The rig bossman Mister Chow was half a dumpling high, but he shouted loud as soybeans, swear to God. He came rampaging like a Mongol into the corridor when a brawl went boom-a-boom-boom. Steel and Lem done throw down like a dogpound at some Haitian niggas, who got liquor they ain’t share. Lem proposed a transaction, and the Haitians was receptive, till the truck ‘tween them and he and him turnt truculent.
But only a paltry packa punches got dealt on both sides before Mister Chow chopsticked in like a miniature monsoon. He carried a cricket bat. “You bwack men-ooh you ooh-shoo choo-woo-moo-choo-” or some shit. Steel couldn’t understand Mister Chow when he wasn’t batting the butter outta Haitian booty and he damn sure ain’t catch a word now. He did pick up the oughty-notty that Mister Chow thought all the black men shouldn’t fight each other.
That had a certain logic to it, but it proved Mister Chow don’t know nothing about black men. Or bwack men neither.
Soon enough, Mister Chow arrived, furying up a storm of stewed plums. He jabbed his fat little fingers in the air, and he said buncha words that Steel ain’t quite catch — Mister Chow got one helluva Chinaman accent. He poked out a line of incomprehensible syllables, and Steel and Lem nodded along like agreeable eggplants.
From Steel the Roughneck