CHAPTER 1 Zeke

Another Day, Same Shit

Zeke pressed the mute button on the Avaya phone and cursed in silence. Fuck. I hate this job.

He remembered what his trainer had said to smile always. It would come across the opposite end of the phone. At first, he thought about how ludicrous it sounded and how silly he'd look, smiling by himself while talking on the phone. However, he realized that—once he finished the two-month training and took calls—his whole temperament would change once he did it. It made a difference and affected the whole call flow. So he took a deep breath, exhaled, smiled his creepy jack o' lantern smile, and unmuted the Avaya.

"Thanks for staying on the line Mr. Grass. Is it Mr. Grass again—?"

"GLASS. G-L-A-S-S, you dumb shit. Grass is for cows. Wait a minute. Am I speaking to an American? Because you don't sound like one. You sound like a talking monkey."

"Mr. Glass let me assure you, I am an American. Now about the reason for your call, you mentioned about a charge on your bill that you don't recognize…"

"I know what a real American should sound like and you my friend are not. I'd like to speak to one please, if you don't mind."

Zeke muted the phone again and thought: Is this guy for real? Does this idiot know of our shared history? By definition, the Philippines is a Colony of the USA, therefore I am an American in every sense of the word. This guy's not only racist but stupid as well. He unmuted and said: "Mr. Glass, let's not get into a debate about history and politics, and please, let us get back to the present problem at hand. The charge on your bill is from porn—"

"You have that accent I hate. If a monkey could speak, that's what you sound like."

That's it. "Mr. Glass. If you continue this way, I'd need to disconnect the call."

"Eat a banana monkey. Tell your boss I want to speak to an American, RIGHT NOW!"

Click.

Fuck. I hate this job. I hope the next one's better.

"Ezekiel? Press Aux 4 on your phone. I need to speak with you."

Huh? "Oh it's you TL. Yes and I'm on my way to your station."

Zeke's immediate boss was Sophie, the team leader in the call center company where he worked in. It was his third job for the year.

He and his kind were a common fixture in the industry. "Call center hopper" was the derisive term for them—a frequent transferee from one call center to another. Their common practice was: to stay with the company for a few months, find an obtuse reason to quit then readily look for another one.

Sophie recognized this type and knew how to deal with the likes of him.

"Good evening TL. Is this my scheduled coaching for the week?"

"Well, it's supposed to be tomorrow but I've decided to do this today. I've been listening to your calls and the last one especially—"

"Oh you have… Sorry."

"Why the long face Zeke? You look like you've lost the Kentucky Derby. After all, you're still a newbie in my team. I don't expect you to be the greatest call center agent that ever lived in his first week. As my former TL would say when I was still an agent like you: every call still has room for improvement."

"So you're saying I'm fine and not in trouble?"

"Well yes and no. I'm giving you some leeway because you're still new, but you need to be improving, and from what I've been listening, you haven't. You commit the same mistakes over and over again."

"Really? Like what?"

"Well for one, your tone of voice. You sound condescending, like you're above everyone else. You should sound friendly and accommodating. Our line of business is customer service and nobody wants to ask for help with that kind of tone over the phone."

"Wow. Nobody told me that before."

"Well now you know. Anyway that's why I'm here, to help make the best that you can be. I've devised an action plan for you…"

After the productive side-by-side, Zeke walked the long hallway towards the pantry for a bite to eat. He saw friends and coworkers in their stations still taking calls. He smiled and nodded to those that noticed.

The whole office space was so big and wide like a parking lot, which was the original design and purpose by the architects of the building. They just made minimal adjustments to make it workplace-ready. It was also so cold that he always wore thick woolen pullovers. He had a suspicion the bosses did this on purpose to keep the employees awake and on their toes. It worked for him and couldn't even think of sleeping. He was too busy trying to keep himself as warm as possible. He wasn't supposed to get used to the cold. He remembered something about this, mentioned in the bylaws of the Sons of Lapu-Lapu, a secret society of which he was a new member: AN AVOWED MEMBER OF THE SOCIETY SHOULD NOT BE SEDUCED BY THE COMFORTS OF THE MOTHER COUNTRY. THIS WILL WEAKEN YOUR RESOLVE. Good thing he hated the cold.

After the snack, he walked back to his station. He looked at the time—still two minutes remaining until pressing Aux 9 for "on phone" and two hours 'til the end of shift.

He glanced at the chubby appearance of TL Sophie, sitting on a high stool in front of a laptop. She wore ill-fitting clothes that were two sizes smaller than her bodily dimensions. She came across to him like an overstuffed cupcake, still tasty despite the bulgy appearance. He imagined what she might have looked like when she was younger and thinner. The image he saw in his mind was of a Slavic princess—blond hair and soft skin. Hmmm… If she only took care of herself… he wondered. He guessed correctly that she was a 2nd generation immigrant from the Mother Country of the United States of America. She was Caucasian by birth but now was a bit tanned due to the tropical heat. Her platinum blond hair was the only remnant of her family's past. Like all the others of her kind, she had been reintegrated into the Colony from which she was able to thrive. She saw him looking at her and their eyes met. He became flustered and broke eye contact.

His workday ended at 5 am; it was still dark out. He said his polite goodbyes to his coworkers and took the elevator going down to the main lobby. All the floors in his building were Call Center companies with different lines of support and were distinguished by the rows of blinking lights on the elevator wall.

He walked outside his building and his senses were overcome by the squalor of the surroundings. There was a stark contrast inside and outside the building, like cold heaven versus filthy hell. Buildings were like mini-cities within themselves, the taller ones were interconnected by footbridges a few floors up. They were able to co-exist and were co-dependent with each other. As organized as they were upside, the people ground side was living like rats. In the social order of the Colony, he was upper-middle-class and protected from this. The rats were the unfortunate castaways in a society of strict compliance with caste rules, unable to ascend despite themselves. They were born as rats and expected to die like rats. They had to look for a means to survive. Most were druggers—peddlers of cheap drugs and the rest were beggars. They wouldn't dare touch him with their filth, or else…

He contemplated on what kind of drugs to buy. Uppers maybe, like crystal meth or cocaine? Perhaps getting a good fix of heroin? He still wanted to get a night's worth of sleep; he still had to work the next day. He decided to buy a pill bottle of Quaaludes and walked towards the closest drugstore.

He couldn't believe these kinds of drugs were still illegal in other states and territories of the Mother Country. He counted himself lucky that he was living in a society where drugs were readily available for its tax-paying citizens. He knew of its addictive influence but as long as he used it in moderation, then he'd be okay. Anything can be potentially harmful if you abused it, he had rationalized.

He remembered when he was younger, in a particular lesson in school, about the history of the Philippine drug trade. It was by pure happenstance that the Colony was ideally located between China and the East Indies. After the war, the Colony was used as a middle ground for the illegal drug trade. China was the biggest drug manufacturer and sent the bulk to the Colony for processing, distribution, and exportation. Due to its easy access to the Colonists, crime became rampant and drug-related deaths increased exponentially. Since most of the crime was rooted in drugs and was next to impossible to get rid of, the Higher Echelons of the Colony thought of a solution to not abolish its proliferation, but to somehow regulate it. This way it was a win-win for everyone involved. So an edict was passed for the Legalization for the Sale and Usage of Drugs and like magic, the killings stopped. The cartels, kingpins, distributors, and runners were rendered redundant but somehow, due to the trade's survivalist nature, transformed into new entities: pharmaceutical corporations. The cartels found a way to legitimize themselves. They were able to amass great wealth and obtain a stronghold within the governmental corridors. They rose to power. They were the New Gods of this Great Land and drugs were the currency. The need to get fucked up was big business.

He wanted to get smashed, but not totally. He considered taking one pill immediately then another one later in his apartment, after he'd eaten and drank a few rounds in a drug den. He could level out his high and he'd still be able to function the next day. He did exactly that since that was what he usually did on most days. However, one thing happened that veered away from the ordinary and changed the course of his life.

Zeke Meets a Zombie Princess

"Let's meet in the corner of Barbeque Sauce and Toilet Paper."

"Sure."

Both hung up their mobile phones at the same time.

A conversation between two friends with similar interests would always be short and direct to the point. They already knew each other's quirks and traits and were able to predict the other's speech patterns. Zeke knew that his best friend Trevor was also available for the day, was broke, and needed a hit of the good stuff badly. Trevor knew that Zeke had the stuff he desperately needed and already had the drug kit handy. They were both fiends for drugs and this was the tie that bound them.

Zeke arrived first at their same meeting place: the spot on the intersection between two perpendicular street posts. He looked up at the unusual signage and remembered something that his history teacher in school had said, that names of streets and places were changed and Americanized after the war—

"—It was destruction and chaos back then. The whole Metro Manila area was wiped out because of the war. It was the center of command and commerce and was especially targeted for obliteration by the Japanese. Whole governmental buildings were destroyed, and important documents were lost. People who knew about the specific names of streets and places were either dead or missing. It was a blank slate for someone to write on and someone regrettably did. This was fortunate for the Americans who were our returning colonial masters, but unfortunate for us the true blue residents here.

The people that did the mapping, surveying, and planning for the reconstruction of the New Metro—renamed Neo Manila—were a bunch of drug addicts and worse, thought of themselves as comedians of the unfunny sort. They were mostly burned-out American soldiers with PTSD, forced by the higher-ups to do a job that they woefully weren't equipped in. As a result, there was no clear demarcation between cities, towns, communities, and streets. One would leave a particular place, pass a different one and arrive at a place with the same name a mile away. They were usually drugged out of their minds, so they just assigned them with whatever things they saw in their immediate vicinity. It was like this for a long time and confusion reigned.

In time professionals were brought in and everything got fixed. Lines were drawn and cities arose from them. However, the place names that were given by the soldiers were unchanged. I don't know the reason why the masters did this, maybe to teach us a lesson, or maybe to just humiliate us further. If you know why please let me know. So the absurd names stuck. So if you're in the City of Pork and Beans, please don't go to Prune Juice St., or else you might get stuck in Methane Gas Blvd. Then you'll end up in Shitsville. Hahaha—"

Zeke chuckled as he remembered the teacher's dirty punch line. He knew there was no such place called Shitsville; his teacher liked to add funny embellishments to his lessons just to get some laughs and he appreciated him for it. He was crude in an endearing way that left a mark on precocious students like him. He was also the main reason that Zeke got interested in the Colony's distinctive history; he instilled in him a curiosity unchanged by time. This made him a dedicated learner of the culture from pre-Colonial times when the Philippines were still the master of its destiny. This in turn led him to join the Sons of Lapu-Lapu.

This made Zeke proud of himself and of the roots he grew from. He especially loved conversing with people about anything concerning Colonial matters and often drove them to annoyance. He had a know-it-all demeanor that was at times, off-putting. This idiosyncrasy became apparent once he'd taken any narcotic substance and often would engage the unfortunate listener in high-minded debates about the State of the Colony. Only a few people persevered and those that did leave with their egos bruised. Everyone except Trevor didn't care about the mundane stuff that came out of Zeke's mouth or pretty much anything. All Trevor cared about in life was getting a fix of the good stuff.

Trevor had brought the heroin kit. It was an old cigar box with a hypodermic needle, a piece of rubber hose, cotton balls, a dull spoon, and a cigarette lighter inside. He had guessed incorrectly that heroin was the kind that Zeke had bought, not Quaaludes. He accepted this with his trademark nonchalance; he was a guy that always rolled with the punches. After they met up in the corner, Zeke got on board Trevor's old model Ford Fiesta. Trevor asked for one pill and hungrily dry-swallowed it.

"When will I get high from this?" Trevor said.

"About thirty minutes; be patient. This drug was a sedative first so you won't get the typical high that you're used to. But you'll enjoy it nonetheless," said Zeke. "Do you know that Toilet Paper was once a street in the old Metro called San Miguel Avenue? This was a historic part of the city—"

"Nope and I'm not interested," Trevor interrupted. "Don't care and don't want to know."

"Alright. However, I still like the old names. They're part of us, the real us. In a sense, it's what makes us our truer selves."

"What the fuck are you talking about now?"

"Our so-called identity; we don't have one. We're like a bad photocopy from a dirty original. Know what I mean?"

"You high already? It looks like the 'ludes are doing the job."

"Not really, But these are the shit."

"I think I'm feeling it now. Whoa damn! So where're we off to?"

"Up to you. Anywhere, everywhere, nowhere. I don't care…"

###

Destination—Zombie Paradise; it was a bar for zombie movie enthusiasts like Trevor. Apart from the drugs, this was the other thing that he seemed to care passionately about. He loved everything there was about this type of horror film and considered himself a true fan. He loved the movies of George A. Romero, the director, and progenitor of this film subgenre. He considered the first-ever zombie movie from Romero 'The Night of the Living Dead as an original masterpiece and should be up there with the classics like 'The Godfather' and 'Citizen Kane'. The critics labeled him as a schlock filmmaker only and didn't take him seriously, he always said to people who looked down on the director and the genre.

"—I mean have you ever seen any other classic movie monster scarier than a zombie? Dracula, Frankenstein or the Wolfman are pussies compared to a zombie," said Trevor, once they arrived and sat down on the bar stools.

"It's Frankenstein's Monster by the way. Frankenstein is the Doctor's last name. The big ugly guy doesn't have a name in the book and only referred to as such," Zeke said and glanced left and right at the bar, looking for the bartender.

"The Mummy, Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Thing…"

If you think about it, a zombie isn't very original. It's like a mix between a vampire and Frankenstein's Monster—undead and butt-ugly. By the way, why do you think zombies like eating human brains?"

"Because brains taste delicious."

"Really? Have you tasted brains before?"

"Course not. I'm not a zombie."

"You are sometimes, my friend. It's like you don't have feelings at all. You're numb and indifferent about most things that happen in the Colony."

"I just don't care about that stuff. That doesn't make me a zombie."

"Agree to disagree. How can we get a drink around here?" said Zeke and did a slow 360-degree turn with the stool. He looked at his watch. 6 am. Still early in the morning and most people are already wasted. This is my kind of place, he thought. "But where is the fucking bartender?"

Later they got their wish and had their minds blasted, but by moderate means only. In the scale of inebriation that they've concocted, they were right in the middle 50s: a smooth buzzing sensation that transformed you to be the coolest dude in the bar. 90-100 was a blackout wasted feeling, a-crawling-on-the-floor, drooling-like-a-dog kind, which should be avoided at all times. They didn't consider themselves addicts but connoisseurs of fine wine. They were in it just for the taste of it, supposedly.

However, in the back of their minds, they already knew the hard truth: they were already full-blown addicts. Drugs had taken a strong grip on their lives and wouldn't let go.

They—like most of the colonists—were helplessly addicted to the drugs that the Colony willfully supplied to them in great amounts. This was their method of manipulation of the masses. This was their way of controlling them and in the process, turning them into meek sheep. This was the Colony's Greatest Truth and nobody seemed to have suspected it. Most were simply too busy living their drugged-out lives.

Zeke was on the cusp of recognizing this. This knowledge was just beneath the surface of his consciousness, close to emergence, but the drugs were an inopportune anchor and just too heavy. Something or someone had to knock some sense into him and the one that did finally came into his life.

Mary Rose arrived; she was a zombie needle-freak. She was like a whirlwind that blew inside the bar—everyone immediately took notice. She walked leisurely towards the bar and sat on a spare stool beside Trevor. On the surface, she looked like the prototypical Goth girl: tar-black hair with streaks of sky blue, black eye shadow and lipstick, body-hugging light grey tank top, dark grey mini skirt with fishnet stockings on her long legs. Her left arm was fully tattooed. Her skin was as white as sheet but only increased her allure. She also had a thing for zombies, which was how the three of them connected and started chatting.

She added fuel to a never-ending debate that Zeke and Trevor had for the longest time: Zeke with his distaste of the zombie subculture or with any silly import from the mother country versus Trevor's adoration of it. She was on Trevor's side and made their position more convincing. In the end, Zeke lost his stance on the zombie/Colony import debate but gained a new friend.

Later, she invited both of them for a drug fix. Like them, she was also an apparent fiend for drugs but with one kind only: heroin. She beckoned the bartender for the check which she paid in full (to the surprise of Zeke and Trevor). Zombie-like, they shambled out of Paradise and into the noon glare of the hot sun. Their eyes hurt. She said she had a place way up in Paper Clip Hills.

They rode on Trevor's Ford Fiesta in intoxicated silence. Trevor was trying hard to concentrate on his driving, his brows furrowing tremendously. Zeke was on his right and stealing glances in the rearview mirror of Mary Rose sitting in the backseat. She was thinking seriously about something as if reflecting on the great paradoxes of life. He thought she looked like a forlorn princess stuck in a high tower of an enchanted castle. She was frail but beautiful, in a way that a rose wilted after a day without water. He sighed and licked his lips. I hope this is going where I think it's going, he thought.

He looked outside from the car window.

The streets of Neo Manila looked like a series of overturned giant garbage cans.

Each establishment was a gleaming behemoth of the latest architectural design, dedicated to the might of the Mother Country. All had Her brand names plastered on top and nothing was made locally anymore. Every shoe, car, clothing line, appliance, material of all kinds, stores, malls, public and private structures, bars, and/or restaurants originated from Her; even the foodstuffs. The only thing native to the Colony was its citizenry and workforce.

Outside of each were mounds upon mounds of trash. The Colony's Department of Waste Management was a barely functioning body and severely under budget, so the removal and disposal of trash were done once a week at most. The druggers and rats were the ones that rummaged through it and somehow made it less of an eyesore for the higher castes. Despite the contrast of gleam and muck, there was passive cohabitation.

The Fiesta snaked its way in heavy noon traffic towards the destination of Paper Clip Hills. This was a highly secure gated village for the rich and powerful. Armed guards roamed the inner roads and were stationed at every entrance and exit.

This was like a small city within a city and the most exclusive. Everyone important to the Colony had a mansion or condo unit there. Former drug kingpins, now legitimate pharmaceutical CEOs, and Colony bigwigs took shelter in its exclusivity and high fences. Zeke had guessed that Mary Rose was the daughter of Someone Important in the Colony and he was right on the money.

Her father was Chief of Staff Mathias Church, second in command to the Governor of the Colony, and a very powerful man. He was a former cartel lieutenant and through hard work and dogged perseverance, rose from their ranks towards governmental legitimacy. His job was managing and overseeing all of the Colony's agencies, divisions and departments. Everything that has happened or was about to happen in the Colony, he would know about. He had people stationed everywhere that reported directly to him. He was the Colony's top dog and Mary Rose was the family's black sheep.

She was an only child of absentee parents. Her mother was a high society vixen, preoccupied with frivolous things and both were too busy on matters not related to the upbringing of their daughter. She was a lonely child growing up and took refuge in the dark fantasies of Mary Shelley, Victor Hugo, and Bram Stoker. Along with drugs, this helped in filling up the void inside her.

The Fiesta rolled up on the driveway and stopped: they've finally arrived. It took a good two hours but it was worth it. Mary Rose's family residence was huge. It was a stunning house built with extravagance in mind, the design reminiscent of the 19th century Southern-style mansions from the Mother Country. She said to them later, as they picked up their jaws after hitting the floor, that it was his father's total intention.

Chief Church had a predilection for the clothing, architecture, and manner of the pre-Civil War Southern States. Like the majority of the Colonists, he was of mixed heritage—half white and half brown. However, he was predisposed to the Caucasian part of his bodily makeup and thus abided by their ideology, namely the part where white supremacy was celebrated. He fashioned every aspect of himself like the slaveholding southern gentleman of old.

He vainly tried to replicate the sing-songy Foghorn Leghorn drawl of a typical Southern gentleman, but what he could only muster in his vocal cords was like the voice of a mentally retarded person with a speech impediment. However, the southern laidback easy-come-easy-go manner he was able to have down pat: nothing ever flustered him.

The family home in the Hills was patterned after the ornate mansions of wealthy cotton barons: complete with huge pillars, enormous foyers, very grand gardens with geometrically cut bushes, and antique Victorian era furniture. He went as far as employing very dark-skinned uniformed house helpers to mimic the African-American house slaves at that time. "And he whips them as well," Mary Rose whispered as she led them inside.

They weren't surprised. They've heard stories about her father and most weren't good.

One story that Zeke heard about—which was more of an urban legend than fact—was that he and the Higher Echelons kept a secret prison island especially reserved for enemies of the Colony. Anyone that had crossed their paths and displeased them one way or another was sent to this island, which reputedly was called "The Valley." He asked her offhandedly if she knew about this and she replied with a blank stare. He thought that maybe she hadn't heard the question, so he asked again—the same stare. He thought that perhaps he might have hit on a sensitive subject matter, so he didn't push further. So in the filing cabinet in his mind, he put this curious incident under "W" for "WEIRD" and tried to forget about it.

Her parents were gone as usual and only the black-skinned maids remained. They were all like mannequins, standing stiffly on each step of the open stairway. They were staring intently at them. Zeke observed their general demeanor. They looked uncomfortable and ill at ease. They were clasping both hands tightly together like they were praying to some invisible god, the white of their palms peeking from their dark-tinted hands. It looked funny at first but quickly wasn't.

Trevor suddenly asked one wide-eyed maid: "I need to take a giant shit right now. Where can I find the bathroom in a place like this?"

"Oh! Yessir! I'll be happy to! Right this way…" said the maid happily and led Trevor to a different part of the mansion.

They were gone soon after.

"Sorry 'bout that. Trevor has a one track mind. If he needs to do something, he has to do it," said Zeke.

"That's okay, he'll be fine. Let's go to my room. By the way, do you have an extra hypo? I mean, I have my own but I really don't want to share one needle among the three of us," said Mary Rose.

"If you're thinking about AIDS or any disease, I don't have it. I'm clean as a whistle baby," said Zeke and smiled his jack o' lantern smile again. "And Trevor has it in his handy kit."

He had thought this was all a clever ruse for Mary Rose to get inside his pants: talking to them in the bar, inviting them over to her place for a fix of heroin. And now, he was being led to her bedroom. He liked what was happening but a single thought of clarity came to him like a lightning bolt, amidst the cloud of inebriation: Why did we all have to come here in the first place? Drugs aren't illegal. Why didn't she bring it along? He decided that this was just part of the game of seduction she was playing. She didn't bring the heroin with her as a pretense to get me here. He thought for a minute and concluded that everything which had transpired was harmless; all for good fun. Thus his jack o' lantern became wider and brighter.

He was right and at the same time, also wrong.

Dead wrong.

You Learn About Someone from Their Tattoos

As they were waiting for Trevor to finish his gigantic shit (which Zeke had warned Mary Rose that it always took a while), out of nowhere Mary Rose started talking about her tattoos; she had a story for each one of them. Zeke thought this was just part of the game, so he listened attentively:

"Can you see this, below my left shoulder? This is a picture of my younger brother Nathan who died a year ago. How old? He was eight months old, and died of 'crib death.' What is crib death? That's what the doctor said and I don't know what it means. It's like when a baby suddenly dies for no reason while inside a crib. Look at his plump face and silver teardrops. I used to look at him in his little crib while sleeping and always wondered: 'do babies dream?' I wanted to know…

See this here right below Nathan's face? It's a coiled serpent, you know, like in the Garden of Eden; tempting Adam to take a bite of the apple from the Tree of Knowledge. Beware the snake's temptation Zeke.

There is also a purpose for the tattoos Zeke: it's for covering up the needle marks from heroin injections. I shoot up heroin here above the elbow, right into the vein sticking out. So I had to disguise it with something nice to look at, like a basket of mangoes, my favorite kind of fruit.

On my pectoral side, you can see an eggbeater and a cracked-open egg. Why? Why the hell not? I like to eat eggs Zeke, if you may know. It's my favorite food: scrambled, sunny-side, hardboiled, any kind. Don't believe the people which told you that eating lots of eggs is bad for your health. It's good for you Zeke, believe me. I did the research.

On my whole lower arm, these are my favorite monsters in fiction: Dracula, Frankenstein's Monster, the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and course, a zombie. If you can see more closely it's a picture of me—zombified. Aww, thanks so much, Zeke. It just sounds funny when you say 'sexy zombie.'

On my wrist is a toilet bowl, with a rainbow of shit coming in and out. It's pretty self-explanatory Zeke. Do you need an explanation? Jeez… Oh alright. The toilet bowl is me, Zeke. I take in shit wherever I go, especially here at home. That's me, the shit-taker. If you only knew my parents, my dad, especially, not from what you've heard, but from the way I've known him…"

Mary Rose shivered in disgust. Then she stared blankly into space again, like the way when Zeke asked her to explain the urban legend regarding his dad. She was trance-like for five minutes and Zeke at first, didn't know what to do.

He thought about the description he made of her earlier in the car, of an enchanted princess in a tower. It was very apt for that moment; she looked spell-bound. So to kill the time and wait for the "spell" to be broken, Zeke imagined himself as Prince Charming riding on a white horse, on his way to rescue Sleeping Beauty trapped in an enchanted castle owned by a wicked witch. He had to first slay the terrible dragon guarding the castle gate, then ride inside and look for the witch…

He noticed Mary Rose's blank expression change—she began to smile. He was aghast. The smile was the evilest smile he'd ever seen on a human face. It was like the smile of a wicked witch and at that very moment, exactly what he was thinking about. He thought it was a weird coincidence. The smile vanished immediately as soon as he made the connection. In his mind's cabinet, another piece was filed under "WEIRD."

She had finally snapped out of the trance. Without batting an eyelash, she then continued like nothing ever happened:

"And look at my hand, from the wrist and crossing the knuckles, towards each finger going to the nails? Cool right? Like my hand is a dry white skeleton. Wait 'til you see this in the dark, like a dancing skeletal hand. What does it mean you ask? You won't understand, but I'll try to explain as much as I can.

When I was younger, I was bulimic. I hated growing fat and was obsessed with it. I'd throw up regularly after eating my meals. I became so thin that I looked like a walking skeleton, but I kinda liked it. I took pleasure from feeling the protruding bones in my body, caressing the bumps and curves. Even though I could hardly stand or walk because I was just so weak, even so, I've never felt more alive. In time I grew out of it and stopped vomiting. It was just a phase, fortunately. This tattoo is a memory of that special feeling. So whenever I feel bad, I just rub my left hand, and the memory returns.

And the last one is here—" she said and stood up. She then unzipped her short skirt and slid it off. Her crotch was now facing Zeke's face. She was wearing a black see-through lace panty and beneath it on the right side of her upper leg was the tattoo.

Zeke held his breath. This is it, he thought. His heart started beating loudly on his chest like a bass drum. He wasn't looking at the tattoo in question, but the fresh young mound that had the fragrant smell of lilacs and roses. His mouth went dry and felt a tingling sensation in his groin. He was transfixed by it."Wow. It-it-it looks g-g-good…"

"Good, huh? Well maybe it is, in a way. It's the face of my father."

Zeke thought he heard a screech of a car breaking stop. The tingling sensation vanished instantly and his apparent horniness was sucked out from his manhood. The game he thought they were playing suddenly took a bizarre turn. "You have a tattoo of your father's face near your vagina? Why oh why?! What possessed you to do that??"

"Hey! I thought you said it looked good. Do you want to know the story of how I got it or not?"

"Well yes, but I-I-I-I…" Zeke stuttered and couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't want to know the origin of the tattoo; he was already too freaked out by it. He started thinking that coming to her family home was a big mistake.

Mary Rose paid no attention to Zeke's noticeable bafflement and continued: "Despite everything my father has done to me, I still love him. We have a special relationship unlike any father has with a daughter. This tattoo is to honor that relationship."

"You could've put the tattoo anywhere else. I mean, you don't find it weird that it's near your vagina? He's your dad, for crying out loud."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, come on. Do I need to say it?"

"I don't understand."

"Oh forget it. Don't bother," said Zeke. This was a big piece added to his mind's filing cabinet under "W." In any other circumstance this would have been the last straw, Zeke then would have left in a huff. But for him, this was different and she was different. However, the game of seduction that he thought they were playing was now over and he lost. He was also not sure that Mary Rose was a willing participant in the first place. Maybe she's playing a different kind of game. I wonder…

"Can you look at it? Can you? Look at it? It's my father as Col. Sanders from KFC, with the glasses, white suit and all. Does it look good?"

He finally looked at the damned tattoo and it was as she said. And she was right, it looked finger-licking good.

You're Not in Kansas Anymore Zeke

Soon, the 'ludes combined with alcohol had hit ground zero and Zeke's last rocket finally took off. He was trying in vain to stay alert and engage with whatever bullshit that Mary Rose was expounding on. His brain and body were beginning to tumble into relapse and he needed a hit very badly; he was starting to see things.

Mary Rose's bedroom began to spin around. He closed his eyes and tried to remain calm but the room kept on spinning. He could feel the furniture dragging and encircling him on the floor as if he was the sun and everything else were the planets rotating him. The spinning was going faster and faster like the swiftness of a tornado and he was caught in its eye. He could feel a warm air forming underneath his feet, sucking him into an unknown abyss. He reached out to Mary Rose's hand and held tight. He felt a clammy chilliness emanating from her but held on nonetheless. He felt the sensation of falling, however, his forearm started to itch. He reached out with his other hand to scratch it but didn't dissipate and merely transferred to a different spot. He did the act, again and again, still falling and falling…

He felt the spinning slowly down and finally stop. He felt the ground on the soles of his feet. He opened his eyes and saw that he wasn't in Mary Rose's bedroom anymore. He was still in a room but not Mary Rose's. He was still holding someone's hand and again, definitely not hers. It looked like the room and the hand was owned by a MANANANGGAL.

Amidst the fog of inebriation, his last coherent thought was about Lola Missing.

###

I remember the time my grandmother—my Lola Missing came to visit from the province. Provincial folk was living their lives like they were in a protective bubble, unaffected by all the stuff happening in the Colony. Their indigenous principles and beliefs were so alien to people living in Neo Manila, especially to someone like me. She was like a relic stuck in the past and I treasured the short time I had with her.

At the time of her only visit, I was a little monster of a kid of five years. To put me in my place or pacify me, she told me stories about scary creatures and beasts that inhabited their village and one such creature was a manananggal. That was the one that stuck with me and the one that I could never forget. She explained to me what it was:

A manananggal is a witch that visits village after village and hunts at night. What she likes to feed on our unborn fetuses. When she's hungry she separates from her body with just the torso, then her back sprouts wings and flies, leaving the lower half behind. Once she finds a suitable victim, she alights on the house and inserts her tongue through the roof. The tongue is long, hollow, and very flexible. She uses it to puncture the womb of the sleeping pregnant woman and suck out the fetus. She is a beautiful woman in her human form; she seduces and lures men to her lair and eats them alive. To destroy her, one should search for the lower torso that she leaves behind while on her nightly hunts then place either—salt, garlic, or ash on the exposed flesh, thus preventing her from combining again and leaving her vulnerable to the dawn sun.

She drew pictures of a manananggal, her victims, her lair and it freaked me out. She'd hang those pictures on my bedroom wall and despite my cries of refusal and fright, she wouldn't take them down. This is for your own good, she'd say. This way you'll remember the manananggal once you misbehave. I had nightmares that lasted 'til this day. If I ever see one for real, I'd die of fright.

###

Zeke was in a manananggal's lair. The things he saw were somewhat the same as he remembered from Lola Missing's drawings. However, it was sparsely furnished but efficiently kept as well, like the witch had been austerely surviving for a time. There were vials, bottles, and containers with different colored liquids placed on a wall shelf, earthenware jars of unknown volume on the bamboo flooring, a large steaming kettle on an open flame in the middle of the room, and a thin ray of light from an unseen wall source that illuminated the shadowy room. They were still sitting on a bed, which was now old and ragged-looking. Zeke looked at the hand he held—still cold and clammy but now felt rough and calloused. Then he saw the face that the hand was connected to…

She was bewitchingly beautiful. She had the same kind of withering beauty as Mary Rose—they even dressed similarly in blackish garb—but upon close inspection, Zeke realized they looked eerily similar like they had familial relations: they had the same facial features. However, there were two distinctive differences: first, she was older, and second, she didn't have legs.

She was half a body from the waist up and hovering a few inches from the bedspread. He could see the lower half standing at the other bedside. She was smiling the same evil smile like the way Mary Rose did in her five-minute trance. Zeke could feel her grip on his hand becoming tighter and stronger; she was crushing his hand like brittle twigs. He was about to scream in pain and…

###

Zeke suddenly woke up. The awareness of being awake was strong, even though he couldn't see a thing: it was pitch-black. He was lying down on something soft however, he couldn't move. He realized he was being restrained to a bed. He felt the sensation of extreme coldness from an A/C, very much the same as with frigid temperature from his call center job. He speculated that he was in some kind of medical facility, then heard a faint hum from the A/C and a sharp antiseptic smell, thus confirming his suspicion.

He had been unconscious for God knows how long; he had lost track of time. The last clear memory that he was sure was real was in Mary Rose's bedroom, sitting down and facing her sweet-scented cunt. His groin tightened in remembrance.

He heard footsteps coming from outside, then a sound of a door opening slowly and ominously. He could feel someone standing by the door that seemed to look at him, despite the darkness. This "someone" was breathing slowly and asthmatically. He opened his mouth, tried to talk, and ask for help, but nothing came out. It was like he didn't know how to talk properly. He heard the footsteps coming to his bed and then felt a latex-gloved hand hold his arm. He was being injected with a needle through the vein above the elbow. Then the footsteps walked away from his bed towards the door. The door then creaked close. The unseen someone seemed to have left.

He felt groggy and his eyelids became heavy. He realized he was injected with some kind of strong sedative, something new that he hadn't tried before; he had abused many sedatives in the past and this was something he hadn't yet experienced.

He nodded off into another oblivion…