame.

“Sorry Uncle”, I stammered, “I can’t – I’ll make a mistake. You said no mistakes. You take me inside I’m going to mess up. I will. I swea ..”

Uncle reached out and slapped me hard upside the head. I saw stars – like on Saturday morning cartoons only worse and it hurts like a bitch – and I instinctively put up my right hand again ready to fend off another blow.

The Twins – the two Rajs seated in front said nothing. Raj One and Raj Two just stared straight ahead; Raj One both hands in custom leather gloves resting on the steering. These guys were stoked and set to go – and our latest development, this little altercation between the boss and I; well they figure, knowing how Uncle operates, either – One, the man pulls out his gun and shoot me, to hell with the leather upholstery, he’ll do the job solo - or Two, I’m suitably cowed and as planned and rehearsed many times over the last month follow the boss-man inside the bank and be prepared to make a quick exit.

“We spent months on this- planning everything down to the last detail; you pull out now I swear you’ll never see that stupid wife of yours again”, said Uncle and added, “All it takes is a phone call and the missus ends up in a vat of acid. I get out of this car – you follow me”

He wasn’t my Uncle in the biological sense – definitely not my Mum’s brother or any of my Dad’s sibling or distant relation thank God. The man was just nicknamed that – Uncle. Out of respect and deference to his age – he’s 60 or so - and definitely out of fear as the man is one of Kuala Lumpur’s most notorious gangster and up there on the 25 Most Wanted.

How he managed to avoid capture by the authorities is the stuff of legends. A master of disguise, and an accomplished con, Uncle could talk his way out of police trouble and when the occasion calls for it, slip out of the premises minutes before a raid by PTK (the local SWAT) or vice squad.

And I hear he’s survived a gun battle – took three bullets in his chest, narrowly missing his vital organs only to escape from a secure wing of a hospital weeks later, disappearing back into the underworld. 50 cents has nothing on Uncle. This guy is one mean MF.

The car door opening snapped me back to the present – Uncle had gotten out, a long black sports bag in hand and a nine piece tucked in his belt and hidden by his light brown jacket. Without waiting for me to get out, he made his way to the bank – a modern concrete and glass building with an ATM kiosk beside the entrance – disappearing through the automated doors.

I wasn’t too far behind. The plan was I take care of the jaga behind the doors - usually some old retiree who’d surrender at the first sign of trouble – then knock out the cameras and make sure Uncle has a clear path back to our ride, with hopefully the day’s catch in his sports bag. Easy.

But as the saying goes “ the best laid plans of mice and men …”; there were a few challenges waiting for Uncle and I. Firstly, our jaga was no old fart. He was an Indian guy in his early thirties, six two easy, and looked like he could stop a cannonball if it comes to that. Slung over his shoulder was a Remington 870 pump action, which if memory serves could blow a hole the size of a car tyre in anyone or anything foolish enough to volunteer as a target. And a wicked looking black truncheon hung off his belt, handy backup should his shotgun fail to sufficiently incapacitate his foe.

The moment we entered the air conditioned confines of the bank, the jaga had his eyes on us.

And that wasn’t all – right in front, were four policemen in uniform, queued up amidst the regular customers. They were probably there to cash their cheques or some such. Each officer had a firearm hanging off their belt and every few minutes, we would hear a burst of static from their radios. A squad car is most probably nearby.

We could use a Plan B, right about now.


Blogger Ricky Smith said...

Keep up the good work friend. Glad to be part of your net community.

ghostwriter for hire
affordable editing and proofreading

5:48 AM  

Post a Comment

<< Home