Thinking this way

The bald man stood for about five minutes before walking toward Zhang Pai.

Was he about to leave? Zhang Pai said, “Don’t go, the police are coming soon.”

The bald man smiled, “If I don’t break your leg, I’ll take your surname.” With that, he was already out of the room.

Zhang Pai stood by the door, unmoving at first, but when the bald man brushed past, his right elbow slammed down fiercely—just once—and the bald man crashed to the ground.

Zhang Pai exclaimed, “How did you fall? What happened? So careless.”

The bald man steadied himself, slowly got up, and turned to say, “Add an arm to that.”

Zhang Pai smiled, “I’ll be waiting.”

“No worries, you won’t have to wait long,” the bald man replied, striding out the door and stopping downstairs.

The girl with long hair thanked Zhang Pai, while the round-faced girl, oblivious as ever, kept cursing. Zhang Pai glanced at them both, turned, and went downstairs to stand beside the bald man. “Who are you?” he asked.

The bald man looked at him for a moment, then suddenly smiled and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering one.

“Smoking in public? No manners,” Zhang Pai said.

The bald man kept smiling, put the cigarette to his own lips, took out a metal lighter that clicked crisply, lit the cigarette, took a deep puff, and was about to blow smoke at Zhang Pai.

Without warning, Zhang Pai punched him hard in the stomach, sending him into a fit of coughing.

At that moment, a police car arrived and stopped in front of them. An officer stepped out and asked, “Who called the police?”

Zhang Pai pointed at the bald man. “He went into the girls’ room and caused trouble, even hit someone. The girls were terrified.”

“Girls? Where?” asked the officer.

“This isn’t the crime scene—it’s upstairs,” Zhang Pai replied.

The officer glanced at him and asked the bald man, “What happened?”

The bald man said, “It’s a misunderstanding. I know them, just stopped by for a visit. I don’t know what happened, but they told me to leave, so I did. Didn’t do anything.”

Another officer got out of the car, told the first, “I’ll go check upstairs,” and headed up. After a while, he brought the two girls down. The main question was, do you want to file a report?

If yes, they’d go to the station for a statement. If not, everyone could go their separate ways.

After asking everyone involved, he found no one was hurt. The girls claimed the bald man bullied them and illegally entered their apartment. But the bald man insisted he thought they were friends, just visiting, and left when he realized they weren’t. Nothing else happened.

Zhang Pai could testify, but for such a trivial matter, his presence made no difference.

The round-faced girl certainly wanted to report it, hoping to see the bald man jailed. But the police explained, with no injuries and no loss of property, there was nothing to charge him with.

That was that—the police stayed twenty minutes, then drove off.

Not long after the police left, four cars pulled up by the roadside, three or four men emerged from each, forming a group of well over a dozen.

The bald man glared coldly at Zhang Pai, but before he could speak, things changed.

This was Happy Lane, a place where people loved a spectacle. The police had stayed twenty minutes, drawing plenty of curious onlookers.

Zhang Pai had been speaking with the police in plain view, and the news spread quickly. Even the portly man, abandoning his mahjong game, arrived with Turtle and the others.

They tried to approach and ask questions, but Zhang Pai shook his head at the portly man and jerked his chin toward the bald man. The portly man immediately called out to Turtle and whispered a few words. Everyone dispersed, some fetching others, some making calls. In no time, over twenty gathered.

Now, with the police gone, the bald man wanted his men to beat Zhang Pai. But before he could say anything, he saw a group heading toward the parked cars, lining up in a row, staring back provocatively, silent.

The bald man’s expression darkened. He had heard of Happy Lane’s notorious troublemakers—was today the day he met them?

Zhang Pai said to him, “Remember, my name is Zhang Pai. I’m afraid of everything—really, I’m scared of everything. You have to believe me.” With this, he was nothing like the evasive figure upstairs. He swung a fist—just one—striking the side of the bald man’s head, knocking him out cold.

Zhang Pai had acted. The portly man and his group let out a howl, and, in unison, each swung a baseball bat. These were perfect for brawling—not regulated weapons. They rained down blows, leaving the opposition dazed. The quick ones turned tail and ran, the slow ones collapsed.

Then, while their opponents were still reeling, the portly man’s group scattered, vanishing in a flash, leaving not a trace—not even a single bat behind. They fled as swiftly and cleanly as if they had never been there.

Dozens remained to watch the spectacle. That was the advantage of Happy Lane—crowds, and even more who loved a show. Everyone laughed and watched the outsiders take a beating, some even buying sunflower seeds to snack on as they enjoyed the view.

Zhang Pai didn’t run. He walked back a few steps, sat on the stairs, and lowered his head to search for ants.

The portly man’s group was gone. The few from the bald man's side who had escaped returned, saw the carnage, and hurried to help the bald man.

As for Zhang Pai, the perpetrator—they’d wait until the boss woke.

After a while, the bald man came to, took his time to get his bearings. All this while, Zhang Pai had found several ants, seriously watching them toil back and forth.

Having been knocked out and humiliated, the bald man and his men wouldn’t let it slide. He considered calling the police—but things had escalated, and even if he did, he’d have to reclaim his dignity first.

He stood, glared fiercely at Zhang Pai. “I’ll remember you.”

“Oh,” Zhang Pai replied indifferently.

The bald man looked at him again, then said to his men, “Let’s go.”

So, they got in the cars to leave. The portly man’s group hadn’t struck to kill—it seemed more like a game—so the bald man’s men weren’t seriously hurt and could move.

But as soon as they tried to drive off, they discovered a problem—every tire was flat.

The bald man, furious, ordered his men to hail taxis, while he glared at Zhang Pai.

Zhang Pai didn’t care, still watching ants.

After another ten minutes, the bald man and his group left, leaving two to wait for the repairman.

Only then did Zhang Pai get up and go home.

The two girls next door came over to thank him. Zhang Pai said, “I didn’t do anything,” his voice a little cold.

The round-faced girl muttered softly, then thanked him again and returned to her room.

The long-haired girl lingered, giving Zhang Pai a few more glances before leaving. But she soon returned to tell him, “The bald man is known as Cannon King. He’s pretty formidable—even our boss calls him brother.”

Zhang Pai said he knew.

The long-haired girl said, “Maybe you should lay low for a while? Two months, maybe? I have some money—three thousand, will that be enough?”

Zhang Pai smiled, “After all this time as neighbors, it’s the first time I’ve seen you show concern.” Then he said, “It’s fine, don’t worry.”

The long-haired girl thanked him again and went back to her room.

Zhang Pai checked his manuscript word count—two thousand words short of his daily goal—so he hurried to make up a story.

Soon, the portly man and Turtle arrived, asking as soon as they stepped in, “Where are those guys from?”

“Bald man’s called Cannon King, do you know him?” Zhang Pai said.

“Cannon King? Sounds familiar,” Turtle mused. “Isn’t he with Guo Gang?”

The portly man thought for a moment. “Damn.” He exclaimed, then added, “Why do you always provoke the tough guys?”

“Are you counting Dragon Xiaole under my name, too?” Zhang Pai asked.

The portly man thought a bit, then grinned, “A misunderstanding, a misunderstanding.” He asked, “Did you know he was Cannon King?”

“Just found out,” Zhang Pai replied.

The portly man turned to Turtle, “How many Cannon Kings are there in the provincial capital?”

“I only know one, always hangs out with Guo Gang, pretty good fighter.” Turtle smiled wryly, “Guo Gang, Guo the Scoundrel—what do we do?”

The portly man said, “Tiger hangs with Guo Gang, maybe he can talk?”

Turtle replied, “Tiger’s new to Guo Gang, just a small fry. Cannon King helped Guo Gang conquer the turf, not the same.” Then he added, “But their fighting strength is average—handled them easily earlier.”

The portly man said, “They play with money now, pay to get things done. Better than getting their hands dirty.”

Zhang Pai said it was fine, tossed the morning’s envelope to the portly man. “Barbecue, the rest is repayment. I won’t be joining.”

The portly man held the envelope, thinking, “You plan to handle it yourself?”

If someone helps you in a fight, it’s normal to treat them to a meal. But if the person at the center of it doesn’t show up, it means he doesn’t want to drag everyone else in.

“Does it matter?” Zhang Pai said, then added, “I have work to do.”

“Hold off,” the portly man said. He called Tiger, explained what had happened.

Tiger was cool about it: “I’ll check. If things can’t be settled, you guys help me find a job.” Then he hung up.

That meant, if trouble really came, Tiger would stand with the portly man and Zhang Pai, even if it meant fighting Cannon King.

The portly man told Zhang Pai, “Wait.”

“Wait outside.” Zhang Pai ushered them out.

So the portly man and Turtle left.

After a while, the long-haired girl knocked, opened the door, and asked, “Really not going to hide?”

“I’m fine,” Zhang Pai replied.

“Oh.” She gently closed the door and left.

Zhang Pai kept writing, finishing his task by evening.

He carried a box of books downstairs, went to Provincial Tech to set up his stall.

As usual, not a single book sold all night. He stared blankly, reflecting on how crazy it was—so much time wasted, obsessed with books, and worse, the books he wrote himself. Win or lose, it was all so humiliating.

Just then, the portly man called. “Cannon King’s here. Where are you?”

“So soon?” Zhang Pai said. “Tell him to wait—I’ll be right there.”

The portly man agreed and hung up.

Cannon King had arrived, and this time it wasn’t just four cars. Two small cars led the way, followed by two minivans, a mid-sized bus, and two trucks. The front cars were company men; the trucks were full of laborers. This was a full-scale sweep of Happy Lane.

Zhang Pai rushed back, just in time to see Tiger, the portly man, and a few others, along with the twenty or so from the afternoon’s fight, gathered at the intersection.

Cannon King’s cars were parked along the roadside, one after another, everyone waiting inside.

Zhang Pai rode up to the first car, stopped, and peered inside—there was Cannon King. He tapped on the window.

Cannon King ignored him. Seeing Zhang Pai return, he told the driver to start. The driver honked twice, long and loud, and people began to get out of the cars.

Whether company enforcers or laborers, they all wore black shirts and pants, each holding a baseball bat.