Once upon a gathering in the kingdom of Red Flag Fanatics, the Brunch Club, as they are comically known, were hell-bent on intruding my perfectly lovely peace of mind. This, mind you, despite the fact that I left the Land-of-Dim-Sum-and-Sky-High-Rent, a.k.a Hong Kong, almost thirty moons ago.
It was as if the Brunch Club had an obsessive penchant for me, their favourite muesli brand suddenly discontinued from grocery shelves. Perhaps, it’s one part nostalgia and two parts their mission to turn the world into an endless comradeship party. Three years ago, I traded my Hong Kong apartment with its mounting rent and soy sauce stains for a more comfortable reclining seat in a different corner of the world. But, alas, the Brunch Club’s love for me seemed to grow fonder with distance.
Our story begins when I was comfortably nested in The Land-of-Dim-Sum-and-Sky-High-Rent. The Brunch Club, with their ham-fisted approach to governance, were making merry, oblivious to the growing cans of worms in their kingdom. Meanwhile, I was a simple prawn cracker cruncher, minding my own plate, observing their wacky antics from a safe distance.
But oh boy, how things changed. One fine day, I found that the Brunch Club had developed a sudden fondness for my narration. My tales they decided, tickled their pickles a bit too much. The next thing I knew, they were hell-bent on muffling my scrumptious stories. They mailed me love letters decorated with red stamps and official-looking threats. I imagined a whole team seated in a huge room, with a portrait of Mao Zedong replaced by my face, tirelessly concocting new ways to stop my stories from seeping into the walls of the Land-of-Dim-Sum-and-Sky-High-Rent.
Admittedly, I was flattered at first. But fame, my dear readers, comes with a price. So, three years ago, I packed my bags, hopped onto a jumbo-jet express and flew off to a land where the menace of the red flag remained subdued. They were none too pleased, of course, but at least I thought I was safe from their gaze.
Oh, how wrong I was! The reality hit me like a cold noodle soup. You see, the Brunch Club’s tentacles reached out, not deterred by geographical boundaries or time zones. They maintained their vigour in ensuring that my tales remained untold, my voice unechoed. The silence, they said, would be music to their ears.
The irony, however, in this wacky tale, is that the Brunch Club’s desperate attempts to silence my stories have done nothing but fuel the fervour in telling them. Each letter, every warning, all the attempts at intimidation serve as stark reminders of their audaciously hilarious antics, a ticking time bomb of laughter waiting to explode.
In conclusion, nothing much has changed since I first began this journey. If anything, the Brunch Club’s relentless pursuit of quieting my storytelling has wound up magnifying its impact. They gave me wider audience, juicier material and plenty of leftover dim sum to fuel my craft. Given the oddball comedy unfolding, it isn’t difficult for me, or anyone else for that matter, to sit back, crack open a fortune cookie and get ready for the next lunatic episode to unfold.
