The stale, dry, cool mechanical air was masked by strong,intrusive odours. Deep, potent stinks of steamed meat, of damp pungent rice, of stirred hot coco, of overcooked fried rice of soggy noodles of sweetened wet meatballs of red uncooked bloodied flesh of burned churned carbon of a weeks old ripened rotting vegetables and fruits of the fiery stove of the metallic oxidated pots and pans permeate the stale, dry mechanical air. The stench of servings cooked and cooking absorbed into that stale, dry mechanical air was a breath. A breath corrupted, corrupted and adulterated, a breath sucked in hessitantly The permiscuous fowling of something so bland, something so pure, so pure that it is transparent behold the innocence of things inside. Close to the cafes, the eateries are the shops that sold pirated and illegal DVDs, their spread of films,tiled uniformly on movable shelves, sometimes sprouted out of them callously and boastfully on the pedestrian's walk without a worry of eyes and aiming for eyes. The pomp, the regalia of illuminated screens of Samsung television tubes with their audio set to the max are pervasive as they are intrusive, sturbornly bombarding passer-bys with the latest titles chipped of the hollywood block,agitating, rudely aggravating the passive slide of a pedestrian's with a wall of sound and light in hope of turning their necks to the screen followed by their wallets to become customers without a thought of them becoming law-enforcement officials even when some of them are. Irreverent to the law, indifferent to the law, advertising their presence by being indignant to ears and eyes and minds.An ethic followed not just by the pirates but also by the gambling parlours, the arcade centres and the karaoke lounges, as their machines their 'entertainment systems' and the simulated 'life' which comes within in codes in chips in the wiring of things shout, shriek with an absolute madness in unison. Abundant, overlapping, intruding echoes screaming a million voices together. Spectres with an unfinished unending story boxed in alluminium cases. Howling, screaming, intruding the living in loops into loops. A roaring of machines, of ghosts in shells.On the highest floor of the largest mall in this oldest of Malaysian towns under the subtle glow under the humble abode of the simple electric floroscent lighting it was there.It is there, all the way up there on the sixth floor, the second last layer of enclosed open space before the sky. It is fouled to the scent of restaurants, food courts, food stalls, more restaurants and ventilation shaffs. It is beating to the theme of karaoke vendors, game parlours, the cinema, even more game parlours and the people indulging in them. I was walking along when I came to a halt, my legs were no longer moving.But the ground was.The ground was moving. The ground was shaking. All the way up there, a few feet to the clouds and a whole few kilometres from the real ground, it was shaking. The mall was stacked concrete to concrete, stacked up like one of those card castle, with all the weight from the vendors the restaurants the food stalls the game parlours the cinemas the shops the people, people like me being beared by those paper thin pions and it was shaking. I was shaken by that thought. I was getting the goosebumps.I was looking down at the verandah. A few steps ahead lay nothing but a huge empty hole holding only air and nothing more. No wonder I was getting woozy. No wonder I was being a coward. A liltle chicken without a chicken liltle in him or his fears of the sky falling down but being clamoured, paralised with worries of falling down into the skies.Yet I continued looking down. Nauseated. Purple to the cheeks. I kept looking down. Looking down at those ants below. Those ants called 'people' just like you and me walking around browsing, working, selling, sponsoring, buying with personal issues and personal burdens and personal feelings in their sweat,their chests their heart yet, from all the way up here, they were one,seamlessly interacting, moving together in a tango of organised chaos. cThere is no better anthill.There is no better anthill but, under a magnifying glass (as with a magnifying glass under a gleaming sun focusing its rays), there is no better inferno. The closer you get, the lower you go from the sixth floor to the first, the closer they resemble the havoc the stink the shrieks the stench of the sixth floor. It seems the crowds, the shops followed you down, hiding under different robes and costumes teasing you out of your sensibilities. Cheating you out of your eyes and ears.The sun was setting. The sun was setting under the cover of the dim flourescent lighting. I knew that from the digital display of my handphone. And it showed me the digits 18.00 telling me to leave, to leave this anthill, this inferno, this mall,'Prangin Entertainment and Shopping Centre' to be exact, for home.