POW! 17
The East City and West City processions continue to make their way to the grassy field. The pig float, the sheep float, the donkey float, the rabbit float…all the floats—dedicated to a host of animals whose bodies are offered for the consumption of humans—head to their assigned spots, surrounded by people of every imaginable shape and size who arrange them in square formations to await the arrival of the reviewing VIPs. All but Lao Lan's ostriches, which are running about in our yard. Two of them are fighting over a muddy article of clothing—orange in colour—as if it were a tasty titbit. I recall the woman who'd showed up the day before in a torrential rainstorm, and that scene saddens me. Every few minutes an ostrich sticks its head through the temple door, curiosity flashing in its tiny round eyes. The aura of lassitude emanating from the boys and girls sitting on the rubble of the collapsed wall is in stark contrast to the ostriches’ frenetic action. Employees of Lao Lan's company jabber nonstop into mobile phones. Another ostrich pokes its head inside, but this time it opens it big mouth and pecks the top of the Wise Monk's head. Instinctively, I throw one of my shoes at it but the Wise Monk casually raises his hand and deflects the flying missile. He opens his eyes and presents a smiling countenance—the look of a kindly grandfather watching his grandson take his first steps—to the bird. A black Buick, horn blaring, screams down the road from the west, speeds past the floats and comes to a screeching halt in front of the temple. A man with an expansive belly steps out of the car. He is wearing a grey double-breasted suit with a wide red-checked tie; the label still on his sleeve is that of a famous and expensive brand. But no matter what fancy names he wraps himself in, those big yellow eyes tell me he's my mortal enemy Lao Lan. Several years ago, Wise Monk, I fired off forty-one mortar shells, and the last of them sliced Lao Lan in two. As a result, I took off for destinations unknown to lie low. I later heard that he hadn't died after all; in fact, his business ventures thrived and he was in better health than ever. Out of the car also emerges a fat woman in a purple dress and dark red high heels. She's dyed a section of her permed hair a bright red, like a cockscomb. She has on six rings, three gold and three platinum, a gold necklace and a string of pearls. She's fleshed out quite a bit, but I see at first glance that it's Fan Zhaoxia, the woman who screwed Lao Lan with a razor in her hand. While I was on the run, rumour had it that she and Lao Lan had got married, and the scene in front of me proves that the rumour was true. As soon as her feet are on the ground, she spreads her arms and runs to the children sitting on the pile of rubble. The girl who'd fought with her ostrich until she pinned it to the ground runs to Fan Zhaoxia. She enfolds the girl in her arms, covering her face with kisses like chickens pecking at rice and fills her ears with ‘my dear this’ and ‘my little darling that’. I look at the pretty little girl's face with mixed feelings. What a surprise that Lao Lan, that bastard, could sire such a nice offspring, a girl who reminds me of my deceased stepsister Jiaojiao, who would have now been a girl of fourteen. Lao Lan lets fly with a string of curses at his staff, who are lined up in front of him, arms at their sides. One tries to explain matters and is rewarded with a faceful of spit. Lan's ostrich team was to put on a dance performance at the Carnivore Festival opening ceremony—a true spectacle that would leave a lasting impression on visiting businessmen and, more importantly, on all the leading officials. Words of praise and order forms would follow in large numbers. But before the show has begun it has fallen apart, thanks to these idiots. The hour for the opening ceremony is nearly upon them and Lao Lan's forehead is bathed in sweat. ‘Get those ostriches in here this minute or I'll turn every one of you into ostrich feed!’ They need no more prodding to take after the birds. And the uncooperative birds that they are, they miss no opportunity to race away on powerful feet like the shod hooves of crazed horses. Lao Lan rolls up his sleeves to join the fray but his first step lands in a pile of loose ostrich shit and he winds up flat on his back. His employees, who rush to help him to his feet, have to scrunch up their faces to keep from laughing. ‘Think that's funny, do you?’ Lao Lan is caustic in his comments. ‘Go ahead, laugh, why don't you?’ The youngest-looking among them cannot hold back—he bursts out laughing, immediately affecting the others, who join in, and that includes Lao Lan himself. But only for a moment. ‘You think it's so goddamn funny?’ he roars. ‘I'll fire the next one of you who so much as giggles!’ Somehow, they manage to stop. ‘Go get my rifle. I'm going to put a bullet into every one of those damned birds!’