‘You fucked with the wrong people!!’ -
Niv & Izz out on the town, New Orleans 1989.
(One of Alan Niven’s many rock n roll stories from his book)
Context: a paranoid Izzy, carrying a cheque for just under a million dollars in his shoe, agrees to fly to see ‘Niv’ who hopes to settle Izzy’s nerves with a few drinks as they explore the Big Easy after dark…
“In the Dungeon we drank, slowly. Talked. Relaxed.
We played a game of “drop the dime.” A paper napkin with a dime on it is placed over the mouth of an empty glass. Each person takes a turn burning a hole in the paper with the cherry of their lit cigarette until the dime drops into the glass. Loser buys the next round.
What it was that precipitated the next event I still do not know to this day, but one of the bouncers pushed past me and knocked Izzy off his stool.
Another was grabbing at my shoulders. The four of us tussled as Izz was forced out the door and into the courtyard. I swung a couple of punches. My
assailant and I locked into a clumsy grapple as we grabbed each other by the collar.
“What the fuck is goin’ on?” I demanded.
“You’re outta here.”
“What the fuck?” I scowled at my opponent. “You’ve screwed with the wrong people, bud. Apologize and it’s over.”
“Fuck you. Get the fuck out.” We were rudely hustled down the
alleyway into the street.
“What the hell was that all about?” Maybe the napkin had flared into flame. So what. Big deal. I don’t know, I can’t remember, but I burned with
the outrage of being humiliated in such a way.
“Forget it, Niv.”
“No. Fuck that. I’m pissed.”
We marched back towards the Omni Royal. All my pressures and
frustrations coalesced into a furious cold rage.
“Fuck that Izz. They’ve fucked up.”
The desire for vengeance pounded through the veins on the sides of my temples.
An idea formed.
I said good night to Izzy and stomped off up to my suite, oblivious now to the money in my boot. I picked up the phone and called Doug Goldstein’s hotline in Los Angeles.
He had a phone line in his bedroom which he would answer whenever it rang, no matter what the hour. It was usually used to deal with a Rose or Russell emergency.
A sleepy voice answered. I immediately made my desire clear. So many outrages in life go unanswered. This was an insult I could respond to. These
people would atone for all the stress and pressure I carried.
“Dougy, I don’t care what it costs or where they come from, but I want the twelve biggest people you can find in this city by tomorrow afternoon.”
Doug had worked as a security guard before I hired him. He knew a lot of big people.
Early the following evening we dined at the Omni Royal grill again.
While we ate, a parade of enormous bodies came up to our table to introduce themselves. A former Denver Bronco. A massive marine. The world’s strongest man, an accolade given to the man who had lifted the greatest cumulative weight across three styles of the sport.
All in all, twelve huge men had flown into New Orleans from various parts of the country. Doug had done his job well. As I recall I had cleared him to offer an all-expenses-paid trip to New Orleans, plus a grand a man.
I greeted each and asked them to meet me in my suite after dinner.
“I dunno Niv. What are we going to do?” Izz sounded concerned, but a smile of amusement lit his face.
“We’re going back to the Dungeon tonight.”
“Yeah, no doubt. But what are we going to do when we get there?”
“Take it over. Make it ours. Take out their security and management.”
My suite was filled with flesh — taut, muscular bodies brimming with the quiet confidence that giants have. There scarcely seemed enough oxygen in the room for everyone to breathe. A dozen massive, bemused faces looked to me for direction.
Fleetingly, I wondered what the fuck I had got us all into, but it was too late to turn back. The Rubicon had long been crossed. When a plan is afoot a result must be achieved.
I laid out a simple strategy. Three or four would go into the bar at opening time. They would assess the situation, count the number of bouncers and report back. Once the staff had been identified, they would be
politely invited to surrender the bar to the rest of our group on our arrival.
The head bouncer, who had torn at my collar the previous evening, was to be brought to Izzy and myself so that we might exchange pleasantries once more.
A little after midnight we heard it would be a good time to move.
As the main party squeezed down the alleyway, others slipped behind or next to the three or four security staff who were working the bar that night.
One attempted to resist and was laid on his back in an instant. The manager was pulled in front of Izz and myself, each of his arms pinned behind him by a couple of our guys.
“I told you last night that if you apologized it would be a closed matter. I told you that you had fucked with the wrong people. Next time you might
want to listen.”
The manager glared at me in stunned silence.
I guided Izz past him and into the bar. The patrons looked nervous.
They must have wondered what was coming next. This was, after all, the city where anything and everything can, and does, happen. Empty your pockets. Take off your jewelry. Show me your leg.
“Free drinks on the house,” I announced.
“I’m not giving drinks away,” said a female voice. “Not without the manager’s say-so.” The barmaid had brass.
“Perhaps you might want to check with him,” I suggested, nodding in the direction of the manager, who was still being firmly held.
The manager, glancing at his head bouncer, who was still stretched out unconscious in the
courtyard, instructed that she should do whatever I asked.”
…..
Excerpt from a chapter about Izzy called The Missing Millions - taken from ‘Sound N’ Fury’
by Alan Niven
