Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 12 | Page 157

“Here we are,” a deep voice booms behind me.
Three built men wearing the same green clover on their hats spread their arms, blocking my exit. “The Green Gang.
Founded in 1922. You faked your shut-down in 1934 but secretly continued, hoping that your master would come
back.” I recited monotonously.
The left guy frowns. “How the heck did you know that?!”
“Maybe he’s royalty,” the right guy says. “Quick, all your valuables and we won’t hurt you,”
“Oh, trust me, you don’t want to hurt Du Yue-Sheng. Heard of me?”
The central guy’s face brightens, but the left guy shrugs. “Whatever. Loot him!”
“ Not so fast!” I roar. They all slowly, menacingly, creep toward me.
“Your middle guy knows who I am.” I nod. “You’re Huang Jing-Rong. You were a Chinese detective but you are
an opium enforcer. It’s me.”
The middle guy stands up straight. He takes off his helmet and crosses his arms. His grey hairs droop and his frail
figure reveals. “Du! It’s been so long!”
“92 years, to be exact.”
“The time machine works, I take it?”
“Not just that--it aged me backwards. I’m seventeen again!”
“That’s why I didn’t recognise you,” Huang chuckles.
“Ooh, we are going to make a billion fortunes selling these! I can gamble my life away and have hundreds in my back
pocket!” I cackle.
My previous life as notorious gangster Du Yue-Sheng wasn’t the most conventional. It was only practical that I fake
my death and escape--to here--and continue my business. My legacy of power.
My comrades and I chuckled gleefully as we wandered, drifting sailors, into the night.