Your mother’s vagina – says A in a Hokkien so richly vulgar, so warmly familiar. He steps forward and in the darkness there is only a golden glint of his spectacles perched on the emptiness above his striped collared shirt.
I don’t owe you dog shit, you fuck – B returns in the Mandarin that still long retains the pollutive stench of Hubei. And unlike anything you see in the movies, B merely staggers back, hammered once in the face. It could have been a drop of blood, red on the tarmac, but all is black at 3am and memories too are fugitive.
Vagina! I told you the bitch was playing him – says C in mesmerising splotches of Hokkien, Mandarin and English. So too is the eclectic brands that he parades like ugly tattoos which are more manifestations of a rootless psyche than mere fashion choice.
Man-U is the red of his jersey, Xiaomi is the red melamine of his phone, TVB is the sound and fury that blasts from his screen unto his lighted face.
D leans back against the red of the plastic chair, now black in the 3am incandescent. He sighs in English – How the fuck I know? This episode is a fucking twist.
Made in China is the pollutive red of electric lanterns than hang above them – just a drop in the sea of artifice and cringe-dollars of Chinatown.
You love her or you love me – E screams. E is what we call an Ah Lian, a fierce one at that. Golden hair, blood lipstick, blue eye shadows – now shades of grey in the 3am alley.
I only love you – F says and a slap lands against his pimpled cheek.