Shorts and a sword. That brings back memories.
This story's a few years old, before I owned any firearms. It was part of the impetus for purchasing my first shotgun, actually.
Let me preface this by saying I live in a bad neighborhood in Lake City. Google Maps calls it Olympic Hills. The Seattle PD north precinct officers call it Little Beirut. I call it home. Two years ago I came home with my hands full -- a backpack and fast food, as I recall -- and forgot my keys in the door. It's easy to do. My deadbolt retracts when you turn the key back, so one must enter the apartment, pull the key out, *then* close the door. My keys dangled in the lock unnoticed that night.
Around ten thirty I was getting ready for bed, was on the john in my briefs and not a lot else, and I heard an odd noise. It sounded suspiciously like someone was in my living room. No, SOMEONE WAS IN MY LIVING ROOM. I dashed back into my bedroom, grabbed a souvenir samurai sword, tossed the sheath, and charged the door. Standing in the middle of my living room was one very confused-looking Japanese man with my keys dangling out of one hand, and he gave me a considering look before declaring in the loud voice only a drunk can possess, "Where are the women?!"
"What the Hell are you doing in my house?" I know. Not terribly poetic, but at bedtime I lose the ability to improv. I eyed the keys in his hand and it dawned on me where he might have found them, though that didn't excuse his presence in my living room! Slapping them from his grip, I calmly added, "Thank you for returning my keys, now get the Hell out."
He didn't understand. He was drunk! Very drunk. Thrusting the sword under his chin soon convinced him something was, indeed, wrong with his womanizing plans. I gave him a light shove back towards the door, he stumbled out, and I bolted it behind him, thinking that would be the end of it. Knock knock knock. A quiet tapping at the door. Polite, even. Knock knock SLAM SLAM SLAM! Our Japanese friend reached down and found something less timid deep inside, and he wanted in.
"I paid forty dollar sleep with woman here!" he cried, pounding at the door. "Give me my woman! Give me my woman or give me my forty dollar!" My neighbors, roused by the drunken pounding at my door, gathered above on the second-floor porch and heckled the drunk below. I found the encounter less amusing, and called 911. Three minutes later two Seattle PD officers and one very energetic German Shepherd bounded out of a blue and white on the lawn in front of my apartment building, fanning out to flank the now much mollified sex tourist. I cautiously opened the door, sword stashed away and in a robe, to watch them interrogate my new inebriated friend.
"Sir, do you live here?" they asked. "No," he replied, shaking his head and staring at the ground. "Do you know anyone inside? Is any of your property in this house? Are you visiting this house? Do you know this man?" They asked relentlessly, and to every question he replied simply 'no.' Finally, an officer asked of the Japanese man, "Sir, why are you here?" The now thoroughly humbled lech replied in a barely incoherent mumble, "I dunno."
I was grinning by now at the absurdity of it all, and spoke up in as straight a voice as I could manage, "He said something about paying forty dollars to sleep with a prostitute at my apartment." My eyes gave lie to my somber tone.
"I WANT MY FORTY DOLLAR BACK!" he yelled, "I payed man," he explained hastily, pointing back at the street, "forty dollar sleep with woman here, and I want my money back!" He'd been robbed! Surely the police could help?
The police couldn't help but laugh at that reply, and a quick glance into my home and one approached the drunken tourist, "Sir, I don't know what you've been lead to believe, but this is not a place of business. This is a residence. Someone stole your money." They asked if I intended to press charges, and at that point I'd had enough of the ordeal. I opined that since the man hadn't hurt me, nor stolen from me, nor threatened me, I really just wanted him off my front lawn. The police directed him back to Lake City Way, camping out on my front lawn and laughing amongst one another for fifteen minutes before rolling out themselves.
