Sing (and Buddy)
The kungfu prodigy who manipulated Qi to master the wind got pissed (on)
Early 20th Century Shanghai
Sing and Buddy swaggered to the phlegmatic young man roosting on the banged-up remains of a car seat, reading an old newspaper.
“My boss needs a haircut,” Sing growled to the haircutter, gesturing to Buddy, who gazed coolly into the distance.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, giving up the seat for his only customer.
Buddy heaved his hefty frame onto the settee, which immediately toppled under his weight.
“You’re dead!” Sing shrieked at the barber as he rushed to pull Buddy out of the dent in the seat.
“What? I’ll sue you instead for damaging my property,” the youth retorted as he followed the abortive attempt with interest.
“Hello, do you know who we are? Don’t you recognize the sword tattoo on my boss’s body, the symbol of the fearsome Sword Gang? We are bad, very, very bad, vicious criminals. Here, see, it’s engraved on his abdomen.” The scrawny fella nudged the barber towards the now shirtless Buddy for a closer look.
“What sword? I see a dot. What gang are you talking about?”
After much writhing and twisting, Sing at last managed to break Buddy free. When the chubby chap stood up, his jiggly flab unfurled to expose a dagger.
“See,” Sing spun around, “that HUGE sword, the logo of the SWORD GANG, we are members…”
The barber, once again vapid, stifled a yawn. “Fake tattoo. Pay up.”
“I’m telling you, we are bad, very, extremely, unconscionable, rotten savages. If you want to avoid trouble, I suggest you compensate my boss for his pain.” Noticing the barber’s disregard, Sing lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, “Okay then, how about some change for two coffees?”
“Extortion!” the barber yelled.
“Shh…” Sing glanced around the empty slum alley.
“Ok, we’ll go easy on you today,” Sing hollered over his shoulder as he and Buddy fled. “But don’t think you’ll be so lucky next time.”
On a late afternoon, Sing and Buddy huddled on a sidewalk opposite a theater, eyeing the wealthy men in tailored suits, with their slicked back, pomaded hair, file out of their American cars. On their heels were svelte women wearing high-slit cheongsams, made-in-Italy shoes, dangling their Gucci purses, and scenting the air with French colognes. Linking arms, as no plebians would be caught dead doing, they flaunted their Western-style love, and opulence, while checking out the Joneses — or Wongs — with their peripheral visions.
“See, Buddy,” Sing lectured, “there is money everywhere. You just have to go about it smart. Don’t be like these bums.” He cocked his head toward where a bunch of hobos were begging for alms, steps away. Two of them were hustling up a just-flung cigarette butt, which rolled to a stop by his duct-taped shoes. He snapped it up, took a drag, and hurled the remnant in their direction.
“But,” Buddy puzzled, “how can we make this much money?”
“Listen well, my friend. I learned a long time ago, that good men get slapped around. You must rob, kill, blackmail, murder, rape… the list goes on. There are many roads to riches.”
“Have you ever done them?”
“Not yet. But I dream about it every night. I got it schemed down to the last detail. That’s it, I’m joining the Sword Gang for real. Be a gangster, that’s another way to get loaded.”
“But don’t they only take expert fighters?”
“Buddy, I never told you this, but I know kungfu, in particular, the Buddha’s Palm move. When I was nine, a shabby sage spotted me devouring kungfu comic strips at a bookstand. He approached me and proclaimed that I’m the one-in-a-million prodigy with the talent to master an esoteric kungfu form, and thereby create World Peace. So, for my sake and the planet’s, he said, he was willing to sacrifice his dog-eared Buddha’s Palm manual for $10. I dashed home, broke my piggy bank, and dashed back to him with my savings, which were meant for my education. But what is being a doctor compared to saving the world? I studied the cartoonish illustrations and practiced the steps every single day. One breezy afternoon, the leaves rustled on the swaying branches of a tree when I projected my Qi onto it.”
“If you are so skilled, why are you so poor?”
“Well, my training was cut short. A while later, I encountered a bunch of hooligans bullying a little girl. Since I had learned to control the wind element, I took the role of The Chosen One seriously. I ordered them to stop the assault. A boy, bigger than me, strutted over with his hands on his hips. I gave him a Buddha’s Palm punch. He didn’t budge. Instead, he shoved me to the ground. Then he and his pals thrashed me, hooting gleefully as they fed off my whimpers.”
“So you weren’t able to sneak in another jab, I guess?”
“No, but as I was shaking off their piss, was the moment I decided to become a thug when I grew up.”
An elderly blind man, holding on to the shoulder of a small boy in front of him, was clacking his cane past Sing and Buddy.
“See these useless guys?” Sing pointed to the pair. “The bane of society, utterly, thoroughly, completely expendable. Never, ever end up like them, Buddy.”
Sing patted his tattered shirt, then rummaged in the pockets of his ripped pants and at length found one lone coin — saved for the last opportune moment when he really, truly, categorically, absolutely must appease the growling of his empty stomach — and tossed it into the boy’s begging bowl.
Adapted from the Kung Fu Hustle
