This is it. We stop before the gates for a moment, as the music playing from inside pounds into our ears. In fact, it’s so loud I would call it noise instead. The pre-war shophouse looks deserted from the onset; the long shadow of the night cast over it. We know opening the quaint Chinese wooden doors would lead us into the beating heart of a seemingly dead body. It’s a surprise that is not at all surprising since we have had all sorts of expectations on what lies inside but whether they are true or not, it’s pretty much a different matter.

The music keeps spinning and we enter into the main hall. It’s expectedly dark and smoky. Not that I can see much anyway since the blinding spotlights keep flashing on and off. When my eyes finally have gotten accustomed to the lights, I realise the bar is not that crowded or rowdy – yet. Friends lounge on Chinese wooden benches, taking momentary sips on their drinks from the mini-straws and then putting the glass on the table filled with many other similar but empty glasses. At the corners of the room, the televisions show EPL matches, something that’s almost mandatory in all bars.

We order our drinks at the bar where warm amber light emanates from the wall and bar-top. Bartenders and waiters clad in huge red shirts meander through the growing crowd and bulky furniture, busy with orders, serving and giving long introductions on their drink rates. Some women enter the bar in hot mini skirts and tubes that are all black, to entice and to warn lusting men at the same time.

We found seats by the wall and attempts to talk above the din before quickly surrendering to blasting music. It’s evidently hard to start a conversation. So when I'm introduced to a friend’s friend, I don’t feel like speaking at all and tries so very desperately to look away from him. (Convention says bar-goers converse with strangers they are introduced to. It’s a bar for goodness sake!) When we begin exchanging words, well, let’s just say we are on different frequencies and as I keep rambling on, I am conscious of myself looking like a total loser.

Thankfully, we left early. At a point of time, I wanted to blast out from my seat and through the roof window. Along the road, teenagers in hip-hop gears, scantily dressed women, rowdy young males, and well-dressed executives roam. This, this is the place where they dance their troubles away and drink their sorrows down; a place where, as much as I can’t figure how, they unwind after a hard week’s work and meet new people; a place where I heard people line the street to puke at 2 a.m.

I doubt I’ll ever venture into Mohd. Sultan. Too messy, too dangerous for my liking. Ha, I sound like a total prig.