SFS Chapter 20 The Coal Boss's Construction Site Counterattack
Chapter 20 The Coal Boss's Construction Site Counterattack
The construction site of Phase III of Hongtu Real Estate in the western suburbs of Changxiang City.
The midday sun was so scorching it felt like it would melt the earth, and the air was filled with the smell of dry cement and stale sweat.
The workers squatted in twos and threes under the shade of the trees, holding large enamel bowls with chipped porcelain, shoveling rice into their mouths.
The meal was cooked in a large pot, not very oily, with more potatoes than meat in the braised pork and potato stew, plus stir-fried greens and seaweed and egg drop soup.
Qian Dafa mingled in the crowd, and his eating was fiercer than anyone else's.
He picked up two pieces of fatty meat with his chopsticks, stuffed them into his mouth with the broth, and swallowed them without even chewing them twice, his cheeks bulging like a hamster hoarding food.
Two weeks ago, he would have felt nauseous just looking at this food. Now? It tastes delicious.
"Old Qian, are you sure you can handle that truckload of cement this afternoon? That stuff burns your hands." Foreman Old Wang squatted down next to him, lit a cigarette that cost 2.5 yuan a pack, and squinted at him.
"It's no big deal." Qian Dafa wiped the grease from his mouth. His Armani suit had long been replaced with a camouflage uniform that cost 25 yuan for two pieces, and his limited edition leather shoes had been replaced with mud-covered liberation shoes.
He had lost a whole lot of fat around his belly, and the frivolous look on his face from excessive drinking was gone, replaced by tanned, muscular muscles and a rugged, down-to-earth feel.
"What are you after, kid?" Old Wang exhaled a smoke ring. "Giving up being the big boss to come here and steal our food."
Qian Dafa slammed the jar on the ground, grinning and revealing a set of bright white teeth: "Brother Wang, you don't understand. Before, that wasn't called being a boss, it was called being a grandson. Smiling and behaving all day, drinking Moutai and spitting out blood. Now, this is the life I'm living. It's tiring, but my mind is clear, and I don't even dream when I sleep."
Several of his fellow workers joined in the laughter.
When this fat guy first arrived, he couldn't even hold a brick properly, and he had to pay the foreman to let him stay. Now he can carry two bags of cement and walk in a straight line. He's a tough guy.
Qian Dafa pulled a crumpled little notebook out of his back pocket, flipped through a couple of pages, and suddenly his brows furrowed into a deep frown.
"Old Wang, I looked at yesterday's order, and the purchase price of this 425 cement is wrong."
Old Wang was taken aback: "What's wrong? I've always gotten them from Old Li, we've always been close."
"This is ripping people off," Qian Dafa said confidently, pointing to the figures on the bill. "It's fifty yuan more per ton. This batch must weigh 50,000 tons, right? That's a difference of two and a half million. Two and a half million is enough to give each of the brothers a big bonus, and the rest can even cover your down payment on a house in the county town."
Old Wang's cigarette trembled, and he didn't even feel the ash fall onto his crotch.
"Damn it! That bastard Lao Li tricked me?"
"Don't rush." Qian Dafa's aura of authority suddenly returned. Even though he was wearing camouflage and squatting in the mud, his composure was undeniable. "Leave this to me."
He pulled out the Nokia candybar phone he had specially bought for working on the construction site; the keypad clicked crisply.
"Hey, Lao Sun? It's me, Qian Dafa."
"He's not dead, he's lively and energetic. Let me ask you something, what's the price your factory is paying for 425 these days?"
"...Okay, take 500 tons to Hongtu in the western suburbs first, cash on delivery. No more nonsense, go with the lowest discount, or I'll buy your lousy factory to use as a warehouse."
After hanging up the phone, Qian Dafa gestured with his chin towards Lao Wang: "Deal. Ten percent lower than your current price. If there's even the slightest quality problem, I'll eat the cement."
Old Wang's chin almost hit his foot.
At three o'clock in the afternoon, the cement truck rumbled into the construction site. Boss Sun of the cement plant personally escorted the truck. Upon seeing Qian Dafa, he was so obsequious that he almost knelt down and called him "father" on the spot.
"Mr. Qian! Are you... experiencing the hardships of ordinary people?" Boss Sun looked at Qian Dafa, who was covered in dust and dirt, and broke out in a cold sweat.
"Enough talk, unload." Qian Dafu hoisted a bag of cement and became the silent porter again. "From now on, I've got this construction site under my protection, understand?"
"I understand!"
His coworkers' gazes towards him completely changed. This wasn't Old Qian anymore; this was a fallen god of wealth!
Nighttime, the workers' shed.
The snoring sounds rose and fell, like a symphony orchestra.
Qian Dafa lay on the hard bed, his whole body aching, but his mind was unusually clear.
He took out his smartphone and sent a WeChat message to Wang Minyu.
[Dr. Wang, I think I'm better. I carried eighty bags of cement today and wasn't out of breath.]
The reply came very quickly, just a few words.
[Just one last step.]
Qian Dafa's heart skipped a beat: [What?]
[Bring your wife over tomorrow, let her see what you look like now.]
The light from the phone screen shone on Qian Dafa's face, making his expression shift between light and shadow.
His wife. The woman who started from scratch with him, but ended up sleeping in separate rooms.
They think he's vulgar, they think he's stinky, they think he has nothing but money.
Should we send him to see her looking like this?
Qian Dafa's finger hovered over the screen, not pressing it for a long time. After a long while, he gritted his teeth and replied with a single word: [Okay.]
At the same time, a private cinema in Changxiang City.
The floor was littered with crumpled tissues and empty Red Bull cans.
Zhang Yimou's hair was a mess, his eyes were bloodshot, and he stared intently at the huge projection screen.
On the screen, two little figures in red and blue pants are rolling around in a hail of bullets.
"Jump! Jump, you son of a bitch!"
"S-Bomb! Take the S-Bomb!"
"I can't take it anymore... damn it!"
The handle was slammed hard onto the leather sofa, bounced twice, and fell onto the carpet.
Zhang Yimou slumped on the sofa, panting heavily, his chest heaving violently.
Two days and two nights.
This renowned director, who has won the Golden Bear and been nominated for an Oscar, was actually brought to tears by a pixelated game from thirty years ago.
That sense of defeat was even more painful than a box office flop.
"Director Zhang..." the assistant said, his voice trembling as he carried a glass of warm water, "How about... we take a nap?"
"Sleep my ass!" Zhang Yimou sat bolt upright, grabbed the controller, his fingers twitching slightly from the excessive force. "If I don't beat this game today, I'm dying here!"
He pressed the Start button again.
That intense focus enveloped him once again.
There was no script in my mind, no sour face from the investors, and no harsh words from film critics. Only dodging, shooting, and surviving.
The tangled mess in the cerebral cortex is forcibly torn apart and reassembled through repeated mechanical jumps and shots.
I don't know how much time has passed.
When the disgusting alien heart exploded amidst a flash of light, and the game completion screen appeared, Zhang Yimou was stunned.
There was no cheering, no excitement.
There was only a vast, empty silence.
Like someone who has just finished a marathon, the finish line is right under their feet, but their mind is completely blank.
My nerves, which had been on edge for two days, suddenly snapped. The handle slipped from my hand.
Before he could even adjust his posture, his head lolled to the side and he fainted.
I slept soundly, without a single dream.
When I woke up, it was already the afternoon of the next day. The setting sun had turned the room blood red.
Zhang Yimou opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for five minutes.
The heavy feeling that had been pressing down on my head was gone.
My brain felt like it had been taken apart and washed, leaving it refreshed and clear.
The plot that was previously stuck, and the characters' motivations that were so hard to understand, suddenly came rushing out like water being released from a dam.
"Where's the pen...?"
He jumped up from the sofa, couldn't find any paper, so he grabbed a napkin from the table and started writing furiously.
The pen tip slices through the paper, the ink spreads, and each word carries a sense of cathartic pleasure.
This isn't treating an illness, it's a brain transplant.
That kid surnamed Wang is fucking amazing.