One day, Wentworth and I are at my place, on the farm in Hsinchu, drinking beer and competing to say the most offensive jokes. One of us gets the bright idea to have a bonfire and neither think its a bad idea. Things are going well for awhile. It’s well past bed time, but the Aboriginals that occupy the neighborhood are regularly up until 3am, drinking, on a work night. None of them are about to take issue with us; nobody, that is, except for Crowbar Boy.
I go off to take a piss and while I’m zipping up, a black sedan skids to a stop a few feet away, backs up, and makes the turn that he had missed. This piece of human trash is well known for driving at reckless speeds, and doing so while drunk. Aside from the children who regularly play in the street (wont someone think of the children?!?!), I have some skin in this game as well. I have 8 dogs who play on the farm, and cross the otherwise relatively safe street to do so. Being drunk myself, I wait until he gets out of the car and suggest that he “slow the fuck down”.
Crowbar boy is middle aged, extremely intoxicated, and more angry than an ex wife who’s children want to spend Christmas with daddy. The thing is: I can’t tell what exactly he is pissed about. Of course he is mad about being called out, but he is accusing me of SOMETHING, and I just can’t understand what it is. You see, my dear readers, being drunk, having a thick, Aboriginal accent, and screaming death threats to a second language speaker is a sure-fire path to poor communication. I couldn’t understand what he was saying but I did understand that it wasn’t that he would immediately repent for his reckless behavior.
Crowbar boy finally screams something I CAN understand: “Don’t play stupid!”, and he reaches into his car…
“Wentworth! He’s going for his knife!”
Wentworth all but flies out of the banana patch, ready to go Full Metal Jacket on this fool. Crowbar Boy sees him from the corner of his eye and withdraws from the car empty-handed. Being outnumbered neutralizes his advantage of being armed, so he switches tactics and tries to play innocent. I repeat, in Chinese for his benefit, that he was reaching for a weapon. Crowbar Boy retorts that he was NOT going for a weapon and that my mother is a whore (how did he know?!?). Crowbar boy then suggests that we should return to “our country”, eat shit, and fuck our mothers. Wentworth, in return, tells him that that we are running out of patience with his antics and will tag-team skull-fuck his corpse if he isn’t gone by the time we’ve unzipped. Crowbar boy wisely gets back into his car and drives off.
Wentworth and I go back to drinking, but arren’t halfway through the next pair of brewskies when Crowbar Boy is back.
Jumping out of the car (and stumbling), he screams “You said I have a weapon!? Now I have a weapon, motherfuckers!”. He is brandishing a brand-new crowbar.
He stays on the opposite side of his car so Wentworth approaches from one side and I from the back. He is now boxed in by: his car, a retired United States Marine, and Yours Truly. He is standing on a thin strip of road, in between his car and a fish pond, and sure as Hilary Clinton employed voter fraud to win the primaries, Crowbar Boy is going for a swim if he makes a move. I get into kickboxing range while Wentworth fearlessly steps into the jaws of the lion and takes a firm grasp of the crowbar. If Crowbar Boy wants to swing his weapon, he will now have to break Wentworth’s Kung-Fu grip to do so. Crowbar Boy has a rare moment of good judgment and relents, letting Wentworth take possession of his new crowbar.
In the end, no blood was spilled, nobody got stabbed, and nobody went for a swim. I kept that crowbar as a prize for awhile, then chucked it into some thick jungle undergrowth when I eventually moved. We haven’t had any trouble with Crowbar Boy since.