So, about three hundred years ago, when the Qing dynasty isn’t even old enough to buy a beer, there comes a wave of barbarians out of the north with such fury and numbers that it kicks nine shades of shit out of the Emperor’s army, causing much embarrassment and fear among the aristocracy, and a large number of corpses among the peasants and military. You can’t walk a block without tripping over a widow or an orphan, the sky is black with the smoke of burning villages, and it is widely agreed throughout China that the soup of the day is Cream of Sadness.
So the Emperor calls his ministers together and says: “Who are these mugs? Why do they vex me thus? And will no one rid me of them?”
And one of his ministers, a toady whose name is lost to history, but let’s say he’s called Jeff, says: “These are the same mugs from the north that have invaded us regularly lo these many years.” But he does not say, “They vex you thus because you have opened up the aristocracy to anyone who can afford the ducats, including merchants and lawyers, so you have a kingdom very top-heavy with bums, but you have not spent any of that sweet cabbage on walls, weapons, or the training of soldiers.” Jeff does not say this because he is one of those selfsame bums of which he speaks. But he does say, “I hear of a Buddhist monastery in Fukien Province where the monks train day and night in the art of fighting and are said to be so fierce that one of them punches out a yak’s lights when he goes outside to take a leak in the morning—rings the bell of a wild yak with one hand on his willy and does not get even a drop on his robe.”
And the Emperor says unto Jeff, “Yeah, go get those guys. Offer them substantial cheddar and powerless positions at court to save our bacon.”
So Jeff journeys to the mountaintop where the monks keep their clubhouse, and asks them will they rid the kingdom of the vicious barbarians from the north, and the abbot answers thus: “Nope. We have some chanting and meditation to do, and after lunch, fighting practice.”
“But,” says Jeff, “we will give you titles, stacks of cabbage, fine outfits, a feed bag of the finest fare, and gorgeous dames with feet so tiny they can tap-dance on a bottle cap.”
And the abbot says, “We’re good. Now, if you will excuse me, I’m going to have some tea and punch a yak.”
So Jeff spake thusly: “But many peasants have been killed, there are widows and orphans coming out the wazoo, villages are burning, and there is much suffering in the land. Besides, what’s the point of training at fighting all day if all you are going to do is knock out random mountain beefs?”
And with that the abbot says, “That is an excellent point, toady. We’ll do it.”
And so it comes to pass that one hundred and thirty-eight monks, outfitted for fighting, march north (leaving home one guy for ringing the gong and another to milk the yak). And before three days have passed, those barbarians who were not killed or wounded are more than somewhat discombobulated, and they retreat to their own land, while not a single monk is lost (although a couple have blisters on their thumbs from their fighting sticks and the abbot quotes the Buddha to them, saying, “Life is suffering,” and “You should put some ointment on those,” and they are comforted). Then they return to their monastery, shut the doors, and resume their routine.
Meanwhile, there is much rejoicing in the land, and in the Celestial City, the Emperor is praised for his strength and wisdom and says thus: “So these daffy mugs don’t want anything?”
“Nope,” says Jeff. “They say they are content to have lessened the suffering and oppression of the people and would I please go piss up a rope.”
“Buddhist parable,” explains one of the other ministers. “Probably.”
“Something’s fishy,” says another toady. “How do we know these guys aren’t up to something?”
“And what if they start to think that we are the ones oppressing the people?” says another.
“Which, you have to admit, has come up at meetings.”
“Yeah,” says the Emperor. “I don’t trust a guy who doesn’t want anything.”
“Maybe,” says a younger toady, “we—” And here he makes the gesture of cutting someone’s throat and makes a croaking sound.
“How?” asks Jeff. “They are the best fighters in the land and I think we can admit that in comparison, our guys are shit.”
“Maybe we give them a little flaming medicine,” says one of the more clever ministers, referring to what they call gunpowder at the time. “I hear recently from one of the Dutch white devils that it can be used for croaking guys as well as entertainment.”
And around the great hall goes a collective “hmmmm” of thoughtfulness.
See, gunpowder has been around for hundreds of years, but up until then it has only been used for firecrackers on New Year’s and to blast that one guy to the moon several centuries ago, which, it is agreed, would have worked if they hadn’t made his rocket ship out of bamboo. But recently, traders from the West have introduced the flaming medicine for making bombs and loading cannons, thus giving it the new name.
“Make a plan,” says the Emperor.
So it comes to pass that a small force of the Emperor’s soldiers sneaks into the mountains in the night and sets fire to the monks’ clubhouse, stacking barrels of gunpowder at the gates and tossing bombs over the walls until the entire joint is in flames. When the monks run to one gate to meet their attackers, it is blown up, and when they run to another, it too is blown up, until most of the monks are dead or in flames and it is not looking good for those few who are not.
But then the Immortals look down from the heavens, and despite the fact that the Buddhist monks don’t believe in them, they are moved by their discipline and good deeds, and they send a thunderbolt down to blow a hole in the back wall of the monastery, through which the surviving eighteen monks escape, leaving the Emperor’s soldiers thinking the monks are toast to the last man.
Hidden and nursed by the peasants whom they saved from the barbarians, all but five of the monks perish from their wounds. Those five, who are called the Five Ancestors, vow to oppose the reign of the Qing Emperor and all those of his descent, as he is now regarded throughout the land to be a first-rate douche bag, and they also vow to restore the previous Ming dynasty, which everyone agrees was swell, and much better for the people. To each of the Five, the Immortals bestow a talisman of the Five Great Dragons: dragons of wood, earth, metal, fire, and rain, whose power they will represent on Earth.
So the Five Ancestors adopt a banner of three red dots, which is the symbol of the Ming dynasty, and for that they are called the Triads. They spread out through the cities and villages, recruiting members to the secret resistance, and eventually, to make ends meet, they evolve into great criminal organizations, always with the goal of overthrowing the Qing emperors, as well as making a few doubloons on the side. A couple of hundred years go by, gold is discovered across the salt in the Land of Golden Hills, the Triads establish benevolent societies called tongs, and many sons of the working class are recruited and helped to immigrate to America to find their fortunes. The tongs become very powerful among the Chinese in America, and become very proficient in running gambling, smuggling, prostitution, and extortion operations. In the New World, the tongs are competitive to the point of war, and adopt all kinds of spooky rituals, calling on their noble Triad history to recruit and earn the loyalty of their soldiers. There are even rumors that some of the talismans of the Five Great Dragons made their way to Big Town (San Francisco) and that the tongs promised the power of the immortal dragons could be summoned against their enemies at any time. But you know, rumors. Dragons? In San Francisco? C’mon. What are the odds?
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