Battling the Bōsōzoku: The Real “Fast & Furious”

When you are a 19 year old wildling, you don’t run a proper risk/reward analysis before leaping into action. Especially when enraged and sleep deprived. Working 12–14 hour days, teaching in Hakodate, Hokkaido, Japan, I could literally fall asleep narcoleptic style, damn near in the middle of a sentence.

Because it was the end of a long winter hibernation for the Island’s native wild creatures, they were unleashed and running wild. Making up for many months inactivity. Their bikes and vehicles finely tuned and detailed, breaking out into mid-May spring nights.

The wildlings I describe, native to the Japanese Isles are the “bōsōzoku.” An angry, anti-society group of motor enthusiasts. They began after WW2, a group of ex-fighter pilots. Many were scheduled to die as Kamikaze pilots, but the war finally ended. There could not have been a group of more pissed off, depressed, and betrayed. Like Nazi Germany, in the 20’s and 30’s, when the Military and its nationalistic leaders seized control of Japan, they began whacking anyone who disagreed with their goal of war and conquest, rape and pillage. War is almost always about greed and power. Resources. Of which Japan had very few.

Even moderate Prime Ministers and government officials were assassinated in 1930’s Japan. The man who planned Pearl Harbor, Yamamoto, Isoroku was also marked for death. He had attended Harvard, became friends with Americans. Going to college football games on Saturday, then a night of swerving good times after, he genuinely came to know and like America. He was fully aware of their potential capability to make war, if they were ever so inclined. He didn’t like Japan’s odds in a war with America and the west. It’s very hard to hate someone and carry hateful, racist contempt for someone you have truly come to know. Yamamoto disagreed with Tojo and other leaders who sought war with China, USA, UK, France.

So, they tried to kill him. He survived, followed orders, and planned the attack on Pearl Harbor, but, he hated the way Japan was heading. A police state where children were brainwashed from Kindergarten on. Where people who even asked rhetorical questions about Japan’s chances fighting the rest of the world, were dragged away and beaten or jailed. Neighbors narc’d out neighbors. Japan’s Gestapo, the Kenpeitai were even more terrifying.

So, these pilots, brainwashed since birth, never imagined it was possible Japan could lose the war. They believed their own bullshit to an alarming degree. But, they were about to learn a very brutal truth about human behavior. Cheered and lauded as heroic samurai soldiers of the Empire while things were going well, once shit turned ugly, they didn’t receive the compassion and empathy they expected from their fellow citizenry. No, these soon to be bōsōzoku were reviled, spat on, even beat up. Kids threw rocks at them, mocked them as losers. They went from being brutalized and beaten into shape in the military by their leaders, to much worse after the war. There was no jobs, no food, no nothing. The only thing there was plenty of? Methamphetamine tablets. So, in addition to being race enthusiasts, they were also pharmaceutical adventurists. An outlaw way of life. A double bird to straight society. To corporate hacks and their sheep herd way of life. Well, that’s how the bōsōzoku see the compliant herd.

So, 50 years later, in 1995, and future generations of the real “fast and furious” were about to make my life a living hell. I don’t know if these guys were all torqued up on pharmaceuticals or just caffeine and alcohol. Prescriptions for methylphenidate or dextroAmphetamine (Adderall etc) aren’t hard to come by in USA or Japan.

I had been in Japan a month. I was zonked out by 10pm every night and that 6 am alarm seemed as if I had been asleep for 10 minutes. And then, warm May began. 120db hell was unleashed. Whether motorcycles or Skyline GTR, Fairlady Z, Silva, Rx-7, Supra, BMW, Audi, whatever, they made those header/muffler exhaust noises so fucking loud, you would not believe it, unless you heard it in person. Reverberating from the windows of the high rise apartment buildings, you could feel the vibration as much as hear the insane volume level of the angry herd.

Their signature move? Take over an entire large 4-way intersection and block traffic, doing donuts, wheelies, stoppies. Sometimes a dude whipped his dick out and pissed right there. They didn’t discriminate, as we watched from our 6th story balcony deck, two girls in Daisy Dukes dropped trou, mooned all 4 directions, and pissed in the middle of the intersection, just as the Roscoes (cops/pigs) arrived.

They pulled up their short shorts and morphed into a bizarro double-bird dance. Like a combo of Russian folk or Lord of the Dance Irish jig, while maintaining perfect middle finger extension and posture. The 3 cop cars were driving little tiny Nissans. 22 year old ladies in polyester skirts and little nurse hats.

“Those poor ladies, this is gonna get fugly,” I commented to my roommate Simon, from Yorkshire England.

One of the Daisy Duke twins, like the Junior High prank, crept up behind the one cop out of her car, kneeled down behind her, the other Daisy shoved her and the cop went flying. Slamming her head on the pavement. Dazed and discombobulated, I could hear the howls of approval from the bōsōzoku tribe. I was overcome with a feeling totally foreign to me. Concern for a cop. When you’ve been brutalized and beaten by cops as a child, for no reason other than riding an 80cc bike, it’s hard to care NO MATTER WHAT happens to a cop.

Decades later, we ran into that cop from our childhood at a local eatery. He hooted and boasted, how much fun it was “beating our asses” back then. When I reminded him we were 11 and 12 y.o., it changed nothing.

But that young lady’s head bounced off the pavement in a sickening manner. Her comrades helped her back in their car, and they abandoned the 3rd RoscoeMobile. Our eyes were drawn elsewhere.

Suddenly, we were shocked to see it lurch forward, screeching. One of the Daisy Dukes had commandeered the cop car and was trying, badly, to drive it away. “Drive it like you stole it,” Simon muttered. I giggled with approval. The 180 had occurred, the script flipped, now the bosozoku were chasing the cops, around in circles. Whooping, hollering, cursing. Tires smoking, drift style, the wildling’s cars would maneuver in close enough that the passenger (left side) could lean out and start smashing the cop car with a baseball bat. Dents were 50 points, windows, 100 points. Windows especially brought howls and heaps of approval, laughter, rage, drunken victory. The whole objective was to lure the cops out there to fucking terrorize them. I was glad to see the slammed head cop back in the fray, obviously pissed, she now had a club of some sort and was swinging at a gorgeous deep blue Skyline GTR. This was sacrilege. To the bōsōzoku and us. If she had hit that car with a bat, they would’ve beat her ass, seriously. Her cop friends helped her retrieve her car back from the pisser girl. They made a hasty retreat. I was impressed, they usually declare a tactical retreat much sooner than these three did on this night. They battled for a strong 10–15 minutes and even retrieved the lost vessel.

We hoped it meant peace for the next few nights.

“Dude, does that mean they’ll stop doing this shit every night?” I asked. Simon was already asleep. That was the fucking problem. Despite being completely exhausted, it took me hours to go back to sleep. Sometimes they came back two hours later. Depending on whether it was a work night, or whatever they were ingesting that night, they might revisit our intersection 3–4x in a single night. I was reaching my limit man. Even if they beat my ass, I wanted to provoke some kind of showdown. Which was totally stupid on my part. Bōsōzoku were totally Jr. Yakuza, that’s just how it worked in Japan. Yakuza used them for street level stuff just like Organized Crime in the USA uses street gangs for certain stuff. Dealing, collections, etc. It was far more dangerous than I realized at the time. However, we were going on like 15 nights in a row. I at least wanted to put up some sort of opposition man. C’mon, I mean, I’m not a pussy.

The next day, 9pm, grocery store after work. Epiphany. I could barely afford meat or real juice, but seeing the clear packaging on the eggs, gave me an idea.

“Simon, I really can’t afford this, but I’m gonna go full fucking launch on these assholes if they wake me up again tonight. You in?”

I was dismayed with his long, nervous pause.

“Yeah, okay.” It was better than nothing.

“4 dozen oughta a be a good barrage. We’ll each test throw one when the street is empty, so we don’t waste eggs that won’t hit their target. I think we can accurately rain down protein on those bastards.” I was getting excited. Finally, justice.

Considering the violent showdown the night before, I genuinely believed the bōsōzoku might be savoring their victory and take a few nights off. I shoulda known better, a Friday night, they were gonna be all torqued up, looking for trouble. Sure enough. From a deep REM sleep, “raahhhrrrr rraaahhhhrrrrr raaaahhhhhhhhhr” the thundering rumble and vibration echoed off the concrete jungle high-rises. Both high-pitched 2-stroke motorcycle engines and deeper 6 and 8 cylinder car engines.

“Fuuuuuuuuck” I muttered.

“Matty, I don’t think we should……”

“Simon, dude, you can puss out if you wanna, but I’m not gonna. For my own sense of pride, for our hood, we’re gonna protest, make our stand, at least this one fucking night!!!”

“Ummkay.” Simon’s reply. Before adding: “If we can’t find the range, can we stop?”

“Absolutely. Didn’t you play cricket or something? C’mon, we are going over the top MotherFucker!!” For the first time, I saw some fire in Simon’s eyes. Some adrenaline, or something. We exited onto the back deck, start guzzling beers for courage, and I placed the little side table in perfect position to house our ammo.

All set up, I paused. I had a “two birds” idea.

“Simon, I fucking hate cops. Seriously, look at this wicked scar on my calf. A cop gave me that burn, all the way to muscle, and he laughed for ten minutes straight after seeing, and smelling, the damage. Stuck to my exhaust pipe, you can’t imagine the sickening sound it made when my buddy pulled off the sizzling exhaust pipe. I didn’t know pain like that was even humanly possible. I fucking hate pigs. Let’s wait for the pigs to show, then begin launch protocols. Remember, Billy Clinton style! Deny, deny, deny, NO MATTER WHAT. We were asleep!!”

Simon shook his head, the bōsōzoku began their smoking donuts, wide drift style circles, harassing any motorist who dared object or comment.

“I hear sirens, get ready.” Simon was ready, and was about to show he had a hella strong arm. I wanted all 48 of those eggs to find a target. As the cops got closer, I got an idea. I took a blanket and draped it over the balcony deck railing. 6 floors up, with that blanket, ground level could not see who was throwing. Just a blanket making the entire deck invisible. I didn’t have to hunker down or get low or anything. I could really step into my throws, add some velocity, grip it and rip it. And, still maintain plausible deniability. The eggs all out, lined up for easy access, the chase began. Both sides screaming, hooting and hollering, tires smoking. The cops loudspeakers “please depart, you are violating multiple traffic laws, please, at your earliest convenience, return to your homes and families, Thank You.”

“1, 2, 3, launch” Giggling like drunken schoolboys, our very first salvo found perfect targets. A cherry red Z and the cop car on it’s tail. “Wack, wack.” Audible and an almost sickening “thwack” with each contact. Eggs 3,4,5,6,7,8 all direct hits. A Supra. An RX-7. Suddenly, silence. No screaming. No screeching tires. Only the giggles of Simon and I.

“Nani sore!!” A loan angry voice asked rhetorically.

“What the fuck is that?” When Simon realized they all had stopped and were staring right at us, he ducked down behind the blanket. I took a memory photo, peeking up over the railing, burying it deep into my humanoid hard drive.

“Dude, we got 40 to go, we are launching every fucking one, as long as we have targets.”

Simon commenced launching, even the misses made a gnarly splat sound on the pavement. We kept right on chucking. Then, a loudspeaker from the cop car, in Japanese: “Excuse me. I am gonna have to request you stop throwing eggs please. If it’s not inconvenient.”

After a brief pause, we commenced chucking as I howled in response: “No hable Japonaise, Señor. No hable, no hable….pendejo” and some other curse words I recalled in the heat of the moment. When we didn’t stop and kept going, both cops and bōsōzoku were pissed and panicked. Stumbling over each other to get out of the way, we just keep launching, until our months worth of protein was gone. With the intersection cleared, I retrieved the blanket and hid it inside the closet, as if disposing of evidence of my culpability. I was expecting cops and hooligans or both to bang on our door any minute. I think the realization we weren’t Japanese fucked with their heads a bit. To our surprise, they didn’t bang on our door at all. Well, not that night anyway.

We should have recognized, being the only two gaijin in the entire building, it wouldn’t be hard to find us. They definitely got a glimpse of me, at least once or twice. 3 days later, we thought we were clear. Out of the danger zone. If anyone, I thought the cops would pay us a visit. Nope. On the the next Wednesday. At fucking 4 am. I didn’t know if they were trying to kick the door down, or bang real hard, or both.

We still thought it cops. Until the sickeningly slurred slang, cursing and insulting us, I knew it was not cops talking like that. I only understood half of the Japanese. Yakuza types slur when insulting, even when they aren’t fall-down drunk, these guys were both. They brought a legit Yakuza member, just to make their point clear. I dunno if it was because he spoke fluent English or just to scare us. His wife-beater t-shirt clearly revealed his tats. Nobody gets tats like that unless legit Yakuza. This guy was understated, subtle. Making him 10x more scary than if all melodramatic and over the top. One look in his eyes and he needed no threatening words or gestures. This guy would fuck your shit up, and sleep like a baby afterwards.

With guys like that, it always goes worse when you plead and beg. The shivering bitch cower never works in your favor. Living the law of the jungle, they seem to respect a dude who at least stands up for himself a bit. They may not act like like it, but that’s my experience. Stand up for yourself, and they automatically respect you a bit more.

I didn’t know whether to ignore the banging or talk through the door or swan dive off the back deck 6 floors down.

“Who is it?”

“Open the fucking door, or we kick it down.” To my surprise it was in perfect English.

“We don’t need any girl scout cookies, thanks anyway. And, we are already Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses, so, all good here.” This really threw them for a loop.

They whispered and consulted, as we prayed they would just leave.

“Open it, or we break it. We just wanna talk.”

“We are FBI agent’s, you know American Keisatsu! Cops. You better leave.”

In perfect English: “Haha, FBI don’t throw eggs at street gangs dude. Open the fucking door.” Now it was us consulting and confused behind that door.

“Is it our friends playing a joke on us. He sounds American.” I asked Simon, he shrugged. I was sick of hiding.

I opened the door. “You wanna come in? Join us for corndogs?” They found that funny, paused, entertaining the invite for a minute.

“No, we don’t. But, we should beat your ass. Why? Because, do you know what eggs to do to a paint job? Huh?”

“Why is your English so good?” I tried flattery.

“I was age 8–18 in L.A.”

“Ohh, yeah, you sound totally like you were born there.”

“Thanks. But, did you hear me? That wasn’t cool at all.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know that about eggs. I was fucking pissed too. You guys are fucking with my sleep every single night. I’m ready to jump off my deck with sleep deprivation. Listen, I hate cops, I love you guys rolling free and fucking with cops, but I gotta get some fucking sleep man. I got a bike. I gotta car. But, I was pissed at you guys and maybe I overreacted.”

“What kind of bike you got? Car?”

“I have a V65 Magna. And a 300ZX Twin Turbo.”

He translated that to his wild-eyes compadres. In Japanese they approved. “Dude, no way. Twin Turbo? Is he serious. That is cool. I guess we can’t kick his ass anymore.”

I replied in Japanese: “I guess I can’t kick your ass, then shoot you anymore.” Guns scare Japanese people. They froze for a second, then I started laughing, signaling I was joking.” They did accept the invite and soon 6–7 hooligans were sitting in my tiny apartment, rehashing each egg cannon shot and where/who it hit.

“After the first few, I considered us even and aimed for the fucking cops!!” They laughed and patted me on the back. I hung out with those guys several times and became lifelong friends with Yoshi, the Yakuza guy who translated. Whatever the medium is, cars, music, bikes, humans are humans. Yoshi would attend my wedding reception 5 years later. Wearing a sleeveless vest thing that revealed part of his Yakuza tats, my wife’s Japanese parents were horrified. Proper Kyoto people, they were like “WTF?”

Yoshi was well lubricated and telling crazy stories at the open bar, as my in-laws looked on horror. Even the egg artillery story. They were wondering, “who the fuck is this guy our daughter married and how does he know this Yakuza guy.” Haha, well, that was 1994 and we’re still riding the ups and downs, making each other laugh daily. The wife and I, not Yoshi and I. Yoshi is still alive and kicking. Occupies our guest room for a week every 2–3 years. Did some time in the slammer, but always a loyal friend. And loyalty ain’t what it once was, is it. Whether a spouse, or friend, when you find loyalty, hang on to it.