Chapter 70: Courting Death

After a peaceful night, the next morning Song Nianqiang was woken by the colonel’s phone call.

“Hello~~~” The standard Nokia ringtone blared as Song Nianqiang groggily answered, his voice muffled. On the other end, the colonel’s hearty voice boomed, “Qiangzi, the Number 7 Special Agent Team has arrived. They’re in my camp. Want to see your good friends?” The moment Song Nianqiang recognized the colonel’s voice, all sleep fell away and he shot upright in bed. “I’ll be right there!” he said, tossing the phone onto the headboard and grabbing his pillow, which he promptly hurled at the still-slumbering Fatty.

His aim was perfect. The pillow struck Fatty square on the head, jolting him awake. With a reflexive burst of motion, Fatty shot up and dove under the bed without even opening his eyes—a feat so fluid that Song Nianqiang was momentarily stunned.

Two minutes later, the gentle sound of snoring drifted from beneath the bed. Song Nianqiang got up, dressed, and went over to Fatty’s bed. He grabbed Fatty by the ankle and dragged him out, shouting, “Get up!” His voice was so loud the nearby window rattled.

Fatty was the first casualty of the morning, scared half to death by Song Nianqiang’s bellow. “Damn it! Did you forget your meds again? What are you yelling for this early?” Then he realized he was on the floor. After a three-second pause, he looked blankly at Song Nianqiang and asked, “Qiangzi, why am I on the ground?”

Rolling his eyes, Song Nianqiang couldn’t be bothered to answer. “Come on, get up! Li Runze is already waiting for us at the camp. Move!” As he spoke, someone knocked on the door.

“Damn, we were just about to look for you!” Opening the door, Song Nianqiang saw it was Li Runze. Grinning, he pulled him inside and closed the door behind them. “Fatty, you really are lazy! In the camp, I was up running at five. Now it’s past eight.” He pointed at the clock on the wall.

Fatty was wearing nothing but his briefs, but with only men in the room, he wasn’t bothered by such formalities. Barefoot, he walked over to Li Runze, gave him a once over, and pinched his arm. “Not bad! You haven’t been gone long and you’re already in shape—nearly catching up to Qiangzi, that Martian!”

He said it with a laugh, and he wasn’t exaggerating. Song Nianqiang’s physique was unlike any ordinary person’s—there wasn’t an ounce of extra flesh on him, yet it wasn’t the bulging, sculpted look of a bodybuilder either. It was a harmonious strength, hard to describe. Perhaps if he were a woman, you could say he had just the right amount of everything—not too much, not too little.

“What can I say? Everyone thinks the Number 7 Special Agent Team deals in supernatural events, but once you’re there you learn only non-humans could survive it. Training goes on day and night, sometimes for days on end, with nothing provided for you, thrown into all kinds of harsh environments. If you can’t stick it out, you’re out. Do you think I had it easy?”

Though his words spoke of hardship, Li Runze’s face showed no impatience, only a quiet pride. Rightly so—every year, many newcomers try out for the Number 7 Special Agent Team, but only a rare few make it. Those who do, though, are no longer counted among ordinary humans.

“Braggart! So, where are you taking us to celebrate?” Fatty had dressed by now and asked with a shrug, grinning at Li Runze.

“Anywhere you want. This trip is on the state’s dime. The team leader told me to spend as I please—it’ll all be reimbursed!” Li Runze couldn’t help but laugh after he finished.

“Damn!” “Hell!” Song Nianqiang and Fatty exclaimed almost in unison. Clearly, their plans to freeload had been dashed. Even if the state was paying, there was no way they could bankrupt the state with their spending, and frankly, in this small county, a thousand yuan would make you a big spender. “I vote we go sing karaoke. What do you guys think?” Fatty suggested.

“Fatty, let’s talk about this,” Song Nianqiang’s face changed instantly at the suggestion. Having grown up with Fatty, he knew him inside out. When it came to singing, Fatty’s voice was so far outside the solar system’s range that there probably wasn’t a single lifeform in the solar system that could sound worse.

Li Runze, unaware of this, nodded in agreement. Noticing Song Nianqiang’s odd expression, he asked, “Qiangzi, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing—just deciding how I want to die.” Li Runze didn’t quite catch his meaning, but Fatty, delighted that his proposal was accepted, flung the door open, impatient to show off his vocal “talent.”

The trio took a taxi to a KTV bar called “Entertainment Bar” and booked a private room. Fatty rushed in, but since this was Li Runze’s treat, the other two insisted that he sing the first song. Unable to refuse, Li Runze chose a ballad by Cyndi Wang, “Youth Test Paper.” He sang with genuine feeling, and as they were all young men, the song resonated with them deeply.

When he finished, Fatty was eager to pick his own song, but Song Nianqiang grabbed him in a bear hug and wouldn’t let go, insisting that the host must sing three songs before the guests could. Defeated, Fatty could only watch as Li Runze continued.

Next, Li Runze sang “Start Over” by Huang Xiaohu, a song well suited to his excellent voice. If he ever joined showbiz, he’d be a star. After that, he sang “Fireworks Easily Cold,” originally by Jay Chou, and his imitation was remarkably good.

After three songs, Song Nianqiang dashed up to select three of his own. Fatty sulked on the sofa, but Song Nianqiang ignored him—if Fatty got going, who knew what disaster might ensue.

The first song was “The Yellow Race,” the second “The Pig Who Lost Happiness,” and the third, his specialty, was “Heaven’s Will,” originally by Andy Lau—a favorite he often hummed absentmindedly. Once finished, Song Nianqiang reluctantly handed the microphone to Fatty, tore a piece of paper in half, balled it up, and stuffed it in his ears.

Now came Fatty’s time for free expression. Li Runze had been curious about Song Nianqiang’s odd behavior, but when Fatty began to sing, he understood. That voice was truly inhuman. If Fatty didn’t look so much like a person, Li Runze would have suspected he was an alien spy sent to infiltrate Earth.

Song Nianqiang shot Li Runze a sympathetic glance, his face caught between a smile and a wince. Clearly, the paper in his ears was barely effective—Fatty’s voice was thunderous, louder than a wolf’s howl, and the two could only endure their ordeal on the sofa until Fatty was satisfied. At that moment, both Song Nianqiang and Li Runze understood what it meant for every minute to feel like a year.

Fatty seemed particularly fond of somber songs: first “Heartbroken City,” then “Love in the Snow,” followed by “If We Break Up, Don’t Bother Me Again.” He was singing “Drunken Beauty” when the ordeal reached its peak.

Fatty’s singing was so unbearable that eventually someone couldn’t stand it any longer and barged into their room, flipping the lights on and yanking the microphone cord from the speaker. Fatty suddenly realized his voice had fallen silent and, glancing toward the sound system, frowned.

“Who the hell are you, brat? Plug it back in and get lost!” Fatty waved dismissively.

The intruder was clearly a street punk, nose ring swinging as he swaggered, trying to look tough. He and his eight companions were all younger than Song Nianqiang’s group, probably used to being bullies at school. One, with a head of explosive curls, eyebrows penciled thicker than a rooster’s, and lips painted bright red, walked over to Fatty, patted his cheek, and sneered, “Fatty, say that again if you dare. Believe me, I won’t let you walk out of this room.”

There were nine of them, and only three in Song Nianqiang’s group. It was obvious the punks had picked them as easy targets. Fatty only laughed—he laughed heartily.