El Tigre Chino
What do we know about Ben Chang? We know he's nuts. We know he's dangerous, unpredictable, selfish. We know he uses his name to make bad puns. When he talks, he both over and under emphasises words, seemingly at random! When he eats, he holds his fork like a murderer's knife, gnawing at his skewered payload like a deranged woodland rodent. We know he smells like band-aids. We know he dresses like a cuban cab driver. We know he exhibits – nay – flaunts proudly obvious symtoms of over half-a-dozen disorders you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy's pets. We know these things about Ben Chang. And so much more than we ever wanted to know about him.
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I first met Chang when I hired him as a Spanish teacher at Greendale. Then he became a disgraced student, psychopathic music major, homeless vent dweller, security guard, keytarist, power-hungry warlord, and now Kevin.
