Some weeks ago, at Phsar Chas (Old Market), an ordinary looking fish vendor suddenly threw her basin of still alive fishes to a stunningly beautiful lady buyer. The lady vendor ran inside the wet market as fast as she can, too fast in fact for a human. The people around could hardly keep track of her. If she was moving normally, the rest of the people would look like they were almost at stand still. The beautiful lady, dripping in her trendy dress, the fabric hugging her shapely body, was surprisingly collected. She was almost emotionless, as if she didn’t mind the fishy bath at all. Only a glint of a smirk on her lips and eyes, if one can catch it all, gave away a murderous intent. She let the fish vendor got away, but only for a few seconds, like a hunter giving her prey a head start. Then she jumped to the other side of the market, a full block wide to head off his escaping victim. The vendor was looking behind to see if she was getting caught when the hand went into her chest and rips her heart out. People saw the spurting blood and screamed in terror. Stampede followed. Policemen tried to get through the crowd or to ask what it was but the people were too terrified and confused as to what they have just seen.
At the Moat Tonle (riverside), tourists and locals were caught by surprise by a giant surge of water that went over the concrete banks, on to the sidewalks and into the tourist hotels and restaurants, sweeping chairs and tables. At the Old Market, side of the river, the dying vendor with her heart missing from her gaping chest, transformed into a scaly mermaid with two legs and long elaborate fins that looked like clothes covering her vital parts. The water from the river came and claimed her body as the victorious one ate the still beating heart. The police fired warning shots and demanded the woman to surrender. Wet, dripping with blood, the stunning beauty raised her other hand to their direction. Jets of dark water came out her fingertips and pierced the foreheads of the men. They slumped on the flooded floor quivering in a death throe. The lady walked over them and disappeared into the now empty wet market, the remaining brownish river water turning murky black as she walked in it. Creatures that were washed up from the river turned into dark poisonous things. The news reports were a mess, people thought it was a movie stunt. The police couldn’t come up with a clear explanation so they came up with the story that a group of gangsters who prey on tourists had a shoot out with the responding force and that three officers were killed and that an unknown woman went missing. And that the police have a good lead on whom the gang leader was. The description somewhat resembles every big motorbike riders in town.
He is already out of the city on his way to the pagoda in Kulen Mountains when he senses that he is being followed. There are the usual vans used as mini-buses and always dangerously overloaded with people and baggage including motorcycles tied to the back hanging precariously from the opened door next to passengers crammed like sardines. There are the usual Land Cruisers and Lexus 476s, the usual Hummer…no, a civilian issue Hummer out here in the province is not common at all. One look at his side mirror alerts the stalkers that they are detected. The Hummer roars angrily and gains distance quickly intent to run him over. He goes full throttle. The Honda Hornet 650 cc engine whirrs in a high pitch as the big bike narrowly avoids the hummer’s bumper. He sees the Hummer windows are going down. He leans forward hugging the bike with his legs, his arms clipped in the classic racer position. Automatic weapons jut out from the windows. There’s a curve coming up. He leans in to cut the curve and extends his knee just as bullets ravage the concrete road, missing his legs and cutting down rice stalks laden with golden rice. He feels the air warmed as bullets whizz around him as if in slow motion in his heightened senses. Then the hummer spins out at the curve, hitting the graveled roadside, sending rocks flying. Some guns fall from the hands of the attackers as they slam on the hummer’s window frames, clattering in the howls of engines and screech of tires. The men who lose their guns simply pull out more guns and aim at their elusive prey once again.
He does not give them a good aim as he weaves against the traffic, causing the Humvee to avoid awry vehicles. Visal is getting away. Inside the Humvee, a thin-lipped, girly voice screams at a shortwave radio, “Cut him down! Cut him down! Fuck! He’s getting away!”
At the Moat Tonle (riverside), tourists and locals were caught by surprise by a giant surge of water that went over the concrete banks, on to the sidewalks and into the tourist hotels and restaurants, sweeping chairs and tables. At the Old Market, side of the river, the dying vendor with her heart missing from her gaping chest, transformed into a scaly mermaid with two legs and long elaborate fins that looked like clothes covering her vital parts. The water from the river came and claimed her body as the victorious one ate the still beating heart. The police fired warning shots and demanded the woman to surrender. Wet, dripping with blood, the stunning beauty raised her other hand to their direction. Jets of dark water came out her fingertips and pierced the foreheads of the men. They slumped on the flooded floor quivering in a death throe. The lady walked over them and disappeared into the now empty wet market, the remaining brownish river water turning murky black as she walked in it. Creatures that were washed up from the river turned into dark poisonous things. The news reports were a mess, people thought it was a movie stunt. The police couldn’t come up with a clear explanation so they came up with the story that a group of gangsters who prey on tourists had a shoot out with the responding force and that three officers were killed and that an unknown woman went missing. And that the police have a good lead on whom the gang leader was. The description somewhat resembles every big motorbike riders in town.
He is already out of the city on his way to the pagoda in Kulen Mountains when he senses that he is being followed. There are the usual vans used as mini-buses and always dangerously overloaded with people and baggage including motorcycles tied to the back hanging precariously from the opened door next to passengers crammed like sardines. There are the usual Land Cruisers and Lexus 476s, the usual Hummer…no, a civilian issue Hummer out here in the province is not common at all. One look at his side mirror alerts the stalkers that they are detected. The Hummer roars angrily and gains distance quickly intent to run him over. He goes full throttle. The Honda Hornet 650 cc engine whirrs in a high pitch as the big bike narrowly avoids the hummer’s bumper. He sees the Hummer windows are going down. He leans forward hugging the bike with his legs, his arms clipped in the classic racer position. Automatic weapons jut out from the windows. There’s a curve coming up. He leans in to cut the curve and extends his knee just as bullets ravage the concrete road, missing his legs and cutting down rice stalks laden with golden rice. He feels the air warmed as bullets whizz around him as if in slow motion in his heightened senses. Then the hummer spins out at the curve, hitting the graveled roadside, sending rocks flying. Some guns fall from the hands of the attackers as they slam on the hummer’s window frames, clattering in the howls of engines and screech of tires. The men who lose their guns simply pull out more guns and aim at their elusive prey once again.
He does not give them a good aim as he weaves against the traffic, causing the Humvee to avoid awry vehicles. Visal is getting away. Inside the Humvee, a thin-lipped, girly voice screams at a shortwave radio, “Cut him down! Cut him down! Fuck! He’s getting away!”