“Yeah, and give me a set of Romance of the Western Chamber stamps, the souvenir sheet too, and a set of Marx stamps as well.”

“小同志, are you collecting?” the aunt finally caught on.

“Yeah, I really like stamps.”

“……”

The aunt had a strange expression, but didn’t say anything more. The concept of stamp collecting had just started to catch on, there weren’t many enthusiasts, and people were ashamed to associate stamps with money—or rather, people were ashamed to talk about money.

She rummaged through the cabinet for a while before finally pulling out a few albums.

First was the Year of the Pig zodiac stamps, a sheet of 80, each worth 8 cents. Then a set of four Romance of the Western Chamber stamps, plus a two-yuan souvenir sheet—which had won the year’s best design award. There were also two stamps commemorating the 100th anniversary of Marx’s death, the first of which had won the best engraved stamp award.

Pig stamps: 6.40 yuan, Romance of the Western Chamber: 3.06 yuan, Marx: 0.28 yuan. Tsk tsk, Marx is dirt cheap!

Anyway, the total was 9.74 yuan, plus an album. Actually, in later years, they weren’t worth much—an entire sheet of pig stamps would only fetch eight or nine thousand, and a set of Romance of the Western Chamber just a few hundred yuan.

Brian Clark mainly collected high-quality items, and secondly, of course, for speculation!

“Do you still have last year’s dog stamps?”

“Sold out long ago.”

“What about the year before’s rooster stamps, or the monkey stamps from the year before that?”

“Tsk!”

The aunt was getting impatient. “That was two or three years ago. Now you think of collecting? What were you doing back then?”

“Well, I just didn’t come earlier…”

He smiled, took the album, and left the post office.

There wasn’t much going on in the troupe today, so Brian Clark went home first, grabbed a piece of cardboard and wrote two lines, then headed back. He stuck it by the entrance, and passersby were immediately drawn to it, all stopping to look. It read:

“Looking for comrades who love stamp collecting, let’s learn and share together.”

Below was a doodle of a weird little stick figure, flying on a cloud. The crowd looked on with disdain. In their eyes, this was a typical idle loafer, only a notch above vagrants.

Brian Clark didn’t care at all. He pulled out half a pack of Da Shengchan cigarettes from his waistband and started smoking by himself.

He’d tried to write as properly and conservatively as possible, but the common folk were even more conservative. Lots of people came and went from the post office, but true stamp enthusiasts were rare, and no one came up to talk.

He waited for quite a while, but nothing happened.

Just as he was about to head home, a man suddenly approached—about twenty-something, wearing drab green clothes and a pair of worn-out rubber shoes.

The man glanced over and said, “Hey, little brother, are you looking to buy stamps?”

“It’s just a hobby. Are you into this too, big brother?”

“Sort of, just started paying attention recently.”

“What’s your name?” He offered him a cigarette.

“Just call me Old Bolton.”

The man took the cigarette with his rough, yellowed fingers, took a quick, hard drag, as if he hadn’t tasted tobacco in ages, then said, “What kind are you looking for?”

“Anything’s fine, as long as I like it.”

“Of course. I happen to have a few sheets at home. If you’re free, want to come take a look?”

The man pointed to a small alley not far from the post office. “Just over there, only takes a few minutes.”

“Uh, sure.”

Brian Clark thought for a moment, stood up, and pushed his bike to follow.

They chatted idly along the way, but he only cared about the stamps. “I’m mainly collecting zodiac stamps now, especially the rooster and monkey stamps from the past two years. Do you have those?”

“……”

There was no response. He turned to look, and saw the guy staring intently at his bicycle, eyes flickering. Then, as if suddenly realizing something, he said, “Ah! I think I do. You’ll see when we get there.”

Hmm?

Brian Clark’s heart skipped a beat. He quickly glanced around—they’d already left the main road by the post office and were turning into a shabby little alley, with hardly any decent households in sight.

“How long have you been into stamps, big brother?” He slowed his pace, keeping up the small talk with a watery smile.

“Not long, can’t compare to you.”

“Then you probably don’t know the value of stamp collecting. Let me tell you, stamps may look ordinary, but they’ll be worth a lot in the future. Like that Marx stamp—at least this much someday…”

“How much?”

The man instinctively looked over, and at that moment—whoosh! A gust from a swinging sleeve slammed into his face, and the angle he turned made it look like he’d walked right into it.

A fist the size of a sandbag first hit a layer of soft flesh, then crashed into a hard jaw. With a bang, the man staggered, his mouth split open, and two blood-stained yellow teeth flew out.

Before he could react, Brian Clark rushed up and kicked him in the stomach, then turned his bike around and bolted.

“Damn, he ran!”

Just then, another guy darted out of the alley, furious, and chased after him, picking up a rock and hurling it.

Crack! Crack!

Brian Clark hunched his neck, as if dodging a hail of bullets, and ran for his life with all his might. Luckily, the big Phoenix (his bike) held up and didn’t break down at the crucial moment. He sped off and quickly lost his pursuers.

“Damn it!”

He was both thrilled and scared, panting heavily. Dude, I played basketball for two years—think you can take me on???