The Republic of Wine

better he felt.
    ‘Have you got fucking scabies?’ the old revolutionary asked. I got scabies once from sleeping in a haystack. The whole platoon got them. Itch? We scratched and rubbed until we bled. It didn’t help. Even our damned insides itched, and we weren’t a fighting unit anymore. We lost men without a fight. The assistant squad leader of Squad 8, Ma Shan, had a brainstorm. He bought a bunch of green onions and garlic, smashed them to a pulp, then added some salt and vinegar, and rubbed it all over our bodies. It stung like hell, it numbed the skin, it felt like a dog scratching its balls. I’ve never felt anything so good! All those fucking mites, gone just like that with a home remedy. You get sick, the government takes care of you. That’s how it’s done. I hung my head on my belt and fought for the revolution, so by rights they should take care of me…’
    The investigator detected a note of bitterness, a grumbling tone in the old revolutionary’s words, a history of revolutionary hardship and suffering. What was supposed to have been a chance to pour out his heart had elicited a litany of grievances from the old-timer. Sadly disappointed, he was beginning to realize that no one can really rescue anyone else, that everyone has his own problems, and talking about them doesn’t help - the hungry man’s belly is just as empty, the thirsty man’s mouth stays just as dry. He shook out his clothes, knocked off some of the dried mud, and got dressed. The hot fabric burned his skin, transporting him to Seventh Heaven. But now that he was swathed in comfort, his spiritual suffering swelled, as a picture of the naked lady trucker and the pigeon-breasted, bow-legged humpback together in bed flashed into his head, clear as day and lifelike as a movie, the sort of thing he’d seen once through a keyhole. The longer he let the picture roll, the livelier it got, and the richer. The lady trucker was the golden color of a plump female loach, covered with oily, slippery mucus that gave off a subtle and not very pleasant odor. Yu Yichi, that warty little toad, was pawing her with his webbed feet, frothy bubbles popping in the corners of his mouth as he croaked and croaked … Ding’s heart was like a leaf shuddering in the wind; how he wished he could rip open his chest, gouge out that heart, and fling it in her face. Slut slut filthy slut! He could, it seemed, see, and see conclusively: Investigator Ding Gou’er, majestic as a statue hewed from pure marble, kicks in the cream-colored door with the tip of his leather shoe. There in front of him a bed, a solitary bed, on which the stupefied lady trucker and Yu Yichi sit - he rolls off the bed like a toad, his belly covered with hideous red spots - he stands cowering at the base of the wall - pigeon breast, humped back, bowed legs (or knock-kneed), an oversized head, white eyes, a crooked nose, no lips, yellow teeth with wide gaps, a mouth like a black hole that gives off a festering stench, big, dry, almost transparently thin and slightly yellow, twitching ears, black apelike arms that nearly scrape the ground, bushy hair all over his body, mutant-looking feet with more than the usual supply of toes, not to mention his black-as-ink donkey dick - How could you possibly sleep with a hideous creature like that?
    The investigator, unable to restrain himself, howled loud and long. What did you say? What the hell did you say? the old revolutionary, Gramps Qiu, asked. The big yellow dog started to bark.
    Then she shrieks in alarm and jerks the blanket up over her naked body - like you see in the movies all the time - under the blanket her body quakes - at that moment he lays eyes on the flesh he knows so well… voluptuous … firm … sweet smelling … as if ten thousand arrows have pierced his heart, a sorrow he’s never known before - a blue light flashes before his eyes, his face the color of cold steel with rigid lines, a sneer, skin like ice - he raises his pistol, slips his finger into the trigger guard, waves the pistol slightly, turning it handsomely, takes careful aim, and - pow! - a loud explosion, and the mirror behind Yu Yichi's head disintegrates, sending glittering, splintering shards of glass raining to the floor - Yu Yichi lies petrified on the floor - then the investigator holsters his weapon, turns without a word - do not look back - and strides out of Yichi Tavern - Forgive me forgive me she wails as she kneels on the floor, wrapped in the