SPAM

IT WAS THE first time for Joseph to travel out of the country. He really thought it was improbable for him to journey beyond the local shores given the meager income that he had. Though he had been in the practice of his profession (he was a dentist) for more than a decade, he had not really gotten enough to give him the luxury of spending some spare money to go on a tour or vacation of sorts. What he earned out of his practice was barely enough to meet both ends meet. Heck, he even could not afford to buy a second hand car. His car would conk out at times he least expected it; he badly needed a replacement. But his limited resources strictly prohibited him from doing so.

As he now roamed his eyes inside the business lounge of Hong Kong’s state-of-art airport, relaxing on the soft couch, munching on some sweet muffins and sipping fresh fruit juice, he still could not believe that he had just had an all-expense paid vacation in Hong Kong. It was, to him, a lifetime experience: a 3-day stay in Holiday Inn, a visit at Hong Kong Disneyland, a trip at the casino, etc. It was simply incredible. He was really lucky to have won the grand prize of the raffle that was conducted two weeks back during the college reunion of his batch. He almost fainted when his ticket number was called. He would have wanted to get instead the cash equivalent of the grand prize, but then, he was told that his prize was non-convertible; the business class plane ticket and hotel accommodation had already been paid. The cash that he could get was the two-hundred US dollar pocket money that he would need while in Hong Kong.

His flight back to Manila was in hour’s time. He saw to it to get to the airport early to avoid any hassle, given the fact that it was his first travel abroad. So far, he had not encountered any, much to his relief. The thing that he wanted to do now was to use the free internet service provided inside the business lounge. There were four computer units with flat-screen monitors, one was busted. The other three were presently being used. Two Caucasian guys appeared oblivious to those who might be wanting to use the internet. They were having some Facebook chat. The third guy, a black one, seemed aware that Joseph also wanted to use the internet. Joseph had caught the black guy looking at him. After a few minutes more, the black guy pulled a USB flash disk from the tower case just below the flat-screen monitor after he had punched some keys in the keyboard. He looked again at Joseph and then stood up.

Joseph got up from where he was sitting and sat on the chair vacated by the black guy. He could hear the white guy beside him emitting some soft cackle. Joseph lost no time in going to the Yahoo website; seconds passed, he was already accessing his email inbox. No, not a thing about his application for immigration in Canada. He had already completed the requirements some four months back, still no movement on his application. Damn. His friend had already gotten his visa the previous week. What could be the reason? They submitted all the documents at the same time. Anyway, there was no rush, he thought. He could still afford to wait for some more months, or even for one year more. He tried to scan the items in his inbox. He smirked when he saw something. Nah, the usual trash emails again. He dragged these items from the inbox to the trash folder. Seeing nothing more of interest, he logged out from his Yahoo account and went to Facebook’s website. He checked his account, read the shoutouts in his Facebook wall, then exited from the website. He yawned, rubbed his eyes and stood up.

As Joseph strode near the food counter to get some green salad, the black guy slowly rose from a corner table where he had seated and promptly sat back to the same spot he had left a while ago. His fingers thumped furiously on the keyboard while his eyes rummaged the flat screen monitor. A minute later, he was talking to someone in his Blackberry; he was talking in his native Yoruba, one of Nigeria’s languages. He was asking from the man at the other end of the line if the username and password he had just sent had arrived at their destination. As soon as he got the confirmation, the black man deleted the software he had uploaded earlier in the same desktop unit. As he prepared to leave, he saw Joseph now walking towards the door of the business lounge.



THE AREA IS located in the southwestern part of the country. As to how much exactly its population, no reliable figure has come up. The local government has put the figure at more than 15 million; this, however, was disputed by another report, which claimed that the area’s population was only at little over than 9 million. One thing is certain, though, that the area, which is the smallest state in Nigeria, is the second most populous in Africa.

Lagos State came into existence in the late 60s. It was then the country’s political capital. In the mid 70s, the capital was moved to Ikeja, another metropolitan area. In the early 90s, the federal government’s seat was formally relocated to Abuja, which is now the country’s capital. Lagos State still remained to be the nation’s most economically important state as it is where Lagos, the nation’s largest urban area, is located.

The World Festival of Black Arts and Culture is a major African event that takes place in Africa, a black world’s affair intended to recapture the origins and authenticity of the African heritage. It was first held in 1966 in Senegal. A decade later, in 1977, the festival was hosted by oil-rich Nigeria. In preparation for this huge event, the Nigerian government invested generously to build thousands of dwelling units and several major avenues in Lagos. This particular area has come to be known as Festac Village or Festac Town, from the acronym FESTAC (Festival of Arts and Culture)(Festac Town is located at a distance of about 10km west of Lagos-Badagry expressway which forms the town’s southern boundary). The effort resulted in the success of the extravagant affair. Afterwards, the government gave the housing units and title deeds to the properties to those who won the balloting that was conducted. In the years that went by, however, Festac Town descended into a state of degeneracy owing to utter government neglect. By the 90s, bad roads, lack of potable water, dilapidated structures, became the regular feature of the town. The dwellers, however, stuck it out there, given the lively economic activity that pervaded in the area. During the early part of the 21st century, a new craze hit Festac Town. Dozens of internet cafes sprouted out like mushrooms all over town. Denizens of these cafes virtually lived there, their main occupation being to send thousands of emails to their intended recipients all over the world. These emails yielded huge returns. Victims were either Americans or Europeans or Asians: they were lured to wire-transfer sums of money on the false promise that they would, in return, get huge amounts or payoffs sourced from unclaimed money or from dormant bank accounts left by deceased depositors or from a cache of gold hidden in some place. Foreign governments and western enforcement agencies (the FBI, Interpol, etc.) have stepped in and have come to refer to these emails as cyber frauds, their senders as cyber scammers. For its part, and basically to show to the world that it has nothing to do with these scams, the Nigerian government began a crackdown. Among its first step was to upgrade its penal law that heavily punishes the scammers. Thus, the designation “419 scam” was born—taken after an article of the Nigerian penal law that punishes these cyber-crimes.



JOSEPH HAD BEEN waiting at the Mall of Asia grounds for already over an hour. The friend he was supposed to meet had not responded to his text messages. He tried ringing up the number but his calls were unanswered. His friend was to help him apply to a dental clinic there at the Mall of Asia. Dental and medical clinics located in that upscale mall flourished, always brimming with patients or clients. It was his chance to upgrade his practice, and so too, his standard of living, if he were to get accepted in the new dental clinic. Feeling bored, he decided to drop by an internet café on the second floor at the north wing of the mall. As he checked his inbox folder, he was surprised to see an email sent by someone from the United Kingdom. He opened the item which reads:


Dear Lucky Winner,

You have won the sum of £10,000 from BBC BRITISH LOTTERY on our 2010 charity bonanza your winning ticket was selected from a Data Base of Internet Email Users from which your Address came out as the winning coupon winning number : 15 28 32 43 44 45 BONUS 20. Provide the following information needed to process your winning claim.

1.Name:
2.Address:
3.Age:
4.Sex:
5.Country:

Congratulations once again.

Mr.Walcot Smith

It was sent by the “BBC LOTTERY DEPARTMENT” using the email address arcosempione.cream @fastwebnet.it.

He was wondering how on earth did he win. He explored his brain in an attempt to recall any item or detail in the past that may have led to the sending of this email to him. No, nothing whatsoever, he thought. How would I win when, in the first place, I never joined any lottery? He ignored the email and checked on the other items in his inbox. It was at this time when his battered Nokia N70 phone rang. It was his friend. He exited from his Yahoo account and began to rise from his seat.

The next day, he found another email in his inbox sent by the same sender. He was being told that he had just 10 days to claim his prize otherwise it would be forfeited. Is this for real? he was asking himself. He stood up and paced his room. After finishing his cup of coffee, he went back again to his desktop and replied to the email, asking the sender if there was any truth to the information relative to his “prize”, could the sender send to him the money he just won? He was laughing at himself when he stood up and went to the toilet to take a pee. When he got back to his computer after a few minutes, he was looking at another email from the same source, in response to his inquiry. “Send us your bank account number, the name of the bank, the bank’s SWIFT code and also your name, address, age, sex and country,” were the words he was reading when he opened the email. He was still thinking if all of this shit was true. He pondered for a few minutes. Seeing no harm if ever he would send the details being asked, he hit the reply button and pecked the keyboard. When he was done, he sent his reply email, anticipating that nothing would ever happen afterwards.



AFTER HE GOT out of Manila’s international airport, he boarded an airport taxi that took him to Makati, specifically to Makati Avenue where the hotel he would be staying was located. It was his first time to be in the country. His colleagues had gone ahead of him; they were now enjoying Boracay’s white sand and skimpily-clad women frolicking in the world-famous beach. His plan was to stay for a few days in the metropolis before taking some days of pleasure. Business is important. As he got in his room at the 10th floor of the hotel, he opened his laptop and went directly to their business website. It was already half past five in the afternoon. Great! he almost shouted. He was reading an email in the inbox folder sent by one Joseph Santiago. He was sure this was the man he chanced upon at the airport in Hong Kong. He whipped out his Blackberry from his pocket and dialed. Soon, a voice was speaking from the other line. The man was speaking in Yoruban, their native tongue.

“Joseph,” he said, “Joseph Santiago,” he repeated as he firmly pressed the Blackberry to his ear. “Ja, dit is die naam. Nou, stuur sy rekening slegs 500 US dollars, hom glo dit is vir ware. En ek sal probeer om hom te ontmoet terwyl ek hier. Het jy dit?” (“Yes, that’s the name. Now, send to his account only 500 US dollars, to make him believe this is for real. Then I’ll try to meet him while I’m here. Got it?”) He was now talking in another language, Afrikaans, spoken in South Africa. Conversant as he was in this language (he and his colleague had stayed in Johannesburg for more than half a decade), he at times switched to this language in an attempt to avoid any possible eavesdropping by the federal authorities in Nigeria.

After uttering, “Ja, ek het dit” (“Yes, I got it”), the man at the other end of the line put down his cellphone and resumed his work. He was rubbing his day-old stubble on his chin as he punched the keyboard. It was almost lunchtime there, on that side of the planet. The shabby, ramshackle building where the internet café was housed was thick with unbearable human stench. Only a handful of internet cafés could be found on that side of Fetac Town that provided clean surroundings and late model computer units.



JOSEPH HAD JUST left the car repair shop where, an hour earlier, he had brought his car, an aging ten-year-old maroon-colored Honda Civic. He was already stinking with sweat. He almost left his car in the middle of the road after it petered out again, for the nth time in one month. Fortunately, the car’s engine came to life after he gunned it a dozen tries. He went straight to the repair shop. His main concern now was where would he get the money to cover the repair expenses. This damn car belongs to the junkshop, he muttered to himself. He had only a little over a thousand bucks in his bank account. He proceeded to go to a nearby ATM to get some money and leave just a hundred bucks or so in his account. He was starving, he was feeling weak now. He was stupefied, however, when he found out he had around twenty-two thousand bucks in his account. How did it happen? Shit! He pressed a button on the ATM and out came a small paper showing the balance in his account. Twenty-two thousand seven hundred pesos! He stuffed the paper in his pocket, pushed his ATM card back to the card hole and pecked on the buttons. His face stricken with disbelief, he withdrew twenty thousand and went back to the repair shop. He was re-energized by the thick peso bills now bulging in his wallet. Just how lucky could one get? A while ago, he was on the verge of desperation. Now, he was feeling rich. After an hour, the mechanic finished his task and was now pushing into his pocket a one-thousand bill given by Joseph. Joseph was thinking there must have been an error committed by the bank, an error in crediting the amount in his account. Surely, he would be receiving a notice or a phone call from the bank requiring him to return back the amount. Oh, heck, let them call me. It wasn’t my fault. It’s theirs. Why would I bother myself with the mistake of others? He was now thinking of possible schemes or tactics so that he could delay reimbursing the amount back to the bank once he received such notice. For now, he relished the taste of the Chicken Joy meal here at the Jollibee fast food near his house.

A daily routine already, he checked his Facebook account and Yahoo mailbox, spending an hour or so, before going to sleep. When he opened his mailbox, it was only at that time the mystery was answered. The email he was now reading was telling him that a portion of the money he won was deposited to his account. There were some requirements more that he needed to complete before he would get the complete prize money, among which was for him to open a dollar account at his bank where the money would be deposited. Also, the email continued to state that he would have to sign some papers to be given to him by the sender’s representative who would also be coming over to Manila in a few days. This was a company policy and as proof that the winner had truly received the prize money. For a minute, he was gripped by fear. There could be a syndicate behind this. Or, at the very least, something not legal that could spell trouble for him. It was almost past one in the morning when sleep hit him. The next day, he went about in his dental clinic as he normally did, attending to a patient. After lunch, he proceeded to bank and opened a dollar account. He was bubbling with high spirits. From there, he went to SM Megamall to watch a Leonardo Di Caprio starrer, Inception. It was evening when he got back to his apartment in Mandaluyong city. He promptly logged on to his Yahoo email and typed a message. In it, he provided his dollar account number. Seconds later, the email was being read in the grubby internet café at Festac Town. As if on cue, the man reading the email pulled out his Nokia Communicator phone from his breast pocket. Thousands of miles away, a Blackberry lying atop the small table near the bed began to ring. The man on the bed slowly turned and reached for the Blackberry. As he talked on his cellphone, the naked lady beside him got to her feet and went to the toilet. They were inside a cottage that stood almost twenty meters away from Boracay’s powdery sanded-beach. “Who was that, Malik?” were the words thrown to him by the lady, who was now starting to dress. “Business call, really important. Sorry about that.” Malik’s English resonated with Nigerian Pidgin English, which was prevalently used in Nigeria. Malik was now handing to the lady five one-thousand bills. Malik’s brain worked furiously. He now should meet this Joseph Santiago. It was time. He only had a week or two of stay here in the country. He still had to travel back to Hong Kong, then proceed to Thailand, to Moscow, to London, then back to Lagos. He had a busy schedule. Their cyber-scamming business was thriving.



THE PENINSULA MANILA, an upscale hotel located at the corner of Ayala Avenue and Makati Avenue, is the place where most business executives meet and do business. Most of the times, though, one sees a couple of local stars having dinner at the hotel’s coffee shop. Politicians, however, provide rivalry to these stars: they themselves get huge attention. On this particular evening, though he found himself feeling awkward in his brand new barong tagalog, a formal attire he was not comfortable to wear, he was enjoying the cup of cappuccino and the soothing piano music at the coffee shop. He was to meet Malik Ugabe, the representative of the British lottery firm, the firm with whom he had been corresponding via email for more than a week now. He had already gotten around two thousand dollars, a part of his prize winning. He was still to receive the sixteen thousand dollars or so, the balance of the prize. As he had been told, he needed to do some paperwork and some minor task. He had been eyeing the shapely legs of the comely, mestiza-looking lady concierge standing near the hotel reception counter. He had arrived an hour earlier and as he now checked his watch, he could feel his limbs becoming fidgety. In half an hour’s time, he would be getting the sum close to a million pesos. Boy! The money came right at the time he needed it. He had already received the immigrant visa issued by the Canadian Embassy. He would use the amount as pocket money, or “show money”, which was required for him to finally get into Canada and live a new life there.

“Mr. Joseph Santiago?” The voice was baritone.

Joseph looked up from where he was sitting. He immediately stood up, pulled out his eyeglasses from his pocket and reached out to grab the extended hand. “Yes, I am. You are Mr. Malik Ugabe?”


.......


[As of this writing, the lawyer of Joseph has just filed a case in court for "mandatory injunction" against the police, seeking the release of the ten thousand dollars they have in their custody.]


*Magha is scammer slang from a Yoruba word meaning fool. Nigerian scammers use this term to refer to gullible white people.


[Read the entire story in the forthcoming book TREE AND OTHER STORIES by AMADOR F. BRIOSO, JR., to be available in June, 2011, in selected bookstores in Manila. Another book, LOVE AND DESTINY, a novella written by the same author, will also be available in June, 2011. The author's previous book, "YOU FILIBINI?" Stories And Other Writings, is currently available at all Powerbooks bookstore outlets in Metro Manila.]

CHANGE OF PLANS

A LITTLE BOY. He was around four years old. Or maybe three. He stood almost waist-high. He wore a grubby striped shirt, an outsize shirt that ran down his bare feet. He looked unclean, he obviously hadn’t taken a bath for several days now.




When I first saw him, he was standing at the jeepney stop area, near some commuters who were waiting for their ride home. He looked as if he, too, was waiting for a ride home.

When he saw a jeepney arrive way past the jeepney stop, he quickly ran, his little feet trying their best to catch up with the commuters who had gone ahead of him to get inside the jeepney.





No, he didn’t get inside when the jeepney had stopped. He just stood near the front passenger side of the jeepney where the driver’s companion, the conductor-cum-barker, was seated. While the conductor-barker, who had leaned out of the front passenger jeepney door, was busy bellowing to the crowd of commuters standing at the jeepney stop and flashing the metal plate where the jeepney’s destination was written, the little boy stared dumbly at the conductor-barker. The little boy was mumbling something.





The conductor-barker then leaned back, checking the passengers who had just gotten inside the jeepney. He didn’t see, or just didn't pay attention to, the little boy who had now raised his tiny half-opened palm to beg for money.





No luck. The little boy failed to get attention from the conductor-barker, who had now leaned his elbow back on the window-less front passenger door. The conductor-barker was training his eyes on the new set of commuters who had arrived at the jeepney stop.

As it appeared that there were no prospective passengers in sight, the jeepney started to move slowly.





Still, the little boy was persistent. He walked at pace with the jeepney’s movement, still badgering the conductor-barker to spare him a coin.





Tough luck. The conductor-barker still saw nothing. The last minute feeble plea of the little boy was totally ignored.

Seconds later, the jeepney sped off.







Frustrated, the little boy stepped back and stopped near the area where the crooked edges of the asphalt road met the concrete sidewalk. He slowly dropped down and sat on his haunches, his buttocks nearly touching the pavement. He appeared to be scraping the sidewalk with his hand. Or playing something which had caught his fancy.





The next moment, he stood up. He seemed to be undecided what to do next.





Something caught his attention. A little girl and her mother just passed by him. He took a fleeting glance at the little girl.





Another minute passed. He took a few steps. He saw something on the pavement and bent down. A few eyes hovered above him while he busied himself with his new-found task.

I thought he was trying to pick up something from the concrete ground.

He did.





His two hands were now holding something. And then, he was trying to match something with something. Or was trying to attach something to an object he had just taken. He was too engrossed with his activity he ignored everyone around him, including the commuter who was standing just several inches away from him.





He stood up after a while, holding what appeared to be a wooden wiry stick covered with red material. He began to walk with measured steps. He was still at it, trying to get his task done.





Then he turned to his right and continued walking, his eyes still glued on what he was doing.





It was a slow leisurely walk; he was headed towards the corner block, where a crowd was gathered near a sidewalk vendor.





But then, he saw something. It drew his attention.

The arrival of another jeepney.

He froze, dropped what he was holding and started to sprint. He extended his small arm toward the arriving jeepney---his arm was specifically directed toward the jeepney’s passenger who was seated at the front---as he tried to match the jeepney’s speed. It looked as if he was racing with the jeepney.

Alas, no luck. The jeepney didn’t stop; it roared away. He discontinued his chase and looked hopelessly at the fading image of the jeepney. Another failed endeavour.


[Note: Read the complete story in the book "You Filibini?" Stories and Other Writings by Amador F. Brioso, Jr., published May 2010]

A SCENE AT PLAZA GOITI

I STILL COULDN’T erase Dalisay from my mind. Fate was cruel to her. Her life was totally wasted. Evil-hearted Don Sergio should be summarily executed, guillotined at once. Dante himself was a fool; he just left Dalisay and their new born. He shouldn’t have done that. If I were him, I would have left home, left my wicked father, Don Sergio; I would have fought for my love, for my lady Dalisay. But he didn’t; Dante’s really crazy, a blind fool for not seeing things as they actually were...

[Note: Read the complete story in the book "You Filibini?" Stories and Other Writings by Amador F. Brioso, Jr., published May 2010]

CENTENNIAL

21 May 2110

The hulking SUV lay silently leaning against the foot of the bronze monument. The words “THE GREATEST FIGHTER OF ALL TIME” that were engraved on the rectangular base where the monument was mounted could no longer be seen. What was left unscathed, in the aftermath of the collision, was the name “MANNY PACQUIAO,” though part of the base had cracked.

“It’s a vintage car, Sir, a 2009 Hummer H3,” barked the bulky cop to the inch-high microphone that had protruded from his wristwatch. He walked a couple of steps near his companion who was peering at a lifeless man lying a few meters away from the SUV. The surrounding area had been cordoned off by the dozen cops now prowling around.

The companion said, “Confirmed. Fatality is John Senyasco III, 30 years old, drug dealer.” He was holding a sheaf of papers containing the dossier of Senyasco.

The almost one-hundred kilometer chase took several hours, passing through several provinces. The beginning of the end started when the H3 entered Cavite province where road blocks had been put up by the police. By the time the chase reached the Baclaran area in Parañaque City, the police knew the end was at hand. Still, Senyasco refused to give up the fight. Already injured after his H3 rammed at the monument, the fugitive jumped out of the H3 with guns blazing in his hands. A shot fired by a sharpshooter cop partially hidden from view caught the fugitive’s nape. As his head snapped back, his hands flew up. His limp body collapsed almost instantaneously on the darkened highway.

“Good thing only the bottom of the statue was damaged,” the bulky cop observed.

“Yeah, Pacquiao’s really indestructible,” his companion nodded, his eyes riveted on the gloved hands of the statue triumphantly raised skyward.

The monument, measuring 10 meters, stood atop a rectangular concrete. Designed by an internationally recognized sculptor, the Pacquiao statue was put up at Manila’s well-known Bay Walk area during the commemoration of the 100th birth anniversary of the famous boxer sometime in 2078. Since then, it had become one of the most recognizable icons of the country. Hordes of people could be found crowding the statue almost any time of the day, any day of the year.

“It’s amazing how these bastards were able to preserve this kind of car, an SUV. More than a hundred years old. The body, the looks, the car’s in pristine condition. And it runs like brand new. Mighty technology we have today, really.” The bulky cop was now peering inside the H3, examining the dashboard.

“The underworld network is brimming with cash. No doubt about it. They can afford almost everything. Drugs nowadays are like gold, very expensive.” The companion took out a pack of cigarette from his breast pocket. In the distance, he could hear the siren of the ambulance now on its way to the Bay Walk area...


[Note: Read the complete story in the book "You Filibini?" Stories and Other Writings by Amador F. Brioso, Jr., published May 2010]

THE STUDENT

HE NOTICED THE uniformed girls clustered in one corner. They had been staying there, on their table, for almost two hours now, from the time they had bought fries and coffee. And it was now almost ten o’clock of that Monday morning. But they still were here. Shouldn’t they be in their classes now? he wondered. He noticed, too, that they weren’t even reading or even browsing through their books or notes; they were just having some chatter---noisy babbling---among themselves while fiddling with their cell phones. He, however, ignored them. It could be that these girls were just whiling away time, he thought...

[Note: Read the complete story in the book "You Filibini?" Stories and Other Writings by Amador F. Brioso, Jr., published May 2010]

THE CRIME [The Calling]

THE STRIP IS a stretch of roughly a little over one kilometer. Or it could be two, or even more. It intersects three well-known roads in Makati, namely, Makati Avenue, Sen. Gil J. Puyat Avenue (formerly known as Buendia) and Ayala Avenue. The street sign does not label it as a “street” or an “avenue” or a “boulevard.” Instead, it is designated as a “paseo”, a word of Spanish origin that is loosely defined as, or is equivalent to, a “passageway” or a “path” or a “walkway.” It was thought of that the word may have been derived from the Spanish verb “pasear”, meaning “to walk.” Come to think of it, there is no other road or street in the city of Makati that has the tag “paseo” except this strip.

Paseo de Roxas. We have at times referred to it simply as “Paseo.”

Some of the city’s modern buildings are located on both sides of strip. During rush hours, hordes of the city’s office workers populate the sidewalks of Paseo---they pass through the area on their way to their offices. Expectedly, Paseo becomes clogged by vehicular traffic; for this reason, the city authorities always man the area with traffic officers to enforce discipline on the motorists...

[Note: Read the complete story in the book "You Filibini?" Stories and Other Writings by Amador F. Brioso, Jr., published May 2010]

THE VICTIM [The Ballad of Avenida]

ITS HEYDAY WAS during the early part of the last century. The avenue was basically a magnet to everyone, from all walks of life. Upscale shops. Fashionable stores. Chic restaurants. And first class movie houses: Avenue Theater, Ever Theater, Galaxy Theater, Ideal Theater, Scala Theater, State Theater. Most of these movie houses (referred to as “standalone theatres”) were built during the 1930s and were designed by prominent architects who were, in the latter part of the century, declared as national artists. One basically found it hard to ignore these theatres after visiting the shops and restaurants. After the last world war, Manila strove hard to reconstruct its structures. Those in the avenue was able to restore themselves, back to their pre-war glory; they thus kept their supremacy over anyone else, save those located in Escolta Street, the favourite place of Manila’s rich and famous. By the time the decades of 1960 and 1970 had set in, challenges were being hurled against the avenue’s dominance. The challengers were led by Makati’s Ayala Avenue and Cubao’s Araneta Center. In the 1980s, the avenue—famously known as “Avenida” (its official name is “Rizal Avenue”, taken from the national hero Jose Rizal)---began to descend: it had started its trek on the dark road to perdition. The construction of an elevated railroad---locally known as Light Rail Transit (or “LRT”)---served as the signal of Avenida’s demise.

Thus, nowadays, what can one find in Avenida? Most of these theatres have now been demolished, if not turned into ghost-haunted structures. Some buildings are already more than half-century old: by today’s standards, they’re supposed to be condemned for demolition. The shops that line Avenida sell cheap merchandise: some were smuggled into the country (like re-conditioned TVs from Korea, unknown Chinese branded DVD players, sleek-looking, but definitely of inferior quality, stereo CD players, radios, etc.); others are pirated CDs and DVDs (both pornographic and non-pornographic); some are second-hand clothes, bags, household items, etc., that came from China and US (locally termed as “ukay-ukay”). Magazine stands occupy some areas of the sidewalk. Side-by-side with these stands are also some vendors, seated behind a small glass-box perched atop a rectangular wooden box: seen inside the glass-box are various cell phone units (some already outdated, some are new), still cameras, watches, etc. Buying any of these items comes with a caveat: be sure the vendor won’t be able to track you down, lest you’ll find yourself becoming an accessory to robberies or muggings: what you’ve bought were proceeds of those crimes (“You’re being charged of having violated the ‘anti-fencing’ law”). Convenience stores vie for customers vis-a-vis cheap eateries. Late vintage fastfood restaurants can be found on some corners. A handful of small-time department stores vie for attention too: these stores sell new, but unbranded, shoes, bags, apparels, etc., made from cheap materials that, after a month or so, will be worn out from normal use. Also, several banks get into the picture: they cater to the owners of the shops that still generate a killing in the area. Not to forget, too, are the pawnshops: they’ve shrewdly added the “tele-money” service that easily gets hordes of customers...


[Note: Read the complete story in the book "You Filibini?" Stories and Other Writings by Amador F. Brioso, Jr., published May 2010]

TIMELINE

1936

“Congratulations, Danilo! It’s a bouncing baby boy!”

Danilo turns up his head, then almost jumps up from the bench where he is seated. He is outside of the delivery room in a hospital.

“Thank you, doctor! My God, finally! After hours of waiting!” Danilo gleefully hugs the doctor. “How’s my wife? Is she Ok, doing fine?” He takes out a handkerchief, then wipes the film of sweat off his face.

“She’s just fallen sleep. Pretty tough labor she had there. But she’s fine, just some rest. Tomorrow, she’ll be ready to go home.” The doctor’s mopping his hands with a white cloth. He covers his mouth, to stifle a cough. From his pocket, he takes out a stick of cigarette.

“Can I see them? How the baby looks like?”

“Yeah, sure, sure, Danilo. Just go right in there.” The doctor points toward the double-doors of the delivery room, then starts to leave...

[Note: Read the complete story in the book "You Filibini?" Stories and Other Writings by Amador F. Brioso, Jr., published May 2010]

THE ACCUSED

MURDER. WHO WAS it who’d said that this heinous deed is as old as mankind? He was referring to what Cain had done to his brother, Abel. Anyhow, murder is the crime charged in the case I’m handling. I’ve handled a lot of murder cases. But this one is a cut above the rest. My client, of course, denies the charge. He was, according to him, not at the crime scene. Not in his lifetime. But how did he get involved in this? That he could not explain. I’ve had my doubts the first time I talked to him. His story just isn’t credible. It won’t stand in court. Right off, the judge (once he hears my client’s story) will surely throw it out of the courtroom for being ridiculous, outright incredible in light of the circumstances surrounding the case. But, as I'm bound by the lawyer’s oath and ethics, whether or not I doubt my client’s innocence, whether or not I believe he’s guilty, I as his advocate shouldn’t be bothered by what I believe. I'm bound to defend him at all cost, in accordance with the legal procedure, with the system of law...


[Note: Read the complete story in the book "You Filibini?" Stories and Other Writings by Amador F. Brioso, Jr., published May 2010]

JUSTICE

Wednesday morning.

INSIDE THE COFFEESHOP at the Hotel Intercontinental Manila. Three people were gathered in one table near a corner. One was sipping a hot cappuccino. The two others were having a light breakfast.

“Say, Johnny, how’s your car?” asked one of the seated men while blowing the steam off his cup of cappuccino.

“Drives perfectly. No problems. You’re intending to buy a new Mercedes?” Johnny lifted the table napkin. He started wiping the corner of his mouth.

“I’m still thinking about it,” replied the man with the cappuccino as he raised a hand, gesturing the waiter to approach him. Afterwards, he stood up. “I’ll just get some salad.” He went to the buffet table.

“How can I broach the matter?” asked the man seated beside Johnny. He took off his eyeglasses and placed it on the table.

“Well, once he comes back, I’ll leave you two here. Then, you bring up the case. Tell him your offer. As simple as that.” Johnny was grinning.

“How long have you known him? Is he like a close friend of yours?” The man was now fiddling with his eyeglasses.

“Let’s say he’s a close acquaintance. I’ve known him for some time now. I assure you he delivers. But at the right price. You get the drift?” Johnny spoke in lowered tone.

“Hey, Johnny,” the man with a plate of salad said, “check out the gal there in the buffet table. I’m sure she’ll get your attention.” He had returned, giving Johnny a wink.

Johnny gave out a chuckle. “You still have the sharp, keen eye on women, Mon.” Johnny started to rise. “Well, I’ll check out the merchandise. I’ll be back in a minute.”

The man with eyeglasses was slightly grinning at what Johnny had said. “Sir,” he began slowly, “has Johnny told you about our case?”

“Ah, yes,” Mon drawled. He took another sip of his cappuccino. “A big case.”

“Yes, Sir. We really need to get this one.” The man with eyeglasses spoke with caution.

“How much is your offer?” Mon was jabbing the salad leaves with his fork.

The man with eyeglasses took a deep breath. “A million bucks, Sir.”

Johnny’s face was devoid of reaction. “Quite small, son.”

“Oh, Sir. How much would it be then, Sir?” The man with eyeglasses was folding his table napkin.

“I’ll let you know soon. Meantime, just proceed with the filing of your petition.” Mon was now almost done with his salad.

“You were right, Mon.” Johnny was nodding his head as he returned back to his seat. “One fine, voluptuous lady. Check this out,” Johnny was dangling a small piece of paper. “Her mobile number.”

Mon let out a guffaw. “You’re really my idol, Johnny.”

The man with eyeglasses stood up. “I’ll just go to the bathroom. Where is it?”

“It’s over there, Danny, straight ahead, then turn left,” Johnny said.

“You need a bigger amount, son.” Danny heard this just after he stood in front of the urinal. Turning his head to his left, Danny saw Mon standing just beside him, also about to take a pee. Nobody was inside except the two of them.

“How much would it be, Sir? So that I can relay the amount to my boss.” Danny has stepped near the sink, about to wash his hands.

Mon walked beside him, eyeing Danny in mirror. He slowly draped an arm around Danny’s shoulders, then raised his other hand, with three fingers extended. “Three.”

“Three million, Sir?” Danny’s face seemed confused.

“Thirty million.”

“Oh.” Danny suddenly felt like being hit by a sledgehammer.

Mon was already at the door. “Just tell Johnny if you’re OK with the price. Then we have a deal. OK, son?”

“Yes, Sir.”

...


[Note: Read the complete story in the book "You Filibini?" Stories and Other Writings by Amador F. Brioso, Jr., published May 2010]