Pow!

another day. Oh, of course ! How could I forget? It's the first day of the Carnivore Festival, Wise Monk. It's a holiday created by the butchers in my village. Ten years ago, we—I, mainly—came up with this holiday, but it was quickly taken over by people in the township. One celebration later, it was quickly taken over by people in the city. Wise Monk, I got as far away from the village as possible after my mortar attack on Lao Lan, but I still get the news and hear all kinds of talk about me. If you take a trip to my hometown, Wise Monk, and ask the first person you meet on the street: ‘Does the name Luo Xiaotong mean anything to you?’, you'll get an earful of gossip and rumours. I'll be the first to admit that a lot of what you'll hear has been blown out of proportion, and things other people did have somehow got stuck to my name. But there's no denying that Luo Xiaotong—the Luo Xiaotong of ten years ago, not now—was special. There was, of course, someone else who had a similar reputation, and I don't mean Lao Lan. No, it was Lao Lan's third uncle, a man who had relations with forty-one different women in the space of a single day, a remarkable feat that made it into the Guinness Book of Records. Or so that bastard Lao Lan said, for what it's worth, and that's what I heard too. Wise Monk, there's nothing about my hometown I don't know. The Carnivore Festival goes on for three days with a virtually endless array of events dealing with meat. Producers of every imaginable butchering and meat-processing machine erect display booths in the city square; discussion groups meet in the hotels to talk about raising livestock, meat processing and the nutritional value of various meats. At the same time, restaurants, big and small, host lavish spreads to display their culinary genius. The phrase ‘mountains and forests of meat’ goes a long way towards describing these three days, a time for stuffing yourself as much and as often as you can. One of the highlights is the meat-eating competition in July Square, which attracts gourmands from all across the land. The winner receives three hundred and sixty meat coupons, each of which allows him to eat his fill at any of the city's restaurants. Or, if he prefers, he can trade them in for three thousand and six hundred jin of meat. I said the competition was one of the highlights of the Festival, but its true showstopper is the Meat Appreciation Parade. All festivals build up to a climax, and the Carnivore Festival is no exception. The twin cities linked by the highway form a metropolis, like a weightlifting dumb bell. The participants in the grand parade traverse this street. Those from East City walk to the west, those from West City head east, and at a point along the way they meet, passing shoulder to shoulder in opposite directions. I tell you, Wise Monk, I've had a premonition that today those two factions will meet at a spot right in front of this temple of ours, in the broad field across the highway, and I'm certain that our wall collapsed just so we could have an uninhibited view of that encounter. I know you have great powers, Wise Monk, so it must have been you who made this happen…I'm babbling on and on when I spot a silver-grey Cadillac speeding in our direction from West City under the protection of a pair of Volvos. No motorcycles or police cars leading the way, but the vehicles exhibit a casual nonchalance and indifferent dignity. When the cars reach a spot opposite the temple, they swerve onto the field and slam on the brakes with a bold self-assurance, especially the Cadillac, which sports a pair of golden cattle horns welded to the hood, creating the image of a charging animal coming to an abrupt stop. The car and its screeching halt affect me profoundly. ‘Take a look at that, Wise Monk,’ I say softly, barely above a whisper. ‘We've got a big shot in our midst, the real thing.’ Well, the Wise Monk just sits there, in a repose greater than the Horse Spirit behind him, and now I begin to worry that he might die in that position. If he does, who will listen to my story? But I can't bear to waste my viewing time on him—what's happening across the way is too good to miss. First to emerge—all from the silver-grey Volvos—are four husky men in black windbreakers and sunglasses. Their crewcuts stand up like a hedgehog's bristles, and to me they look like four lumps of charcoal in human form. Then the Cadillac passenger opens his door and steps