That Time I Was Roofied in Hong Kong
Hong Kong was rough even BEFORE the bloody protests
The Wan Chai district of Hong Kong has a lawless Wild West reputation. The place is run by criminal triads, street gangs and international syndicates specializing in human trafficking, illicit drugs, protection rackets, murder for hire and all the rest.
So, of course, my friend Bill and I couldn’t resist booking hotel rooms smack in the middle of it.
A place where there’s no police presence on the street, where over the span of four weeks, I saw only two police officers. They pulled up in a van, loaded a body inside and then disappeared into the night. I later learned that it was a West African meth dealer who had been stabbed outside the 7-Eleven, catty-corner to our favorite club, Bar Amazonia.
I grabbed the door frame with both hands and began to hold off my would-be abductors. All three wrapped their arms around my waist…
The bouncer told us that no one calls the police unless it’s to carry away the dead. “It’s vigilante justice out here. Police won’t help you.” Bill liked the sound of that. “Now we’re talking!” This was my first indication that my friend had a death wish.
And trouble was inescapable once the nightclubs opened their doors. Random strangers offered to cut my throat or shoot me and leave my body lying in the street. It happened so often it was almost comical. Most of these threats were designed to thin the room of competition for women, but other threats, I’m convinced, came from men who had killed before and who weren’t afraid to kill again.
Fight after fight spilled out onto Lockhart Road, and Bill loved to jump in the middle of the melee.
“Take a shot at me, you big dumb fuck!”
He’d manhandle guys twice his size, lean in inches from their faces and yell, “C’mon, pussy! Let’s go! Show me how tough you are!” The maniacal rage in his eyes backed them off, but I knew, sooner or later, someone would take him out. I was going to have to find a way to distract him.