Chapter One William Clark

　　William Clark has already gone full slacker mode, bragging as he goes:

　　“In the past it was called packaging, now it’s called a persona. In today’s society, everything revolves around personas.

　　Celebrities rake in traffic by acting cute, silly, or outrageous; capitalists shout about patriotism to earn public favor... The West has already played itself into a mess, chaos from top to bottom. If I went over there, I could at least land a governor’s seat!”

　　“How so?”

　　“For example, me... I’m a man, right?”

　　“Yeah, so?”

　　“But actually, I’m psychologically transgender. You have to see me as a woman.”

　　“Then why are you still wearing men’s clothes?”

　　“I’m a cross-dresser!”

　　“Then how come you still have a girlfriend?”

　　He patted his chest and said, “I’m still a man, still wear men’s clothes, still have a girlfriend—nothing’s changed, but I’ve stacked three buffs. This is called going with the flow, being a representative of public opinion.”

　　“Wow!”

　　A few buddies couldn’t help but clap, and the masseuse working on their feet, not understanding a word, still showed admiration out of courtesy.

　　No big deal!

　　After William Clark finished bragging, he rolled over, pulled out his phone, and started scrolling through Douyin.

　　He didn’t use Douyin before; he only downloaded it for work. Even though he’s not working now, the habit stuck—it really does kill time.

　　As he was scrolling, the others finished their foot massages and called out, “Old Clark, coming upstairs?”

　　“I’ll pass, heading home in a bit.”

　　“Come on, there’s an event tonight!”

　　“Really got something to do—blind date, going to the movies. You guys go ahead.”

　　“Damn, don’t go getting married so young!”

　　They were all William Clark’s rowdy friends, each with a bit of family money, idle and carefree. They all had one thing in common: not good at studying, didn’t want to hustle in the big city, and were content to stay in their hometown.

　　William Clark had come back from the big city, but would never admit he was just like them.

　　He went to college in Beijing, majoring in media—rumor had it his professor’s surname was Xu.

　　After graduation, he worked as a planner at an internet company, specializing in marketing and PR for celebrities, TV shows, companies, and the like. Not an internet troll, but upstream from the trolls.

　　The longer he did this, the more he lost his conscience. After a few years, his parents divorced, leaving him three apartments and a fresh food supermarket, so he quit and returned home.

　　He’d thought it through: if his career went smoothly, he’d probably save up for a down payment by age 30, buy a place near Hebei, slog through mortgage payments every month, get mocked by aunties at the matchmaking corner, struggle to get married, have a money-sucking kid, worry about school districts, argue with his wife, and before he knew it, hit middle age, go bald, and his biggest wish would be to buy an extra pack of cigarettes this month...

　　Just thinking about it was too much!

　　At home, he could be a total couch potato.

　　So William Clark lay around for a while longer before finally getting up to leave.

　　No need to pay downstairs. Outside, rain was pouring down in sheets, falling since daytime and finally washing away some of the summer heat. He hunched over and dashed to his car.

　　The car wasn’t expensive, just a mid-range SUV worth a little over a hundred thousand yuan.

　　Six in the evening, rush hour, but in this small county town, the roads were clear, shrouded in misty rain. The car broke through the curtain of rain, rolled over the wet streets and neon lights on both sides, and the damp air inside was already warmed by his breath.

　　Of course, he wasn’t going on a blind date, but heading home, parking outside an old residential complex.

　　On the first floor, a storefront with a sign: Wanxing Fresh Foods!

　　The supermarket was about 200 square meters, no rent to pay, serving several nearby residential areas, and daily sales were pretty good.

　　Two young salesgirls were chatting, probably just pocketed another 0.0000001 yuan, and looked awkward when they saw the boss, trying to look busy but not knowing what to do.

　　“All right, I’m not some capitalist.”

　　William Clark took a lap around and asked, “How are the deli items selling?”

　　“Chicken racks, sausages, pig ears are all good. Not many roast chickens sold.”

　　“How about tofu?”

　　“Tofu’s fine, one tray a day is just right.”

　　“No need to stock roast chicken anymore. It’s been raining hard today, fewer customers—close up an hour early.”

　　“Thank you, boss!”

　　One of William Clark’s apartments was in this complex, the other two in the east of the city. He usually stayed here.

　　He wandered around the supermarket, then crossed the street and shouted as he entered, “Large bowl of banmian, add an egg and extra chili!”

　　“Coming right up!”

　　A tiny shop with four tables, the air thick with steam and the smell of cooking, creating a peculiar sense of security. At the next table, a few older guys sat, each with a bowl of noodles, a plate of cold dishes, a plate of mixed chicken racks, and a few bottles of beer, chatting loudly.

　　On the wall was a big red poster explaining “The Origin of Banmian.”

　　Supposedly, it was related to Zhang Fei of the Peach Garden Oath. General Zhang thought regular noodles were too soft and not chewy enough, so the chef kept experimenting and finally invented these “banmian” noodles. Zhang Fei tried them, laughed heartily, and praised them endlessly...

　　William Clark loved reading this kind of thing.

　　Five thousand years of Chinese history, so many dishes, so many famous people—almost every dish could be linked to a celebrity, whether they liked it or not.

　　Soon the noodles arrived: chewy noodles, a few greens, some meat, an egg nestled inside, and the broth topped with a layer of spicy red oil.