My Knife

by Jos

  She spiked around a hundred bottles of soju and sold them off for 100,000 won a pop. Of course, the house always got a cut on any transaction that went down in the cave.

  Lola sold every single bottle to the fifty or so people in the cave that day. It was noon, so everyone in the cave had just cabbed from Old City, which had closed. Those who came to the early rounds were usually the type of party animals raised by nihilist wolves. Antoine rang the bell and started announcing in his nearly impossible-to-place accent: “All right, friends, as you know, it’s the first fight of the month. Do you all know what that means?” The crowd roared in unison: “Hajji vs. Chink fight!” Yep, he was a good showman, knew just what the crowd wanted. There were 10,000 won bills going around like it was toilet paper. I bet 100,000 on the Chinaman even though the odds against him were 7-1. I figured I might as well take a bigger risk for a better reward. Of the fifty or so people there, most of them bet against the Kuwaiti, too.

  As soon as I finished giving Joaquín the money and taking my gambling stub, Antoine drew his breath and the crowd fell into silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, sharpen your blades!” The crowd stamped their hooves like animals and Antoine rang the bell. The Kuwaiti started trying to pull some capoeira shit before bumping his head into the wall and falling on his right shoulder.

  The green dragon had begun to take effect. “Fuck!” I screamed out of nowhere as my brain started shaking like Fukushima. The combination of soju with liquid THC made me feel like my brain was going to start leaking. I felt as if I had hit my head against the wall instead of the Kuwaiti. I felt even better ‘cause I always rooted against him. Hell, everyone rooted against him. Half of the cowboys would probably have paid Antoine to let them take stabs at the Kuwaiti. But Antoine was smart; he didn’t want too many soldiers attracting attention by showing up to PT with slashes stitched up by a highly intoxicated Lt. Smith.

  Only non-soldiers could take a stab at the Kuwaiti. The Chinaman went straight for the kill and the crowd clapped and screamed wildly. Suddenly, the Kuwaiti pulled another capoeira spin and kicked the nuts right off of the Chink’s crotch. You could almost smell the sulfur coming from the burning pubes. The poor dude was bent over grabbing his crotch when the Kuwaiti rolled over and slashed him in the leg. “Shit! He just won, he drew first blood,” I screamed. That was another 100,000 won down the fucking port-o-potty. The Kuwaiti was victorious, his enemy laying defeated before him. But he wasn’t done.

  Once the Chink managed to stand up, the Kuwaiti pulled his trademark move and gave the poor Chinaman a Glasgow smile, slicing his face from ear-to-ear. The son of a bitch was 14-0. He had the best record in the league and was holding on to the Itaewon Knife Fighting League’s yellow dragon vest with hardly anyone to take it from him. The crowd was angry at the Kuwaiti for slicing that poor Chinaman’s face for no reason and got belligerent. Joaquín realized that a large group of drunken teenagers fresh out of high school could turn on him as well; and they all had weapons in the form of their bottles ready to go. It started in slow succession. Susan threw the first bottle, and Derpina and Patricia tossed the next four in rapid succession. My mind drowned out the noise and my eyes concentrated squarely on the Kuwaiti. It was almost as if my hand threw the shishe itself; it was subconscious.

  Five of the soldiers grabbed their bottles by the neck, smashed the bottoms against the heels of their cowboy boots, and made their way to the little narrow space that allowed an entry into the cage. Joaquín was sitting on a stool in the way, and he knew the motherfuckers would slice at him if he tried to save the Kuwaiti. “Two men in the cage only!” he screamed, and before I knew it, Antoine had pulled out a Glock and busted a cap in one of the speakers that Derpina was dancing on topless. She smacked her head on the dysheme harder than a son of a bitch and started bleeding profusely. Smith was about to earn another 20,000 won stitching her up. Smith normally charged 40,000, but always gave discounts to Derpina ‘cause she was his most regular costumer. I think Derpina was up to her 2nd concussion that afternoon.

  As soon as Derpina fell, the whole crowd became overwhelmed with endangered-rich-white-girl panic, gasped, and rushed to her aid as they gave Antoine a look of slight disapproval. It was only slight because he was blocking the doorway with probably 30 bullets in his extended clip. Bubba grabbed a towel and was kind enough to wipe the blood off her tits while Smith blew spice smoke into her face as he haphazardly tried to stop the bleeding.

  “Start the motherfucking party back up! Next person to disrespect the house is gonna get two to the chest and a Han River funeral,” Antoine shouted as soon as Smith was done. Joaquín needed to diffuse the situation. He was concerned about losing the thousands that the cowboys brought in. “I’m sorry, bro, but you’re gonna have to fight twice today,” he told the Kuwaiti.

  The Kuwaiti was getting paid well, apparently. The average fighter got 100,000 won, access to the pussy available in the cave – “this is Itaewon, pussy sells itself,” they would say – and a 5-gram bag of spice, which pretty much every motherfucker slicing away was hooked on to medicate the pain. The Kuwaiti, however, only saw fit to fight once a month. The yellow dragon vest meant that he took home 1,000,000 won per fight.

  The Kuwaiti started protesting. “You can’t do this to me!” he screamed. “Sorry, bro, I can’t stand to lose this much money. You either fight or forfeit the match and thus the yellow dragon vest,” Joaquín said. The Kuwaiti acquiesced ‘cause he didn’t want to lose money and face by pussying out. Joaquín knew that the Kuwaiti was probably going to cause another incident that could be bad for business. He decided to take the motherfucker out of commission himself.

  The Machetero of Itaewon

  Joaquín seemed like he was born with knives for hands. He wielded the blade with near majesty. The incandescent light bulb hanging from a wire made the metal blade of his trusty “debit card,” as he used to call it, look like an innocent Chinese fan.

  The Kuwaiti immediately lunged forward in a straight stab towards Joaquín’s gut just as soon as Antoine rang the bell. Joaquín, like a graceful bullfighter, glided effortlessly to the side and grabbed his opponent’s stabbing arm. Joaquín placed him in a kote gaeshi and spun him 180 degrees counter-clockwise straight to the floor. He continued holding the Kuwaiti’s wrist as he stepped on the back of his neck and separated him from his knife using his free hand. He then pulled the ultimate disrespect in the world of underground knife fighting: he mutilated a man’s working hand with his own knife. It only took Joaquín about thirty seconds to hack away at his struggling hand’s two outer metacarpal bones. The crowd started jumping and screaming wildly when Joaquín showed the battered hand to them like a trophy.

  Joaquín knew that he had done something serious: he took the man’s food by hacking his hand in half. There would be retaliation, surely. I knew It would only be a matter of time before a knife fight would spill into a place where the cops could get called. The gunpowder has been placed under Itaewon. There are probably more than 100 individuals walking around with knives and over a year of fighting experience. Did Joaquín seem concerned at the time? Not even remotely. Not even before Joaquín finished wiping his work tool on the sobbing victim’s sleeve, he looked up to see Patricia eating a squid jerky. “What the fuck are you doing?!” he screamed. “That’s outside food, bitch! You want to eat something in here, you get it from one of my Russians, coñazo!” He walked around the chicken wire and smacked the dried squid out of her hand.

  I realized that it probably wouldn’t take much of a spark to finish burning away what little innocence there was left on Hooker Hill.

  Innocence

  As far as I knew, there were only two ways to get the day’s passcode to enter down into the cave. Number one: you had to be either a soldier or an English teacher who frequented Old City. (Or someone like Joaquín, who spoke good enough English to feign having a job; why the hell would he bother going to a job hung over when he was raking close to 6 million won a month just from what
Noah, Fat Jimmy, and Patricia gambled away?)

  Number two: you proved yourself by fighting at Old City. In such a case, the Itaewon Knife Fighters would conduct interviews right away in the alley behind Old City. Fat Jimmy would always conduct the interviews himself. He received no compensation other than being allowed to waive his gambling commission to the house. He even lost part of his ear in a fight. He was willing to get sliced just to save the 15 percent facilitation fee the house charged.

  I had by that point begun to realize for a fact that the whole operation had a hierarchy. This wasn’t just friends throwing an exclusive party for friends. This was a well-oiled and calculated enterprise the Itaewon Knife Fighters had managed to set up using nothing but ruthlessness and total fearlessness of death.

  I knew that the Kuwaiti wouldn’t be given the password again even if he did manage to recover his stabbing hand. I excused myself from the cave anyway, in case he came back and tried to get revenge by blowing the place up.

  End of Recollection

  I didn’t realize it immediately, but the sun had risen and noon arrived as fast as a blitzkrieg. I was lost all morning over the booze, memories of the cave, and the euchre game I played in a corner of Old City with the others. I don’t think anyone uttered a word all morning. We were very often taciturn and lost in our own worlds of regret and misery. My mind drifted between the deafening silence around me and bloody images I’d been treated to months ago in the cave.

  I felt bad for allowing my paranoia to prevent me from catching the rest of the fights. Who the fuck would be crazy enough to try and burn down a place full of armed gang members who cut themselves for fun? And thinking of fun, I looked down at my crotch and noticed that the sunlight had given my little buddy some energy.

  I was feeling horny and decided to borrow Ana for a bit. Noah was staring blankly at the cards on the table, so I saw no point in asking permission. I simply grabbed Ana by the hand and took her into the bathroom. She said, “well, hello, there” in her sexy accent, made prettier by her green eyes, blonde hair, and good, Afrikaner stature. I put my index finger to my lips and motioned her to be quiet as I pushed her against the urinal and lifter her mini-skirt. I pulled down my zipper, forced the tight-ass rubber on my dick and began penetrating her. As I was pounding her, Noah came in, his brain cooked on ambien, and began peeing in the urinal next to the one where I was working. He finished peeing, and as he turned away, noticed that I was busy with Ana. He high-fived me and walked out. Satisfied, I started pounding Ana harder and she remained completely silent, just how I like it. I finished my deed and stroked her hair with my left hand while throwing the rubber into the toilet. “That was a good quickie, I’ll recommend you to all my friends. Do you do rim jobs too?” I asked.

  “I’m sure we can negotiate some terms,” she said before giving me her business card.

  Mentally destroyed, I walked back to the table and we all decided to call it an afternoon and get ready for work later that day. We walked out from total darkness into blinding light and I pulled out the Stellar Trek visors I got in Itaewon the previous week; they were the only ones strong enough to protect my eyes. All of us who frequented Old City suffered from at least some form of photo-sensitivity. We walked down the hill and made a right, passed the reggae bar and entered the Six-Eleven.

  The Six-Eleven

  The store clerk was lost in a Youtube video streaming on his smart phone. I walked around the store for a good five minutes before he realized we had come in. I purchased a bottle of blue Powerspade and another one of soju, the two ingredients for poju. I poured the poju into the camelback I kept under my trusty red oriental blazer, which I’d purchased from a Nigerian pimp during a visa run to Roppongi. I loved taking discreet sips from the pack in a corner of the bar. I always sit with my back to the bartender when I’m in a bar and have probably saved over 5 million won in drinks over my years in Korea.

  After chugging the poju, I knew I’d be knocked out soon. I stood outside the six-eleven and overheard a car squealing and someone shout in a Korean accent: “Hey, motherfuckers, need ride!?” I looked up and saw my buddy Strong Penis in his orange cab. We hopped in and and told him to take us back to Haebangchon. I started falling asleep even before we made it past the Porkinton Hotel. My eyes were half open as we passed gate 3 and the kimchi pots; Strong Penis was rubbing Ana’s leg as she stared despondently at herself in the mirror above the front seat. The cab stopped in front of Pinoy; “yogio,” Strong Penis said after squeezing my nipple to wake me. I thanked him, Noah paid the 2,800 won fare, and I, already too tired to head up to my place, plopped down next to Drew, a professional makgeollista from New Zealand who spent his days sitting outside of Pinoy. He was teaching his four-year-old quatriracial son his fourth language. I blacked out during “imnida” after “imnida,” the noise of traffic down on the main road in front of us barely putting a dent in my sleep.

  Drew woke me up at 5:30 p.m.: “Wake up, mate! You gotta get to work.” I thanked him and managed to make my way down the main street, towards Noksapyeong Station. On the way, I stopped briefly and ordered some haejangguk to beat the hangover and help me make it through classes. I finished the soup and continued on my way to Noksapyeong.

  I made my way down the four or forty levels, examined my reflection in the large platform mirror before jumping on the train to Yaksu station, sprayed a strong spring mist on myself and stuffed cough drops under my cheeks. Along the way, I could think of nothing but the Itaewon Knife Fighters.

  The Itaewon Knife Fighters

  All of the members of the Crew had to be banned from at least three bars and taken to a police station at least twice. To become a member of this highly secretive organization was tricky. I only call it the Knife Fighting Crew because I have no other name for it. One had to carefully balance drunken insanity with avoiding deportation and still classifying for Itaewon notoriety.

  I put this all together after weeks of observation. The group’s formal meetings would take place every Sunday and Thursday after sunset. Fifteen individuals would show up at a bar and, before anyone knew what was truly happening, the place was trashed, doors were smashed, and the bathroom was destroyed.

  While the previous drinking crews were disorganized and had no hierarchy, this organization was highly structured, well-funded, and international in scope. It was spread over certain cities, though I can only guess which ones, based on member’s Facebook albums. Individuals who were tapped for the organization no longer had to worry about work. They all pooled a certain amount into the fund, I’m sure. A lawyer to prevent deportation, or to at least delay it, would be made available at the organization’s expense. However, the motherfuckers were draining the funds dry with the three-day binges they’d go on every week. I’d be surprised if any of them had more than a few million won in their bank accounts.

  Even if deported, strings would be pulled to bring a member back into the country. One Nicaraguan individual was arrested and forced to leave the country for working without a visa. However, he was allowed back in after only one day. Pablo was forced to hustle privates under the table and sub for sick friends ‘cause he was banned from getting a teacher’s visa for a year. He didn’t know he was on the roster of potential members. He was just allowed back in because of the stunts he had pulled. Stunts which apparently had entertained someone with power. The clues all led to an organized group that had some ulterior motive.

  I heard “Yaksu” over the speakers and squeezed my way out of the train car. I arrived five minutes late, but it’s not like kindergarten kids have watches anyway. I took off my shoes, put on a smile, entered the seemingly elf-designed room, and sat in a circle surrounded by tiny Korean 5-year-olds. I bowed to my co-teacher (she pretended I didn’t exist the rest of the night and I also pretended the same) and continued feigning the smile and enthusiasm; the kids had no idea I was running on ethanol and almost no sleep.

  I continued reciting animal names, making animal noises, and discussi
ng colors with the children. The entire performance was nothing but a calculated, mechanical presentation designed to entertain sugar-fed, tireless poop-machines.

  The classes ended, started, were recycled, regurgitated, and reiterated to the point where a rock would be made fatigued. When the night was done, I made my way back down to Yaksu Station. My three-hour-long work trip would soon be over, and I would again find myself surrounded by drunken expats in Haebangchon.

  Back Home

  I got off at Noksapyeong Station, dragged my feet up the 10-minute climb to the surface, and started making my way to The Local, the friendliest hole on HBC road. Before I made it to The Local, I bumped into Jasmine, who had just been told by the staff at Nillies to take it easy at home for the night. She’d smashed a pool cue in half and was about to take a stab at the anorexic bartender after he called Bubba a fag. Fortunately, the owner who only cares about money and whose wife committed suicide as a result stepped in to stop her from haphazardly creating a breathing hole in the anorexic’s neck. I knew she missed him and decided to accompany her home. It wasn’t hard, we all lived within a few block radius of one another anyway.

  We arrived at her place, packed a spice bong and sat in silence as we looked at Facebook pictures of our friends. Every night for the next month was not too different from that Monday night smoking spice at Jasmine’s. I decided to stay home and smoke until I could figure out if it was safe for me not to get “disappeared,” too.