The Republic of Wine

bulging abdomen, breathing heavily and poised to leap away at any second. The old man reached out and caught it in a little net. From there, into the clay pot. And, before long, from there into a pot full of hot oil; and, finally from there into a human stomach.
    The investigator was vaguely reminded of an article he’d read in Haute Cuisine listing the nutritive value of crickets and the many ways they can be prepared.
    The old man crawled forward. Ding Gou’er threaded his way through the cornfield and headed quickly for the light ahead.
    It was an extraordinarily appealing, wholesome, lively night in which exploration and discovery went hand in hand, study and work stood shoulder to shoulder, love and revolution were united, starlight above and lamplight below echoed one another from afar to illuminate dark corners. Light from a mercury-vapor lamp lit up a rectangular sign until it dazzled the eyes. With his tin bucket in hand, Ding Gou’er squinted to read the large black characters on the white signboard, fashioned in the Song Dynasty calligraphic style:
    S PECIAL F OODS C ULTIVATION I NSTITUTE
    It was a relatively small institute. As a welter of thoughts raced through his mind, Ding Gou’er sized up the handsome little buildings and the large, brightly lit tents. A gateman in a brown uniform and wide-brimmed hat, with a holster on his hip, appeared from behind the gate and shouted breathlessly: ‘What do you want? Just what do you think you’re doing, poking around like that? You wouldn’t have a little thievery in mind, would you?’
    Noting the tear-gas pistol in the man’s holster and the electric prod he was waving haughtily, Ding Gou’er’s anger took hold. ‘Mind your tongue, young man,’ he said.
    ‘What? What did you say?’ the young gateman bellowed as he moved up closer.
    ‘I told you to mind your tongue!’ Ding Gou’er was a favorite of the public security and judicial system, and used to getting his way. Being yelled at by a gateman made his palms itch, got his dander up, soured his mood. ‘Watchdog!’ he hissed.
    The ‘watchdog’ let out a yelp, leaped a good twenty centimeters into the air, and roared, ‘You little bastard, who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You’re dead meat!’ He drew his tear-gas pistol and aimed it at Ding Gou’er.
    With a deprecatory laugh, Ding said, ‘Careful you don’t shoot yourself with that. If you’re going to subdue someone with tear gas, you’d better be standing upwind.’
    ‘Well, who’d have guessed a little bastard like you could be such an expert?’
    ‘I use tear-gas guns like that to wipe my ass!’ Ding Gou’er said.
    ‘Bullshit!’
    ‘Here come your bosses!’ Ding Gou’er said, pursing his lips and pointing to a spot behind the gateman.
    When the gateman turned to look, Ding Gou’er casually swung his tin bucket and knocked the tear-gas pistol out of the man’s hand. Then, with a swift kick, he unburdened him of his electric prod, which also flew out of his hand.
    The gateman thought about bending over to pick up his gun, but Ding raised his bucket and said, Do that and you'll be flat on the ground like a dog fighting over shit.’
    Knowing he’d met his match, the gateman backed off, then turned and ran for the little building. Ding Gou’er strode through the gate with a smile.
    A gang of men dressed exactly like the gateman came running out of the building. One of them had a metal whistle in his mouth: Brrrt - brrt - brrt , he blew with all his might. That’s the guy -beat the shit out of that son of a bitch - a dozen or so electric prods waved in the air. Like a pack of mad dogs, they surrounded Ding Gou’er.
    He reached into his waistband. Oops, his pistol was in his briefcase, which was in the truck back on the road.
    One of the men, a red armband around his bicep - probably a minor commander or something - pointed at Ding Gou’er with his electric prod and asked truculently:
    ‘What the hell do you want?’
    Tm a truck driver,’ Ding Gou’er answered, raising his tin bucket as proof.
    ‘A driver?’ the commander asked suspiciously. Then what are you doing here?’
    ‘Looking for water. My radiator overheated.’
    The tension lessened considerably; several brandished electric prods were lowered.
    ‘He’s no driver,’ the humiliated gateman shouted. ‘This guy knows how to use his fists and feet.’
    ‘All that proves is what a loser you are,’ Ding Gou’er said.
    ‘Who do you drive