Chapter Forty-Six: The Drunkard Cheng Fu

With the summoned beast king, Wang Ling stepped into a Chinese restaurant adorned with large red lanterns. It was almost noon, but not quite the peak lunch hour yet, so the place was empty of other customers. The two of them chose a wooden table deeper inside and sat down.

The proprietor was a Chinese man in his fifties—short, kindly-faced, and visibly delighted to see unfamiliar Chinese patrons. He didn't let the waiters attend to them, but came over personally, and before they could even order, he served two small bowls of plum soup to whet their appetites.

The soup was tart and fragrant, and after a few sips, Wang Ling’s hunger was indeed greatly increased. With plenty of money on hand, he began to order generously from the menu.

The restaurant offered both Chinese dishes and local American fare. Knowing that Wang Long was a glutton, Wang Ling ordered more than a dozen dishes at once: distinctive American specialties like vinegar-pepper turkey, salt-and-pepper short ribs, crispy fried pork chops, country-style chicken soup, as well as familiar Chinese home-cooking—Kung Pao chicken, shredded pork with green peppers, sweet and sour ribs, braised whole chicken, and seaside specialties like grilled squid skewers and cod hotpot.

Having ordered so much, Wang Ling paid the bill in advance to allay any concerns the owner might have about their ability to settle up. The cooks in the kitchen immediately sprang into action, and soon the dishes began to arrive, one after another.

Most of the food was meat-heavy, which perfectly suited Wang Long’s palate. This burly man, rough by nature, grabbed the huge turkey with his hands and bit into it whole. As he tore into the meat, his face quivered, grease glistening at the corners of his mouth—a truly savage sight. After quickly devouring half the turkey, Wang Long suddenly grinned bashfully and, in a fawning tone, said, “Boss, I haven’t drunk in ages. I’m really craving a drink—mind if I indulge a little?”

Wang Ling nodded helplessly. Now he understood Wang Long wasn’t just a glutton, but a drunkard as well.

Wang Long had no interest in the Western liquor served at the restaurant. Fortunately, because the place was near the docks and catered to Chinese laborers and sailors, it also brewed its own fierce “big cleaver” spirits, stored in twenty-pound jars. The owner brought out one such jar and asked, “This ‘big cleaver’ is 68 percent proof—very strong stuff. We sell it by the bowl. How many bowls would you like?”

“Never mind the bowls—just bring me the whole jar!” Wang Long’s eyes lit up at the sight. He slapped the table and shouted.

The owner hesitated, then looked at Wang Ling for guidance. Wang Ling smiled and said, “Since he wants the whole jar, bring it over. Even if we don’t finish it, I’ll pay for the whole thing.”

With that, the owner and a waiter carried the jar over and set out two large rice bowls as cups. Wang Ling had no interest in drinking the fire-like liquor and simply continued eating. As soon as Wang Long removed the seal from the jar, he lifted the twenty-pound vessel with one hand, filled a bowl to the brim, and downed it in one gulp, exclaiming, “Fantastic!” before grabbing a thick slice of pork chop and crunching through both meat and bone.

Wang Ling couldn’t help but think of the four remaining members of the Gang of Thugs from the martial arts scene. He wondered if the fire-breathing Peach Immortal, the chain-wielding Chen Heng, and the president Wu Tian shared Wang Long’s temperament. It was one thing for these burly men to be this way, but he hoped the adorable throwing-knife girl, Blue Moon, wasn’t also a meat-guzzling, wine-swilling brute.

As he worried about this while chewing on the crispy, fragrant shredded pork with peppers, a shout suddenly rang out from outside: “Uncle Li, fill my gourd with wine!”

At that moment, the restaurant door swung open, and in strode a young Chinese man, about twenty, dressed in a purple tunic and lantern trousers, yellow cloth shoes, a red silk sash around his waist, and a large gourd slung at his side. His face was flushed with drink, his steps unsteady, and it was clear he’d already imbibed quite a bit.

Seeing this man, Wang Ling felt as if a hammer had struck him—Jackie Chan!

Of course, the Double Dragon world wasn’t reality, so the famous movie star couldn’t possibly appear here, and besides, this man was younger, only around twenty. After his surprise, Wang Ling immediately realized who this Jackie Chan lookalike really was.

His appearance was unexpected yet made sense—he was a character from the same series as Double Dragon II: the drunken kung fu master from the fighting game, known as Cheng Fu!

In fact, he could be seen as Jackie Chan from “Drunken Master II,” since Cheng Fu was modeled directly after him—not only did their looks match almost exactly, but their martial arts movements mirrored the drunken boxing from the films.

There was another clear sign: in the fighting game, Cheng Fu’s home stage was the harbor dock, and its background music closely resembled that of the movie’s score.

So Cheng Fu could be considered the incarnation of Jackie Chan’s Drunken Master within the Double Dragon universe.

Cheng Fu didn’t appear in Double Dragon II or III, but since the fighting game belonged to the same world, his presence here wasn’t terribly surprising. Wang Ling recalled the game’s stage—Cheng Fu’s home, with the ruins of skyscrapers in the distance, docks and fishing boats nearby—looked much like the scene he’d witnessed earlier. Who would have thought a powerful character who was supposed to appear later in the story was hiding out here!

At that moment, the owner scolded, “Ah Fu, you drink every day and never work. This can’t go on! If you keep loafing around, drunk all the time, you’ll end up dead drunk at the docks one day. I can’t keep serving you liquor.”

Cheng Fu grinned, hiccuped, and said, “Heh heh, Uncle Li, don’t worry! No matter how much I drink, I won’t fall. I walk perfectly steady—look!”

With that, he swayed and floated across the floor, wobbling with each step.

The owner heaved a sigh and waved him off. “No more wine for you—have some sobering soup instead, and get back to work at the docks! I knew your late great-uncle, you know. I can’t just let you waste your life like this.”

“Uncle Li, what kind of shopkeeper doesn’t sell wine? That’s not right!” Cheng Fu protested.

The owner retorted, “How much wine have you drunk here without paying? And now you call me unkind! Fine—if you want more, pay up first.”

Cheng Fu dug around in his purple tunic and produced three one-dollar coins, holding them out. “I’ll pay you cash this time, Uncle Li. If you won’t pour me a gourd, I’ll go somewhere else. No other place has spirits as good as yours!”

“You…” The owner shook his head in exasperation, taking two coins and leaving one for Cheng Fu. Then he took the gourd, filled it, and handed it back, tossing him a piece of rice cake as well. “When will you pull yourself together? Think of your late great-uncle!”

Beaming, Cheng Fu pocketed the coin, took a swig from his gourd, let out a satisfied sigh, wrapped the rice cake in cloth, and tied it at his waist. “Now that’s lunch sorted! Eat, drink, and be merry; who cares if the flood comes tomorrow? Life’s for enjoying while you can. Thanks, Uncle Li!”

Bang! Suddenly, a loud slap on the table startled the owner and waitstaff. Together with the tipsy Cheng Fu, they turned to see Wang Ling standing, excitement in his voice: “What a fine sentiment—eat, drink, and be merry! Just for that, I’ll treat you to a real feast!”

Cheng Fu, who had staggered in half-drunk without noticing Wang Ling in the corner, now stared wide-eyed at the table laden with food—chicken, fish, meat—and the massive twenty-pound jar of liquor.

Wang Ling nudged Wang Long with his foot. Though simple-minded, after years as a bandit and under the leadership of the gang’s president, Wang Long had learned to watch for cues. He stood and called out, “Kid, drinking alone is no fun. Come join us…”

Before he’d finished, Cheng Fu had already rushed over, showing no restraint or courtesy. Without bothering with chopsticks, he grabbed the whole braised chicken by hand, tore off a leg, and bit into it with the hunger of someone who hadn’t tasted meat in years.

After devouring a drumstick to the bone, Cheng Fu reached for the other, munching as he called out, “Thanks! Uncle Li, bring me a wine bowl!”

The owner finally snapped out of his daze and hurried to apologize to Wang Ling, whose mouth hung open in astonishment. “Sorry, gentlemen, this young man is unruly and wild. Please don’t take offense. I hope you can forgive him.”

The owner was perceptive enough: though Wang Ling looked delicate, his companion Wang Long was brawny and fierce, and when pouring the wine earlier, had lifted the twenty-pound jar with one hand, steady as a rock—a clear sign of martial skill! A refined young man accompanied by a burly bodyguard, spending freely at lunch, was likely the scion of some influential family. The owner dreaded that Cheng Fu’s impudent behavior might anger them, so he hurried to make amends.

“No offense, no offense!” Wang Ling replied cheerfully. Having a storyline powerhouse show up was a stroke of luck—he’d been hoping Cheng Fu would join them!

(Second place on the new writers’ rankings—tomorrow, six chapters: one in the morning, two in the afternoon, three in the evening. That’s the plan.)