On Golden Sorya Mall, the centre of the universe, Phnom Penh, I finish telling the story of The Magic Elephants – or rather Elefants – to God, the Universe, and whoever else is listening to me on the subcutaneous microphone implant attached to my skull behind my ear… The Police (the real police not Sting’s band), Francis Ford Coppola and the ones who protect the magic elephants.
Sting’s voice rattles tinnily from a distant speaker:
Every step you take, I’ll be watching you…
You see what I mean.
You couldn’t write this shit.
The whole thing feels scripted.
Like a brilliant, perfect script.
But who’s writing it?
Or Mr. C ?
Mr. Crystal Meth Psychosis?