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had turned into a sad sack. The best way to describe him would be as a disgusting, pathetic rat that's been dipped in a bucket of oil. He was looking shiftily at what remained in his tub. His greasy paws shook as he held them in front of his chest, and he needed only to start gnawing on them to truly live up to his nickname. He was a big rat stuffed so full he couldn't walk, and his belly bulged alarmingly. Only an overstuffed dying rat could make the kip kip noises that emerged from his mouth. There was no more fight in either competitor. All that remained was surrender.

    That brings us to Feng Tiehan, my true rival. He maintained his poise even at this late stage. His hands were clean, his mouth lively and his posture erect. But his eyes lacked focus. No longer was he able to stare me down with a ruthless gaze. I thought he looked like a clay statue whose base is steeping in water but which somehow preserves its dignity in the face of imminent collapse. I knew that his eyes had glazed over because his stomach was failing him, that it had fallen victim to pounds of uncooperative meat and now swelled painfully. The meat in his stomach was acting like a nest of irritable frogs anxiously searching to be free. The slightest hint of capitulation from him and he'd be helpless to prevent their escape. The bitter struggle to maintain control over his body was reflected in the alarming look of distress on his face. It may not have been distress, but that's what it looked like to me. Three pieces of meat remained in his tub.

    Liu Shengli's tub held five pieces, Wang Xiaogang's held six.

    A huge black fly with white spots flew up from some distant place, circled the air above us and attacked Wan's tub of meat like a hawk swooping down on its prey. Wan tried to shoo it away with a few weak waves of his hand, but then gave up. A swarm of much smaller flies converged from all sides and set up a loud buzz as they circled above us. The spectators began to panic and turned their eyes to the sky in fear—in the slanting rays of the sun, the flies looked like golden specks of starlight. But this was terrible news. The flies had come from one of the world's filthiest places, and their wings and feet carried all sorts of germs and bacteria. Even if we were able to resist the noxious effects, the mere thought of where the carriers had been would make us sick. I knew that only seconds remained before they'd land like divebombers on our meat, and that we'd be defenceless to stop them. I grabbed the last piece in my tub and crammed it into my mouth just as the attack commenced.

    In the proverbial blink of an eye, the meat in the other tubs, even the rims of the tubs themselves, were covered with flies, with their skittering feet and shimmering wings, and they began to eat their fill. Lao Lan, the doctor and some of the spectators rushed up to shoo them away but all they did was send the angry insects up in the air and then down into the people's faces to kill or be killed. Many in the swarm did die in the melee but others quickly filled their ranks. The defenders soon tired, physically and emotionally, and gave up the fight.

    Following my example, Feng Tiehan snatched up one of his three pieces and crammed it into his mouth, then grabbed a second before the flies overwhelmed the last.

    A great many flies settled on Liu and Wan's tubs, all but turning them invisible. ‘The contest doesn't count,’ shouted Wan, jumping to his feet, ‘it doesn't count…’

    He had barely opened his mouth when a bite-sized chunk of meat came flying out with a loud retch, but whether the sound came from the meat or from Wan was unclear. It fell to the ground, quivered like a newborn rabbit and was swiftly covered by flies. Defeated, Wan covered his mouth and ran to the wall; then leaned against it, lowered his head, and, like an inchworm, rocked up and down as he vomited out his guts.

    Liu Shengli straightened up with difficulty. ‘I could have finished mine,’ he said to Lao Lan, trying to look nonchalant. ‘My stomach was only half full. But those damned flies fouled my meat. I'm telling you, Xiaotong, you won nothing. I didn't lose—’

    The words were barely out of his mouth when he catapulted to his feet as if on springs. I knew it was the meat in his stomach, not springs, that propelled him upward. In its attempt to escape from his stomach, it was exerting an explosive force beyond his control. The moment he got to his feet, the skin on