I used to think the world’s obsession with technology was merely pathetic. Then came the internet Blackout, remember? Twenty-four hours of widespread fear. I was at home when everything stopped working. On my phone, all apps froze, like dragons do with the first winds of winter. No Google, no news, no Netflix…which would have been fine, if that was all we were missing. Our ancestors never had any of that and they did just fine. According to the newscast on my old airwave TV, it was worse. Armageddon level worse. Theories of terrorism, cyber war and solar flares that may have fried our entire cable infrastructure, even killed people—which they seemed certain it did, just didn’t know how many yet. The disoriented anchor, I remember as if it were happening now, tries to paint a picture of the end of the world, speculates if this is coming from Russia, North Korea or China, then cuts to an interview.
You were watching it too, I know. Alone in the dark, sucking on a piece of your shirt as if that would make things better. Don’t take this as judgment though. There is none, I promise. Just saying I can see it, on your files. But, given your state of fear, I can’t tell if you were paying attention. Because what was said next mattered.
On the screen, the name of some frail-looking bigwig from Yale. Between a mahogany desk and a wall filled with thick books of all colors, he warns us that the underpinnings of the entire planet rely on the internet. Food and water supply, electricity grid, defense systems…“If the failure continues for a few days, we go back to the nineteen nineties. A couple extra weeks, and we are back to the nineteenth century.”1
“The nineteenth century? Fine with me,” I tell the nerd on the screen, almost certain he couldn’t hear me. If I need to go to the mountains to kill my own meals, I will. Easy. I did that a lot growing up in the mountains of China already. I dial my boyfriend Jason. He answers, the call broken at best. Not that his hospital ever had good reception, but now it’s worse. Most of their outside connections were gone, he tells me. Then the line drops. Shit. Then it buzzes, the phone. “Keep safe, Ok? Luv u,” the little screen glows.
Kind of cute, my city boyfriend worrying about me. On the TV, chaos continues. Airplanes crashing, now. It’s getting too much. Whatever the Dao is planning for the world, better leave it alone. I turn the TV off and leave for my run.
Jogging is one thing Americans got right, I must say. It’s like standing meditation, but less boring. Though it comes with its own restrictions. “Girls shouldn’t be out this late,” they say. “Never run alone, in the dark, through the guts of Oakland.” I see it differently: when the local thugs see you so comfortable and relaxed by yourself, they think you are either crazy or are hiding something.
I am both. Crazy and hiding. No one breaks my stride.
The streets don’t seem to have fully caught up with the news yet. Outside a club, a young couple seems puzzled by their unresponsive phones. Further down, two white dudes in lab coats placidly chew on their candy bars and follow me with curious eyes. So aloof, I almost feel for them. If cyber-havoc comes, brain snobs like them will be the first to perish. On the corner, a homeless dude protects his food as I pass. Is he the only one that knows?
The thing about these streets is: even on the brink of a digital apocalypse, they’re still fairly predictable. Shit always happens in the same places. There’s where the junkies get fucked up. Where cops receive their gifts. Where blacks get shot, where dumb fights break, where girls are roughed. If you want to avoid trouble, you stay away. Otherwise…
A scream of horror interrupts my thoughts. A woman’s voice. She shouldn’t be out this late. Not around here. The mouth of an unsecured construction site, that’s where the voice came from. I go check. The open gate whines with the end of the evening breeze, and behind a large stack of lumber a sloppy white figure, still wearing his stained khaki overall, a denim jacket two sizes too big and a battered construction helmet, holds a blonde, scantily-clad woman by the wrist. She tries to shake him off, but he doesn’t seem into her plan.
“That ain’t how you treat a lady, sir,” I yell from the entrance.
“Fuck off!” He laughs drunkenly. To my ears, that’s an invite. As the adrenaline kicks in and my heartbeat picks up speed, I pass the fence, causing him to pause—more amused than wary, I must say. With the sleeve of his stained jacket, the white demon wipes the messy bush growing around his mouth and opens a grin full of gaps. Yes, an invite indeed.
When it comes to fighting, here’s the difference between a guy and a girl: we know they underestimate us. And I love to make them regret that. “Leave her alone, sir!”
The drunk cackles and lets go of her hand. “Huh, looks like the Chink wants to join us, babe. Isn’t she cute?” He takes out a pocket knife. I sing the little mantra I made for myself. The Dao is the nothing. In me, infinity it will be. Bring it on, you feeble fuckhead. With the same speed, same determination, I keep marching forward. He holds his inviting grin too. Oh, yeah.
The girl. Long legs, short skirt, breasts overfilling her bra. He must take outfit as permission, of course. For a moment, she glares at me, pauses in fear and gasps for air. I smile and wait for her appreciation. “Somebody fucking help!” she screams toward the fence, instead.
Thanks for the confidence, lady. I gaze at the knife, twist my wrists for a little stretch, then pounce.
If you think a dead phone is disorienting, try a fight. A real one, not those in the movies. In real life, they are short, messy, and unforgiving. You never know where the next pain is coming from. Or how strong. Or why. You have to deal with your dumb opponent, make sure you don’t kill the fucker, and that he doesn’t kill you, all while trying to avoid stepping on a nail or tripping on a ladder. That’s what real chaos looks like. My eyes are still adjusting to the light when I wrap his wrist and pull him into me and, in a moment of confusion, his blade nicks the side of my shoulder, right over the tattoo of my hometown. Wudang, its mountains and fog, its mighty tigress and the swarm of bees Shifu cursed me with, now covered in blood. You’re so fucked, jackass. I touch his wrists and gently move my stance to lure him in. It works like magic. He comes. I adjust the angle. One more step, and all he cares about is recovering his balance. I headbutt him in the nose. Not a pretty move, but it works. He yells, covers his face in pain. The blade is mine.
“Eat tofu,” I say, and the dude freezes in the most absolute confusion. In Mandarin, it would have worked much better. Whatever. “Fucking depraved,” I correct. Now he smiles with pride. Asshole. I kick him in the chest, thinking of how Shifu would scorn such excess, but I have a plan. In panic, the drunk tries to hold my leg. Men are so dumb—they have the emotional range of a fucking ant. My heels smash his sternum making a crack and a puffing sound, though momentum and idiocy keep pushing his hips forward. His feet take off, his body spin backward. Like a butterfly, he glides in the air.
It’s beautiful, in its own way.
The knife goes into my pocket. Safer. The world is so slow I can count my breaths. All sounds are muted, and life moves unhurried. The poor man? He now floats in the air and the yang trapped inside me escapes through my pores. Go, chaos, go cause mayhem elsewhere.
Myself, I am happy here. Watching him descend a perfectly drawn arch, his chest floating back, the legs raising, knees first, toes whipping next. I think I can even hear old echoes of China, Shifu’s flute playing its long notes in the background. Oh, the glorious peace of violence.
Taken aback by the outcome, the khaki mass flips up and down, a zeppelin taken by desperation. Then BAM! The pervert smashes onto the ground. Head first. He stays there, the face pressing against the gravel and dirt, the body vertical like a tree, legs hanging as branches. The distant neons from the neighborhood blink on and off, multiple times, and he shows no sign of life. Shit!
I turn to the blonde. “Go!”
But instead, she attacks me with her tiny handbag. A dozen times. Are you crazy? I hold her by the arms. She struggles. I want to tell her she needs to leave now, but her eyes widen before I have a chance. On the wall in front of me, a looming shadow expands fast, eating every inch of light I have left. I shove the woman with my wounded shoulder. It hurts, but works: she falls to safety three feet back and I barely have time to turn. The guy now has his arms and head wrapped around my waist, shoulder pulling my ribs back, as the lady explodes into a horror movie scream. “No takedowns today, pal.” I grab his ears and push the asshole away. Behind me, the woman yelps, her gaze now locked on her own blood-soaked shirt. Her chest drips red and she waves her hand. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” With the knee, I hit the man’s solar plexus to keep him at bay. She needs to calm down, nobody wants the police to come. “Hey, lady! It’s Ok, it’s Ok! That’s my blood, see?” She breathes, relieved, then goes back to a total lack of sisterhood and threatens me with the purse again. “Leave him alone,” she cries.
Really?! I’ll deal with her later.
In the meantime, the dude insists on taking my hips, though apparently he has no idea of what to do from that position. Fair enough. Over his back, I extend my arm and stick my finger into his ass. I remember wrestlers call it an oil check and I laugh to myself. Despite the thick overalls protecting the limits of his manhood, the creep shrieks like a cartoon character! Hooked in the dude’s rear end, I anchor my heels to the floor, weight to the back leg and while I sink, I brush my hand across his spine all the way to the collar I grab. It’s almost sensual, I confess. The idiot stares at me in confusion as I sink my hips near the ground and circle my way toward his crotch. Snake creeps down, I tell myself, as if directing my Tai Chi classes in the park. Hard not to laugh when I yank him over my shoulders and he screams…“Wait! Wait! Wait!” But I had work to do. Concentrate, Yinyin. I flip him in the air, crash him on his back. The thump is dry, almost silent. His eyes bulge, the mouth open like an orangutan and he wheezes so deeply I wonder if he’s ever going to find air. I let him try. One, two, three times. Better? My fingers dive onto his scalp now, force him to his knees. He’s mine. Him, the fight, the battleground. Everything.
Suddenly, Oakland is the quietest place on Earth again. The sound of a single TV comes from far away. Maybe I’m not the only one with an unplugged screen. On a large trash bin, the lights reflect the alternating reds and blues from the strip club beyond the gate. And among all that disarray, placidly observing from the top of a wall, a black cat scans the place for rodents. From a large tree, an owl stares too, probably searching for the same unlikely dinner. I think it’s funny. In China, owls are called cat-faced eagles. So it sounds like the beginning of a joke: a cat, a cat-faced bird and a girl nicknamed Tigress walk into a dark alley….The Dao can have some sense of humor sometimes.
“I have kids! Please!” the asshole begs, eyes bouncing between mine and the knife I now hold. Mercy? Nah. I raise it high, the tip pointing at him. Should I? I was about to go for a no and let him run away this time, but the fucker finds a slab of wood somewhere on the floor. “Suck my dick,” he says as he swings at me.
Heavens know I tried. I let it pass and kick the wood so hard it breaks in half, then I throw the blade down.
He squints.
The blade keeps going down. So fast for the world, so slow in my mind.
Like Tai Chi. Or Shifu’s flute.
Then the blonde’s glass-cracking shriek breaks my peace and I’m done caring.
That’s when it happened. The flash. So bright it’s blinding. Then, as my vision returns, I am somewhere else. Where? How? A tight corridor, full of people rushing down some sort of stairs. An emergency exit. I’m pushed, shoved. I try to protect myself, but my body…it doesn’t respond. It’s as if it isn’t me there, or like someone else is in control. My spirit swirls in a near-panic confusion, yet the heart remains calm. An alarm sound buzzes on and off. Where is this place? The door opens and the wind blows fresh.
It’s outside. A parking lot, at a business complex of sorts. Glass buildings. Seven or eight, people coming out of all of them. There’s no sign of smoke, no first responders. Just people walking around, staring at their phones, moving toward the giant sculpture in the shape of a tree, where lights were still on. Oh, and lab coats, lots of lab coats. A short white woman in a suit and a stern face waves at me and hollers, “Perry!”
Who is Perry?
Behind the woman, a lanky guy, Indian or Pakistani, I guess, comes running. “It’s down everywhere,” he cries.
She asks, “Could it have been China?” and he responds with a no. “Did you call Natalie? What did she say?”
“They’ve been attacked too. Looks like one of ours, boss.” Oh, a boss woman. Nice. She comes so close I can read her name tag. Nancy Karpel, CEO. She takes a deep breath. “One of ours? How do you know?”
What am I doing here? I try to scream, but no one listens. Did I die?
The guy shows her the screen, “The servers, they’ve been all diverted to the game.” The woman wipes her face with a sleeve, turns to me again, “Fuck, Perry. Where is he?”
I say I have no idea. But it’s not my voice. Neither do I know why I said that. The security guard, he comes running, flashing his freaking light on everyone’s I.D. He stops a skinny black woman with the biggest eyes I have ever seen, both turned to me, trying to say something I don’t understand. It doesn’t matter. The guard checks her badge, her face, and proceeds in our direction. The group next to us. The Indian guy. The Nancy lady. My turn. The light blinds me, and the fresh air is gone.
It now stinks of alcohol, cigarettes, wood and the worst of the body odors. I skim my surroundings: yes, the construction site again. The drunk, the stripper, the cat and the owl. How long have I been out? My hand still holds the knife, but the blade now hides inside his thigh. I wiggle it to make sure I have my movement again and with the man’s bellow, a red stain spreads on the khaki fabric over his quads, just a few inches from his crotch. I yell too. “Aaaaaaaarg!” I’m inches from his nose now, my fury louder than his fear and pain combined. Deranged, possessed by the darkest of all demons, I yank the blade and his dirty blood drips thick. That’s it. I toss the knife away and tell him with the ironic enthusiasm of a kindergarten teacher, “Look! You have your own cunt now. You can twist your dick that way and fuck your fucking-self.”
The man’s eyes are still lost into the infinity of mine.
“Isn’t it awesome? Now, get out of my sight!”
At first, he just stays there, frozen. So I slap his face, he winces and trips back, then limps for his life. Bouncing on walls, falling over himself, the coward finally disappears beyond the corner.
“Good job, Tigress,” I tell myself, then brush off some of the concrete powder and sawdust covering my running clothes. How am I going to get rid of all this blood? Who cares? A smile creeps in. Behind me, the woman continues to yell, “Stupid bitch! You are one person! Will you beat them all?”
Yes, I will.
Hi. My name is Tigress. I am an immortal from Wudang, and I can help. But before you open the package I sent, you must listen to a story.
My story.
1. In 2017, I worked on a documentary about our reliance on the internet called Lo and Behold: the Reveries of the Connected World, directed by Werner Herzog. This idea was a central element to the movie, and in one scene, Jonathan Zittrain, from Harvard, says something similar to this frightening statement.