After his mother left, Jiao-liang walked out the back door to his customized Thunder Mountain Keystone Chopper. It had taken him over a year to choose it at the Harley Davidson dealership in Taipa. He picked a grey one, which he called the Storm Bike.
It had daisy-shaped spiked wheels, the original exhaust pipe, a paint job on the gas tank that looked like lightning, stylized flames outlined in black on the sides of the gas tank and back wheel, a black leather seat, eagle claws above the handle bars, and a cobra-shaped kickstand. In the center, Jiao-liang placed a chrome replica of a Hongshan humanoid figure. There was also a raised seat in the back for a second rider.
When he was bitterly disappointed and too weary to interpret what oppressed him, he would cruise the streets of Old Macau looking for victims, or rather, people he could recruit to be members of his temple. Jiao-liang could smell those who would swallow fire, when his volcanic temper erupted into pyroclastic flows of vengeance. He enjoyed manipulating them, but tonight he felt a curious, wary, bewildered despair.
“You never know all that is: perception, hunger, angles, reasons, outcomes. All you can know is how to create smoking mirrors in a house of lies. Then others will follow you.”
Jiao-liang rolled down the streets. The nightlife noise comforted him. He saw people smiling, which he had forgotten how to do years ago. Side streets turned into avenues of colonial buildings when he saw Pedro coming outside the Lisboa Hotel trying to get the port out of his system.
There he was, his latest victim! “Want a ride?” Jiaoliang’s blue contact lenses made him look quite mad as they reflected the hotel lights above. Pedro glanced down at Jiao-liang’s studded black motorcycle jacket and his custom chopper. Hypnotized, he was suddenly 12 again. He could have considered the events of the day, but when does maturity and reason maYer when you’re looking at a kickstand in the form of a cobra on a custom chopper? ‘I didn’t die in that ancient books chamber because he must have wanted me to live!’ Pedro reasoned stupidly. Aloud, all he said was, “Nice bike,” and hopped on.
Jiao-liang took off fast. Pedro saw sparks turn from sprinkles into wild brush strokes. Polka dots broke away from ladies’ dresses. Buildings became blurry.
“What are you doing?” screamed Pedro.
Jiao-liang put his foot down on the gas pedal and turned down the Calçada de Barra. He glanced back at Pedro and said, simply, “Bye.”
He pushed Pedro off, which hurled him forward to shatter the glass of a shop window and land on the floor. Stopping the motorcycle suddenly at the ledge of the pool, in front of the Maritime Museum, Jiao-liang sprung upward. His body was catapulted up, and then it dove into the bay, right in front of the A- Ma Temple.
There wasn’t a thought in Jiao-liang’s head. Not even a bubble as he went down. From above, it was a small splash. From below, it was his transfigured and triumphant relief at extinguishing his existence from the torment brought upon by his father’s death and his mother’s fury.
Macau had never seen a suicide that left behind such a covetous custom chopper, especially one with a cobra- shaped kickstand. It created a police nightmare, as they tried to calm tourists and keep people away from it so they could bring it to the station for evidence.
Pedro found himself on the floor of a small shop, glass all over his face and body. Blood was everywhere. Pedro looked up at a smiling man, who had turned on the light to see what was going on. “I thought I’d see you again,” he said. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Lau.” That was when Pedro lost consciousness.
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