svetikya 005 Old Tang
005 Old Tang
Lu Mingfei stared blankly at his reflection on the screen for a while.
Suddenly, a QQ window popped up on my desktop. It was Old Tang, the guy I played StarCraft with the day before yesterday.
"Where have you been? You haven't been online for two days, my fingers are itching to play!"
Don't tell me you're doing your homework.
"Chinese people don't lie to other Chinese people!"
The timestamps were scrolled from 8:30 PM to 9:40 PM, with the last one posted two minutes ago.
Lu Mingfei opened the StarCraft app, "Here it comes."
As usual, Lao Tang started by sending out scouting troops, his peasants clearing the way with practiced ease. Lu Mingfei also produced ghouls, but instead of scouting, he immediately massed units. His hands moved incredibly fast, grouping units, switching screens, and spreading creep—his actions were fluid and seamless.
A few minutes later, Lu Mingfei typed GG.
Old Tang typed: "Your typing speed is impressive, even faster than mine."
Lu Mingfei: "...We lost."
"Bro, something's off with you!" Old Tang's message popped up incredibly fast. "When experts clash, you can tell what the other is thinking just by looking at their movements. Yesterday you played against me, your individual skills were average, but your tactical awareness was excellent. How come it's completely the opposite today?"
"Haven't played in a long time, forgot about it."
"Bullshit! You haven't forgotten the controls, but you can't forget the awareness? I think you're just preoccupied with something."
"no."
"Yes. Let me guess... You broke up with your boyfriend? Was it that Chen Wenwen?"
Lu Mingfei was stunned for a moment. When had he mentioned Chen Wenwen to Lao Tang? It seemed like a long time ago, or perhaps not long ago for Lao Tang, but he couldn't even remember Chen Wenwen's face.
"No," he said. "I don't like her anymore."
"Really not? Bro, being heartbroken isn't scary, what's scary is keeping it inside."
"Women are nothing compared to brothers! By the way, Lao Tang, I might be going to study in the US. If we have the chance, we might be able to meet up in person."
"YES!" Old Tang was thrilled; you could practically feel his excitement through the screen. "Great! Come find me, and I'll show you how passionate the girls are here. I guarantee you won't want to leave, and you'll forget all about Chen Wenwen!"
"There's no need, there's no need..." Lu Mingfei quickly refused. He now had a psychological aversion to "passionate girls"; the last passionate red-haired girl had just died in his arms, and all he wanted now was to live quietly.
"What do you mean 'no need'? Didn't you just say that women are less important than brothers—but that doesn't mean you can't have women! When a brother introduces you to a woman, that's a testament to brotherhood!"
"...You'd better not try to elevate yourself further."
"Alright, alright, we'll talk about it later. Come on, let's play another round. The last one doesn't count; you weren't in good form."
Lu Mingfei didn't refuse and started another game. His senses slowly returned, and the two played a closely matched late-game match. In the end, Lu Mingfei lost because his base was stolen.
"That's more like it," Old Tang said happily.
Lu Mingfei smiled and exited the game.
He suddenly felt that his past self was quite ridiculous. Why was he so pathetic back then? He didn't dare to do this or that, and he lacked confidence in that. He even had to rehearse a hundred times in his mind before saying a word to a girl.
Chen Wenwen. He repeated the name in his mind.
I don't feel anything.
-----------------
"She must have been traumatized," Old Tang muttered. Could it be that the girl named Chen Wenwen ran off with someone else?
Old Tang took off his headphones, stretched, and his neck cracked twice.
Then I opened the refrigerator, took out half a carton of milk, and glanced at the expiration date... Damn, it was three days ago.
He unscrewed the cap, smelled it, poured half a cup, and downed it in one gulp.
"good."
Old Tang is a bounty hunter.
To put it nicely, I'm a bounty hunter; to put it bluntly, I'm a handyman who does everything. Last week I helped someone find their dog, this week I'm helping someone find their cat, and sometimes I help people deal with "haunted houses."
Old Tang actually knew nothing about exorcism or magic. Last month, someone asked him to perform an exorcism at an old house in the Bronx. He went anyway, took a nap on the living room sofa, and the next day the homeowner said he wouldn't cause any more trouble and transferred eight hundred dollars to him.
"It's probably just a natural talent," he sometimes comforted himself, and then continued living a life of irregular meals.
Today's payment came in—three hundred dollars. I was looking for a lost cat. I searched for three hours in that riverside neighborhood, only to find out the cat hadn't gone missing at all; it had been giving birth in the landlord's attic. The employer still paid me, because "finding it is enough."
Old Tang was furious when he talked about that neighborhood by the river.
The employer's location was on the river. On the river! He drove his secondhand Ford around the river twice, and the navigation system's sweet female voice kept saying, "You have arrived near your destination." Nearby my foot! Finally, he got out of the car and walked along the river for ten minutes before finally finding the house on the other side.
As he waded across the river in his shoes, he vaguely heard a voice.
It sounded like a child was calling him.
"elder brother……"
Old Tang glanced back at that moment.
There was nothing on the river.
The sunlight shone on the water, making it sparkle like shattered gold.
The Brooklyn light rail rumbled past the window, making the empty beer can on the table tremble slightly.
Old Tang lay down on the bed and stared blankly at the water stains on the ceiling.
"elder brother……"
Again.
Everyone in this line of work has their quirks. One colleague supposedly can see ghosts, and all his assignments are supernatural; he's also said to be in poor mental health. Another guy has to disassemble and reload all his bullets before every mission, and he won't leave the house until he's done—he has obsessive-compulsive disorder. Compared to him, the occasional voice in my head doesn't seem like a big deal.
Perhaps it was picked up during one of those missions.
Last year or the year before, he took a job looking for a missing little boy. He found him in an abandoned apartment building. The child was curled up in a corner on the second floor, wrapped in a dirty blanket. He was starving but still conscious. When Old Tang carried him out, the child clung to his collar and wouldn't let go, repeatedly calling out "Brother."
Perhaps the impression left at that time was too deep, and my brain occasionally replays it; there seems to be such a saying in psychology.
Old Tang didn't want to think too much. He closed his eyes and forced himself to think about tomorrow's work, the landlord who was pressing for rent, and how to pay this month's bill.
Then he fell asleep.
It was very hot in the dream, as hot as standing next to a furnace, surrounded by churning lava and molten copper. Opposite me stood a boy whose face I couldn't see, his figure thin, like a flame flickering in the wind.
Old Tang wanted to walk over, but his feet seemed to be welded to the ground, and he couldn't move them no matter what.
He tried to shout "Who are you?", but his body felt like it wasn't his own, and he couldn't make a sound.
He opened his eyes; the water stains on the ceiling were still there, shaped like a curled-up cat.
The air conditioner was still humming, there were no new messages on my phone screen, and no one was outside the window.
Old Tang touched his face; it was wet.
"Damn it, this line of work really makes you prone to mental exhaustion." Old Tang rolled over and covered his ears with a pillow.