This is no shit, the first occurrence of the Images scenario, or anything like it, that I saw was in Hong Kong in the autumn of 1966. I was a young, hard-charging Lance Corporal Machine Gunner on R&R from an all-expense-paid vacation in the sunny vacation land in SE Asia. On my second night there, I went out of the hotel and flagged a rickshaw and asked the puller to “Take me to a place where women get tied up” or words to that effect (can you tell that I was an MP for a while?).

A friend of mine (a Sergeant born and raised in Bermuda) had said, “Rickshaw runners in Hong Kong know where everything is and can get you there just as quickly and more cheaply than a taxi,” and that “You can find and purchase almost anything in Hong Kong, with the possible exception of tactical nuclear weapons.” After some negotiations, hampered by my nonexistent Chinese and his marginal English and the fact that after giving up on speaking English to him, I was using Okinawa pidgin, we agreed on a price (there was no problem with the destination; that he understood instantly), and away we went.

The trip took about 15 minutes, mostly at a trot, and I was somewhat confused as to where we were after 5 minutes (perhaps the quantity of beer that I had previously consumed had something to do with it; usually, I’m very difficult to lose).

In any case, we ended up at a multi-story building somewhere within a 15-minute trot (say 2 miles) of the President Hotel, Kowloon, Crown Colony of Hong Kong. There are probably a thousand or so such buildings; they all look alike, unless you can read the signs on them in Chinese (Happy Valley House), (Tenement of Joyous Nights Sleeping), and so forth. So he drops the poles of the rickshaw and says, “You come with me, please.”

We entered the building (there is something about Chinese buildings, they’re alive, breathing, with thousands of invisible eyes watching you) and took a lift to the <mumble> floor (it’s been 25 years, I don’t have that good a memory, remember I didn’t expect this to be real memorable at the time).

We walked down the hall and the runner (rickshaw puller is a bit clumsy, da?) raps on a door (looked like any other door to me, no numbers (anywhere), no characters (anywhere), a real anonymous floor) and this youngish Chinese guy answers -I never did get the name, because it was never offered, let’s call him Mr. Inside.

He and the runner seem to be real pals, because his face lights up (don’t let anyone tell you that Orientals are ‘inscrutable’, usually they couldn’t hide an emotion under a blanket <except when they are gambling>) and they start rattling away in Canton (I think, Mandarin sounds different, and Shanghai and Hunan sound a bit like Vietnamese, and THAT I could spot) and waving hands in my general direction and towards the door (this was the clue, Canton is, like Italian, a partially signed language).

After about 20 seconds the inside guy turns to me and says, in impeccable British English (sounded like an old Wykehamist), “Welcome to our humble establishment” ... you could have knocked me over with a feather, a real live cliché ... and then he gives this big grin and I can tell that he’s having some fun at my expense, but that’s OK by me, that’s why I’m here (fun).

“He,” he says, not quite pointing at the runner, “says that you want to see women, bound?”

“Yes, exactly.” This English accent stuff is contagious.

“That is good, you have come to the correct place, please pay him the agreed amount, I would recommend that you tip him 10 percent of the fee that you will pay here. That would be twenty dollars, Hong Kong.”

Now in 1966, the Hong Kong dollar was worth about $0.35 US, so doing some quick math and drawing on my ready supply of beer, befuddled with I said, “Huh?.” That’s damn near 9 bucks for a 15-minute rickshaw ride.

“Our fee to view the show is two hundred dollars, Hong Kong.” (I swear the guy talked like that; you could see per-cent, not %, and two hundred dollars, Hong Kong, not $HK200). “We have never had a complaint, and the performers usually get tips of that amount also.”

I’m thinking “Shit, 70 bucks! For 70 bucks, I can get laid what? 5, 6 times easy (at this time, there was little or no amateur sex available for transient personnel in Hong Kong (meaning the guys coming up from ‘Nam trying to unwind, not to mention when a Carrier Battle group shows up and drops 8 or 9 thousand horny swabbies all over), and damn little for the troops (The Queen’s Own Buffs and the 1st Gurkas) stationed there), this had better be out-fucking-standing.” Honest folks, that’s the way we talked and thought then.

So I took out cash stash number 1 (you don’t think that I took ALL my money with me, hey, I got four more days of R&R left), peeled off a 20 for the runner, plus the 5 that I owed him for the trip (to put prices in perspective, you could, and I did later, eat a sumptuous feast for two for $HK25 plus tip). Then I peeled off another $HK200 and handed it to the other guy and said, “You look like a gent to me, let’s get rolling.”

He winced (yeah, well, I’ve never really been able to beat around the bush, and back then... ) at my lack of couth and handed me back the money. “Please, hold on to it. You pay when the performance starts. We have a while to wait, would you care for a beer?”