I finished business early and had two free full days and nights before the god awful flight from Australia to LA and then home. I decided to find me some fun in Melbourne. I had money now and some power, but forty years earlier when I was seventeen I didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out. I had just been kicked out of the worst foster home you can imagine and was on the way to something probably worse when I joined a friendly overseas traveling group called the U.S. Marines. They specialize in taking bad boys, kicking their ass, teaching them to kill foreigners and respect honest citizens. During that era kids like me got to see the world in Vietnam alternating from the idyllic villages just south of the DMZ to the fuck or fight alleys of Saigon and for a
rare treat, usually after surviving a month long shit storm, Bangkok for pussy and Phuket to see the girl fights. Well all that was past, but memories linger, especially these days when life is fat, happy and a bit boring.

So I found myself eating with my bodyguard and driver, yes I sometimes need the former and prefer the later to keep me out of scraps with locals, in a Vietnamese restaurant in Footscray a western suburb of the city. I didn't have any flashbacks or jump when somebody dropped a plate, but I had definitely gotten out the boat and had my jungle eyes open. The apparent manager, a mama-san named Khan Le, kept looking at me from behind the counter. My jungle eyes saw glass in the food, or piss in the wine or a bomb in the bag by the door. It was that kind of look. I nodded to my bodyguard and he shrugged that I had nothing to worry about and then whispered she was probably coming over to sell me her granddaughter's pussy.

Khan Le, a tiny withered taskmaster, said in high accented English, "You Big Yellow Hair who likes the fights. I fight for you five times in Saigon, I not use new name."

I studied her. About that time a young teen, quite obviously the old woman's granddaughter, entered the front door in school uniform carrying a book bag. The young face brought back the memory of a dirty street and a falling down club that sported a hand painted "Dragon Fuck or Fight Club." I knew exactly who this old bitch was. I'd watched her beat three young girls half to death and then fuck them with her fist, feet, a piece of fruit, a beer bottle and a huge strap-on dildo. Throw her a twenty and she'd suck your cock while riding on the bloody face of the whore she had just whipped. I even remembered her Americanized name, Crotch Ripper Khan.

She saw the flash of recognition and smiled. She leaned down and whispered, "Hey, G. I. you got a wife. I fight her good. I fuck her in front of you. Cost you lots more than it used to."

I broke out laughing and so did she. We shared a drink, or several, just like old war buddies might. She had arrived in Oz by illegally by boat in 1982. Since then she had worked her way up starting as a kitchen hand in Vietnamese restaurants while still fucking and fighting for money when she needed. Tough old bird was proud of what she had done. She had lost her kids in Vietnam, but since arriving in Oz had managed to raise two girls. Both had grown up hard, but not as hard as Khan Le. And now a third generation of the one who had gotten married was going to an exclusive Catholic
girl's school. She showed me her pictures, including a boy who had gotten stomped to death by a skin head clan The Southern Cross Soldiers. After that she again mentioned fighting my wife and added my kids and their kids to the mix. She didn't seem mad at me but she seemed mad at my wife. Well my first three wives were out of the question and my fourth wife, Barbara, was a twenty-six year old beauty queen with the good sense to sell her body to me in return for devoted sex and a pot of gold at the end of my inbow. Our two new kids were under six.

She returned to the subject and I finally asked her why. It wasn't my family she wanted to fight it was any white woman with her children and grandchildren. First she wanted revenge for whatever shit she thought whites had done to her. Second, and far more important, she wanted money. There was a local underground community that would pay big money for savage fights, especially between Asians and Whites, especially if brutal sex was involve. Khan Le was still hustling money for street-fighting forty years later.

About that time, an Australian male entered. Khan Le introduced her apparent sponsor and promoter Barry "Bazza" Drummond. Nothing about him made my bodyguard nervous so I was dealing with a fellow fighting aficionado. We do exist at all levels of society. Even now that our thing is no longer that unheard of, we still live like a hidden priesthood hiding from the whatever the current Inquisition or Pogrom is called.