Shifu, You'll Do Anything For a Laugh

icy hand grab hold of my hand, and I knew it was Iron Child. He whispered:
    “Don't be afraid. Follow me. They can't see us in here.”
    So I crawled along behind him. I had no idea where the pipe, with all its twists and turns, led to, so I kept crawling until I saw a light up ahead. I followed Iron Child out of the pipe and onto the treads of an abandoned tank; from there we crawled up to the turret. White five-pointed stars had been painted on the turret, from which the rusted, pitted barrel of a cannon protruded, pointing up at an angle. Iron Child said he wanted to crawl into the turret, but the hatch was rusted shut. Iron Child said:
    “Let's bite off the screws.”
    Still on our hands and knees, we circled the hatch, biting off all the rusty screws, quickly chewing them up, until we'd broken through. We tossed the hatch away. The turret was made of soft metal, sort of like overripe peaches. Once we were inside, we settled into the soft, spongy iron seats. Iron Child showed me a tiny opening, through which I could see my parents. They were crawling over a distant heap of scrap iron, tossing objects around and making loud clanging noises that blended with their tearful shouts:
    “Gousheng, Gousheng, my son, come out, come out and have some meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes and eggs.. ..”
    They looked like strangers to me, and when I heard them trying to tempt me with meaty dumplings and sweet potatoes and eggs, I sneered contemptuously.
    Finally they gave up looking for me and headed back.
    After crawling out of the turret, we straddled the barrel of the cannon, a great vantage point to watch the flames leaping out of ovens, some near and some far, and all the people scurrying around them. Picking up iron woks, with a One — Two — Three, they tossed them into the air and then watched as they broke apart when they hit the ground. They then smashed them to pieces with sledgehammers. The sweet aroma of burned iron filings drifted over to us; my stomach started to rumble. Apparently sensing what was on my mind, Iron Child said:
    “Come on, Woody, let's get one of those woks. Iron woks are delicious.”
    We sneaked into the glow, where we selected a great big wok, picked it up, and ran off with it, so shocking the men who saw us that they dropped their hammers. Some of them even took off running.
    “Iron demons!” they shouted as they ran. “The iron demons have come!”
    By that time we'd made it to the top of a heap of scrap iron and had begun breaking the wok into edible pieces. It was much tastier than the iron bar.
    As we were feasting on our iron wok, we saw a man with a gimpy leg and a holstered revolver on his hip limp over and smack the men who were shouting “iron demons.”
    “Bastards,” he cursed them. “Your damned rumors are creating a disturbance! A fox can turn into a demon, and so can a tree. But whoever heard of iron turning into demons?”
    The men replied as if with one voice:
    “We're not lying, Political Instructor. We were smashing some iron woks when a pair of iron kids, covered with rust, came rushing out of the shadows, snatched one of the woks, and ran off with it. They simply vanished.”
    “Where did they run off to?” the gimpy man asked.
    “The scrap iron heap,” the men answered.
    “You fucking rumor-mongers!” the gimpy man said. “How could there be kids in this desolate spot?”
    “That's why we were scared.”
    The gimpy man drew his pistol and fired three shots into the scrap iron heap — clang clang clang . Golden sparks flew from the scrap iron.
    Iron Child said:
    “Woody, let's take his gun away from him and eat it, what do you say?”
    I said:
    “What if we can't get it away from him?” Iron Child said:
    “Wait here. I'll go get it.”
    Iron Child climbed lightly down off the scrap heap and crawled on his belly through the weeds. The people out in the light couldn't see him, but I could. When I saw him crawl up behind the gimpy man, I picked up a piece of iron plate and banged it against the wok.
    “Hear that?” the men shouted. “The iron demons are over there!”
    Just as the gimpy man raised his pistol to fire, Iron Child jumped up and snatched it out of his hand.
    The men shouted:
    “An iron demon!”
    The gimpy man fell down on his backside.
    “Help!” he screamed. “Catch that spy—”
    Pistol in hand, Iron Child crawled up next to me.
    “Well?” he said.
    I told him how great he was, which made him very happy. He bit off the