Crazy Rich Asians

“Sixty-nine ounces.”

“Let me see if we have some. Follow me,” the man said, his voice suddenly shifting into a rather unexpected Aussie accent. The group followed him toward the back of the shop and through a dim storeroom lined from floor to ceiling with neatly stacked rows of cardboard cartons. Every carton was stamped “China Ginseng for Export Only.” The man pushed lightly against a stack of wide boxes in the corner, and the whole section seemed to collapse backward effortlessly, revealing a long passageway glowing with cobalt-blue LED lights. “Straight through here,” he said. As the guys wandered down the passageway, the muffled roar became louder and louder, and at the end of the hall, smoked-glass doors parted automatically to reveal an astonishing sight.

The space, which resembled a sort of indoor gymnasium with bleachers on both sides of a sunken pit, was packed standing room only with a boisterous cheering crowd. Though they could not see past the audience, they could hear the blood-curdling growls of dogs tearing into each other’s flesh.

“Welcome to the greatest dogfighting arena in the world!” Bernard proudly announced. “They only use Presa Canario mastiffs here — they are a hundred times more vicious than pit bulls. This is going to be damn shiok,[59] man!”

“Where do we place the bets?” Johnny asked excitedly.

“Er … isn’t this illegal?” Lionel asked, peering nervously at the main fighting cage. Nick could tell Lionel wanted to look away but found himself curiously drawn to the scene of two huge dogs, all muscle and sinew and fangs, rolling viciously in a pit smeared with their own blood.

“Of course it’s illegal!” Bernard answered.

“I don’t know about this, Bernard. Colin and I cannot risk being caught at some illegal dogfight right before the wedding,” Lionel continued.

“You are such a typical Singaporean! So damn scared of everything! Don’t be so fucking boring,” Bernard said contemptuously.

“That’s not the point, Bernard. This is just plain cruel,” Nick interjected.

“Alamak, are you a member of Greenpeace? You’re witnessing a great sporting tradition! These dogs have been bred for centuries in the Canary Islands to do nothing but fight,” Bernard huffed, squinting his eyes.

The chanting of the crowd became deafening as the match reached its grisly climax. Both dogs had clamped tightly onto each other’s throats, locked in a Sisyphean chokehold, and Nick could see that the skin around the brown dog’s throat was half torn off, flapping against the snout of the other dog. “Well I’ve seen enough,” he grimaced, turning his back on the fight.

“Come on, lah. This is a BACHELOR PARTY! Don’t shit on my fun, Nickyboy,” Bernard shouted over the chanting. One of the dogs gave a piercing shriek as the other mastiff snapped into the soft of its belly.

“There’s nothing fun about this,” Mehmet said firmly, nauseated by the sight of the fresh warm blood squirting everywhere.

“Ay, bhai singh,[60] isn’t goat-fucking a tradition in your country? Don’t you all think goat pussy is the closest thing to real vag?” Bernard countered.

Nick’s jaw tightened, but Mehmet just laughed. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Bernard flared his nostrils, trying to figure out whether he should feel insulted.

“Bernard, why don’t you stay? Those who don’t want to be here can head to the hotel first, and we can all meet up later,” Colin suggested, trying to play the diplomat.

“Suits me fine.”

“Okay, then, I’ll take the group to the hotel and we’ll meet up at—”

“Wah lan![61] I organized this specially for you, and you’re not staying?” Bernard sounded frustrated.

“Er … to be honest, I don’t care for this either,” Colin said, trying to look apologetic.

Bernard paused for a moment, supremely conflicted. He wanted to enjoy the dogfights, but at the same time he wanted everyone to witness the profuse ass-kissing he would receive from hotel management the minute they pulled up to the resort.

“ ’Kay lah, it’s your party,” Bernard muttered sulkily.

The sumptuous lobby of the Wynn Macau boasted a huge gilt mural on the ceiling that featured animals of the Chinese zodiac, and at least half the assembled group were relieved to be someplace where the animals were covered in twenty-two-carat gold instead of blood. At the reception desk, Bernard was having one of the classic fits he was renowned for the world over.

“What the fuck! I’m a VVIP here, and I booked the most expensive suite in this entire hotel almost a week ago. How can it not be ready?” Bernard raged to the manager.

“I do apologize, Mr. Tai. Checkout time for the Presidential Penthouse is four o’clock, so the previous guests have not yet vacated the room. But as soon as they do, we’ll have the suite serviced and turned around for you in no time at all,” the manager said.

“Who are these bastards? I’ll bet they’re Hongkies! Those ya ya[62] Hongkies always think they own the world!”