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I Was a Member of a Firing Squad

By Kee Thuan Chye

Last night, I dreamed I was a member of a firing squad. We served a body called the National Organisation Against Subversive Stupidity (NOASS) which was set up after the overthrow of the decayed regime. It was authorised to take charge of those convicted of breaking the new law against stupidity and have them … well, executed.

My team and I were issued with orders to assemble at the No Free Cheese cow farm just a little before sunrise. Usually, the targets of our execution were petty officials or party division leaders, but this time, word got out that we would be shooting prominent people. We couldn’t wait.

So far, my team and I had executed civil servants who bought refrigerators for their departments thinking they were filing cabinets, policemen who said they lost their patrol cars in the pantry, editors who ran stories of babies dumping their parents. But we had not yet encountered any of the bigwigs.

This would be the day. We shook hands when we gathered and joked about which walrus-faced or “gangster” minister we’d be getting. “I hope it will be Jit the Tear Gas Twit,” our team leader bellowed. He was a guy with a huge sense of humour, and he hated dishonesty. He was still sore with Jit for telling the people while he was still minister that tear gas and water cannons were shot into a hospital to flush out mosquitoes.

“I hope so too,” I said as I went round distributing plastic pellets to my team-mates. As quartermaster, it was my responsibility to hand these out to them to be loaded in their rifles. These pellets were made from a special kind of plastic that was tough so that on impact, they would hurt our targets like hell, but at the same time they would explode to release what was contained inside them. We nicknamed them “bomb condoms”. Their bomb was butyl mercaptan. A compound that comes from skunk.

People who had faced our firing squad quaked in fear of these pellets. Getting hit by them was the worst form of punishment they could ever experience. They never recovered from it.

“Well,” our team leader would say, “you have to use skunk to treat skunks like skunk.”

You must be wondering why I used the word “execution” when we didn’t shoot to kill. Well, what we did was even worse than killing. Because once we shot the targets, they would, so to speak, be scarred for life. Nobody would want to go near them again. They would be shunned. For smelling like skunk. For life. This was because our chemists had come up with a brilliant formula to make the skunk odour stick. Forever and ever. No amount of scrubbing would be able to remove the stench!

So to make sure we got maximum effect from this, we had our targets stripped down to their underwear. And as gentlemen and ladies – for some of our shooters were women – we always kept to the rule of not shooting the area within eight inches “below the belt”. This of course meant that every one of us must be a sharpshooter. But if one of us should inadvertently hit the forbidden zone, the target’s screams might be heard in far-off Mongolia.

“They’re here,” our team leader announced. We all perked up.

The first person to come into view was the Chairman of NOASS. We were surprised to see him because he had never attended an execution before. Now we knew for sure this was an important event. He came to where we stood and warmly shook hands with each of us.

Then the targets were brought in. Three of them. All blindfolded. All in their underwear. None wore a thong or tanga. But one wore briefs in bright orange. The third man shuffled slowly. I guessed he must be quite old, probably about 130.

As they were lined up against the cowshed, I tried to make out who they were, but I couldn’t be sure. Until the guards pulled off their blindfolds. All of the firing squad gasped in recognition. Then almost everyone broke out in smiles and chortles. A few of us even applauded. The three men before us were once among the highest of officials.

The director of ceremonies held up his hand for silence and proceeded to speak, “These three men have been found guilty by the Orang-utan Court of subverting Malaysia’s efforts to be a modern, multi-racial, progressive nation. They appealed to the Tapir Court and lost. Finally, they appealed to the Jumbo Court, but the seven-judge bench upheld each man’s conviction.”

Referring to the man in the bright orange briefs, he declared, “Ahmad bin Awang, with the help of a bomoh, genetically engineered the goats in his kampung to maintain their population at 67 per cent red goats, 23 per cent purple and eight per cent silver. The goats were not allowed to be born into the colour they wanted. This promotes colour prejudice, parochialism, in-breeding and stupidity.”

I looked at Ahmad. He was visibly shaking. I was sure it wasn’t because of the morning cold. Maybe it was true what I’d heard – that he was once a road drill operator.

The director now turned to the next man, who stood like a footballer fearfully facing a free kick with his face scrunched up and his hands covering his private parts. The director said, “This is Diaz Edema. He confiscated several superhero comicbooks from his brothers and sisters because he said they would be confused by reading too many. He said they might mistake Batman to be a hero when it should be The Joker who was the hero. This is abuse of power. It also promotes a blinkered mentality. People must be allowed to judge for themselves.”

The director now turned to the geriatric, who returned his look with a sneer. The director ignored it and continued, “Devadas son of Chetan threatened to close down all libraries and bookshops to prevent people from reading romance novels. He said this was essential because romance novels could arouse negative feelings, and Malaysians were immature, indisciplined and unable to control themselves. This promotes backwardness and dictatorship.”

Devadas interjected, “I don’t remember saying those things.”

The firing squad broke out in a chorus of jeers and boos. “Selective amnesia!” someone shouted.

Then our team leader suddenly let out a huge guffaw and pointed towards Devadas’ underwear. “He’s peeing on himself!” he cried.

Devadas was unfazed. He responded matter-of-factly, “It’s incontinence.”

Our team leader guffawed even more. “Once we’re through with you, you’ll be covered in condiments!”

The director cleared his throat loudly to bring the proceedings back on course. When the laughter had died down, he solemnly proclaimed, “Ahmad bin Awang, Diaz Edema, Devadas son of Chetan, the time has come for you to be executed by firing squad, as sentenced by the court. Prepare yourselves.”

“Right, my fellow Malaysians, are you ready?” our team leader called out.

“Yes!” we answered, in unison, and steadily pointed our rifles at the three men.

Just then, Diaz started sobbing and Ahmad whimpered in a weak, trembling voice, “C-c-can I-I h-h-have the b-bl-blindfold, PLEASE?”

“Me too,” Diaz snivelled and collapsed to the ground, blubbering.

“Let them have the blindfolds,” the Chairman said quietly.

“I don’t need it,” Devadas said. “I’ll face you squarely when you shoot me. I’ll even dance the Bharatanatyam.”

Diaz and Ahmad were given the blindfolds, and all three men had their hands tied behind their backs.

“OK, let’s get on with it,” said our team leader. “Ready … aim …”

“Wait wait wait!” Devadas cried out. “Let’s make a deal. I have lots of –”

Our team leader was in no mood to parley. “Fire!” he yelled.

We fired. Our targets squirmed, doubled over, fell backwards, leapt in pain. Their screams outdid those of a dozen women in labour. The stench of the butyl mercaptan splattered on their bodies fouled the fresh morning air. And oh! Devadas son of Chetan did dance! But it looked more like uncoordinated Bhangra than Bharatanatyam!

“Long live Malaysia!” the Chairman yelled.

Then the shooting stopped. And I woke up.

* Kee Thuan Chye is the author of the book The Elections Bullshit, now available in bookstores.