It’s 2 in the morning in Singapore. The HDB estate you live in is quiet, except for the couple a couple doors away arguing at the top of their voices and the lady 4 floors up screaming at her long dead husband as her daughter tries to calm her down.
You are sitting alone in your bedroom finishing version 6 of a powerpoint deck that will be sent to your boss, a senior-mid-level flunkey who will throw a fit, command you to make changes, then send it to her boss who will throw a fit and command her to essentially change it back to version 5.
Suddenly, as you put the finishing touches on page 36 out of 38, you feel a pain around your chest, a squeezing that won’t go away. The pain spreads to your shoulder, arm, back and neck. You try to call for help but you can’t.
‘No…’ you think, as you fall to the floor, ‘I was just 2 pages from finishing…’
Suddenly, the pain ceases. You open your eyes and sit up. Standing in front of you are two gentlemen. One is tall and pale and dressed in white. His tongue lolls out of his mouth. The other is short and dark skinned and dressed in black.
‘Your time is up!’ says the white one in Mandarin. ‘Please follow us.’
A: ‘There must be some mistake!’ you protest. ‘I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I exercise in accordance with the recommendations of the Health Promotion Board.’
B: ‘All right.’ You cast a last look at your body as you follow them out of your room, silently vowing to find an opportunity to return.
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I want to protest! If you can’t trust the Health Promotion Board, who can you trust?
I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I follow the recommendations of the Health Promotion Board. Surely there must be an administrative mistake that can be ironed out.
I choose A.
B. it’s always a priority to get some distance between myself and loud neighbors.
By a single vote, A:
‘There must be some mistake!’ you protest. ‘I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I exercise in accordance with the recommendations of the Health Promotion Board.’
The spirits sigh in unison.
‘Take it up with the Office of Registrations of Births and Deaths,’ says the black one, as he takes you by the right arm and leads you away. ‘We’re just here to bring you to Hell.’
‘I don’t suppose you have any cigarettes? Or Stout? Or maybe even,’ The white one drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘opium?’
‘I don’t smoke or drink…’ you say.
The two sigh again and guide you out of your house and down the lift. Outside, the familiar landscape of your estate soon turns into a rugged, mountainous landscape that obviously doesn’t exist anywhere in Singapore.
You arrive at a gate with a sign ‘Entrance Only’. Your guides shove you in, and when you turn around, the gate has disappeared along with them.
Hell is a collection of Chinese shophouses. You peer into one and see that it’s a gambling den. Everyone seems to be having fun.
‘Want to try?’ says a voice. You turn and see a long-haired man wearing a tall hat. He clutches an abacus in one hand and an umbrella and a bag in another. ‘I can lend you money. Return the money plus 20% interest when your family burns hell money during your wake.’
A: ‘No, I’ve seen the ads from the National Council on Problem Gambling,’ you say, firmly. ‘I’m not even supposed to be here. I just want to go home. Perhaps you can offer some advice…’
B: ‘Sure, I’ve seen the 2014 ad from the National Council on Problem Gambling where a dad bets his life savings on Germany winning the World Cup,’ you say. ‘Gambling aside, I hope you can tell me a bit about this place…’