This dart champion with the dyed handle-bar and screw-top cap (doubtless shiny pate) got a positively unIslamic alarm unmanning thefellow. Fourth, fifth, if not sixth death now announced by the chap especially, leaning close to the table.
Young Filipina was she? from the block opposite where he lived. His was sixteen-something and the other seventeen. Hanging out the washing. Heavy doesn’t wanna let go. Fall down. Flips and drops his open palm.
From the tenth floor, doesn’t know her name. Monday just gone. Out at Tampines spitting distance from the mall. Again the flipping hand for the proximity this time.
Had the girl been in his block he might have known her name.
Once he showed his precision machined missiles in a box with felt lining, heavy workingman’s hands capable of launching the arrows unerringly at his target.
Traveled up the Peninsular for competitions, roomful of trophies at home. Even tonight the chaps were calling him from the club. Where was he?
Burden of the Filipina delivered, an interruption came from behind by one of the old aunties enquiring, Makanready?...
What?... Ah! the mention of chapatti his cue…
You remember the old Indian beard here front corner Labu Labi? The chapattis?... That one was Tuesday, back in Chennai...
Like one of the gatekeepers of the nether world, never missed a one.
For all of them fetching back as far as you wanted to go, the stout old Christians, the Romans, Vikings and all the rest, fear and trembling was dissuaded.
Friendly likeable sort struggling a wee bit.
One of his reports too had subsequently proved erroneous. Couple months past the Singing Cowboy had collapsed on the pavement here and carted off in an ambulance. Looking like Death’s door, in fact the old cowpoke's tunes were still a'coming nightly on that corner. The ghost had positively startled when he approached the table shortly after the return from Indonesia.
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