money in degenerate places like that and, as far as I'm concerned, I wouldn't have minded getting Lao Lan's third uncle to mow them all down with his machine gun. But the cheapskates who didn't even drop a coin into my dish were the worst; just a look at their glum faces made me angry; even Lao Lan's third uncle's machine gun would not have erased the loathing I held for them. I think back to when I, Luo Xiaotong, was a real operator and lament that I'm now a phoenix that has fallen to the earth, no better than a chicken. No man of substance tries to relive past glories. You have to lower your head if you stand beneath an eave. Wise Monk, whoever made up the saying ‘Success at a young age brings bad luck to a family’ must have had me in mind. Smiling on the outside and seething on the inside, I waited on those bastards who came in to relieve themselves, all the while recalling my glorious past and my sad memories. Every time I saw one of them out the door, I cursed inwardly: You lousy bastard, I hope you slip and break your neck while walking, drown while drinking, choke to death while eating or croak while sleeping. I listened to the goings-on outside when the stalls and urinals were empty—hot, passionate music one minute and slow, romantic melodies the next. Sometimes I felt driven to do something worthwhile with my life, but there were other times when I fantasized being out in the muted dance-hall light, holding close a girl with bare shoulders and perfumed hair, dancing dreamily. If the fantasy played on, my legs began to move to the beat. But those dreamy moments were shattered by the next stream of arseholes with their dicks in their hands. Do you have any idea how much humiliation I've suffered, Wise Monk? One day I actually set a fire in the men's room. I quickly put it out with a fire extinguisher, but the dance-hall boss, Fatty Hong, dragged me over to the police station and accused me of arson. I convinced the interrogating officer that one of the drunken patrons had set the fire. Since I'd saved the day by putting it out, the owner ought to reward me. In fact, he'd agreed to that, but then had second thoughts. He was a cruel, bloodsucking slave driver, happy to chew up his employees and swallow them whole. By taking me to the authorities, he figured he could save the reward money and withhold the three months’ pay he owed me. ‘Mr Policeman,’ I said, ‘you're a wise arbiter who won't be fooled by the likes of Fatty Hong. You may not know it, but he likes to hide in the men's room and call you all sorts of names. He'll be taking a leak and saying terrible things about the police…’ Well, it worked. The police let me go. They said I'd committed no crime. Of course I hadn't. That damned Lao Lan, on the other hand, definitely had. But he was a member of the Municipal Standing Committee and no stranger to TV shows, where he made high-sounding pronouncements and never missed an opportunity to mention his third uncle. Third Uncle, he claimed, was a patriotic overseas Chinese who had brought glory to the descendants of the Yellow Emperor with his thick, powerful penis. Third uncle was returning to China to fund the building of a Wutong Temple in order to enhance the virility of local men. Lao Lan, the creep, managed to win over his audience with a line of bullshit. Ah, yes, I forgot, that man with the enormous ears we saw a short while ago—I wouldn't be surprised if Lao Lan's third uncle looked just like that as a young man—often showed up at the Garden of Eden dance hall, and once even flipped a green note into my dish. I later learnt that it was a US hundred-dollar note! It was brand new; the edges so sharp I got a paper cut while I examined it. That bled for a long time. When he wore a white suit with a red tie, he was tall and imposing, like a mighty poplar. When he wore a dark green suit with a yellow tie, he was tall and imposing, like a mighty black pine. When he wore a burgundy suit with a white tie, he was tall and