We soon find ourselves in the San Francisco chinatown of the 19th century where a midget newsie (remember those?) squeals the headlines about a Tong war and the police section off the district. Danger looms and a fucking seagull drops straight down out of the sky, NO SHIT, presumably from an OD. Quincey (Price) walks into a chinese antique shop (the kind of place you buy a mogwai) and shows the shopkeeper a dragon tattoo, which scores him some secret info, laying the path for intrigue. He exits through the back where a man with no legs wheels past him on an ancient Chinese skateboard. Right-away you know this movies owns. Quincey navigates his way through the secrets of a Chinese underworld like a Kurt Russell of an earlier, more debonaire, era.
Here is our hero chasin' the dragon.
Here's a photo taken in a San Francisco opium den in 1889. Chillaxin'.
Do yourself a favor and pull your internet rickshaw over to Cinemageddon
and download this gem.DVD-R version
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Asian babes in bamboo cages, midget dragon ladies, wall scaling assassins, purposefully broken engrish, and Vincent Price. Perhaps made even better while smoking opium on a bean bag chair. Who knows, I don't have a bean bag chair.
More historical fun!
A San Francisco police brigade fresh off a den bust.
After busting hella dens the SF police burn hundreds of pipes and other paraphernalia. Hat required!
"Remember that time we...oh dude I fucking love this song"
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