A cultural exhibition was in progress. Huge rooms filled with displays; one had small models of Chinese artifacts.
There was a huge underground recording studio. This was apparently the place where the great music of the early 70s was recorded. Everywhere was signs of the Doors, the Stones, the Who having been there. But I couldn't get to the archive of the tapes because of all the 70s dropouts fucking and lying around in the hallways high as a kite.
So I returned to the exhibits to sneak in.
There was a stir-fry take-out concession operated by my kung fu instructor. She was grilling over hot coals. I crawled over the coals to sneak into the exhibits the back way.
Then, apparently, I was Alan Parker, the director, as a kid. There was a big sign and I had to climb it. We had a secret guy club but maybe one of the members was a girl anyway?
I ratted on the big boss and his gang. They all went to jail. But later, I too was arrested, in a Chinese garden. In jail, the big boss and his gang start trying to beat up on me, but I didn't even flinch. Don't show 'em it hurts.