Evil Awe-Inspiring - Chapter 142 - Uncle 7 and Papa 8 (1)
“…”
His eyes are staring at me with a strange look.
We are looking at each other for a few seconds.
But this is not the time to talk. There are a several more gunshots outside the door. I watch him shoot several times at once, then he throws the gun away. It seems that the gun’s finished.
I have run to the window, pull the curtain down, open the window, wrap the curtain around the windowsill, turn around and shouting to him in low voice: “Let’s go!”
He takes a look at the windowsill, immediately understands what I meant. He shouts a few words, which are actually in Vietnamese! Then he turns the wheel of the wheelchair and slids quickly to the window. I hold him up and he hangs himself on my shoulder.
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The curtain is only two meters long, but already long enough. After all, it’s only the second floor. I pull the curtain and slide down. The guy can’t stand on his legs, just hanging one arm on my shoulder and using the other arm to point at a car which is parking under the washing equipment in the shop.
I understand, holding him up. We stagger over there and pull the car door open.
This guy takes the initiative to sit in the co-driver’s seat, then pulls open the locker, takes out a pistol from it, and quickly taking out the car key from his arms and throws it to me.
While I’m just starting the car, the Vietnamese above have found us running through the window and immediately chasing us down. I see a man is running down. Before he arriving the first floor, he’s firing at the windshield in front of me.
“Fuck!” I’m scolding and immediately lower my body. At the moment, another Vietnamese is jumping down from the window to block the door.
I’m clenching my teeth and scolding, putting down the reverse gear and stepping on the accelerator!
With a buzz, the car is crashing back and forth like a wild animal. I hear a muffled bang. From the mirror, I see the Vietnamese is hit by the car tail and rolling aside.
I quickly reverse the car into the street, then hit the steering wheel, the car turns a beautiful circle in place and been switched in the right position. I’m just about to stepping on the gas and leave, that man is shouting: “Wait!”
He pushes the door open, then, with the pistol in his hand, firing a burst of shots at the car wash shop. The Vietnamese inside are quickly escaping. Then he aims his gun at the guy who has just been hit by my car and falled to the ground.
Bang!
A bullet hits that Vietnamese’s head accurately and ends his life immediately.
“Drive!” He is shouting to me loudly and then quickly spitting at the dead Vietnamese body. A string of words is popping out of the mouth. I don’t understand the meaning. It should be Vietnamese too.
“Who are you?” When the car just passes a street, he’s suddenly asking me.
Before I answer, I hear him yelling: “Where are you driving?! Left! Left! Left! There are cameras and patrolmen in front of this direction! Turn Left!”
I listen to him and turn the steering wheel to the left, then driving the car into a remote path. The road is a little bumpy, but really quiet.
“Where do we drive next?” I ask him.
“Go straight, then turn right at the next intersection…” He is squinting at me, tone is a bit calm and less irritable, “You… Are you not a native?”
“No, I’m not.” I concentrate on driving. The car here is the right rudder, so I am a little uncomfortable, “I just landed.”
I speak the word “landed” very hard.
“Oh!” he says, looking sideways at me for a moment, and uttering in a solemn voice, “What did you say to me in the room just now? That sentence…”
“Ocean asked me to come.” I tell him frankly, “I got into trouble at home. He arranged for me to flee here and let me look for you.”
I see a change on his face. He’s looking straight at me for a few seconds, and finally bursts into laughter. Ignoring I’m driving, he stretches out his hand and slapping on my shoulder. Then he’s laughing and saying: “OK! The fat fellow! Sure enough, there’s a chance for me to return his kindness! Good boy! I see you were good just now. Where did you come from?”
“Mainland.” I answer him, “My name is Chen Yang. Are you Uncle 7?”
He raises his eyebrows: “That’s me.” He’s murmuring, “You’re not from the army, are you?”
“No.” I answer him honestly.
“Well, I feek you don’t look like. Your gesture with the gun is just a rookie.” He has a smile on his face and a certain excitement in his face, “Keep going to the right… Well, what did you do in mainland?”
I sigh, then tell him about my stories. Before I came, fat fellow told me not to hide anything, which would be good for me. Because the most important thing for brothers is the heart-to-heart friendship and honesty, if you are not honest with others, then others will not heart-to-heart with you.
If there is anything you can’t say or don’t want to say, you should also tell others clearly that you can’t say it. You can’t fabricate falsehoods to deceive people. Because if you deceive your brothers, and they won’t take you as their own person in the future.
After listen, Uncle 7 shows a strange expression on his face and looking at me sideways: “You kid offended those guys? What fuck… You beat one of the bosses’s son into a eunuch?”
He is staring at me with a strange expression for a long time, and finally he can’t help laughing, then slapping me hard with the grin: “Good! You kid has a bright future! Young and bold! Very good, very good! There’s a very bright future!”
I can’t laugh or cry. A bright future for this? I don’t know how many times I almost have died for that!
But he seems to have no fear of those people, which gives me a little reassurance.
Then he asks me a few more questions about fat fellow, and I answer them one by one. I can see that he has a good relationship with fat fellow. Listen to my description of fat fellow, there’s a smile and a little nostalgic expression on his face. In his absence, I ask him in test: “Uncle 7, just now, what’s wrong?”
When he hears my question, his eyebrows are standing upright and his face are flashing a fierce expression. Seems he is at the age of about fifty, still very vigorous! He says coldly: “Well, Vietnamese’s revenge is coming. They have found my stronghold this time. Mostly last month’s business made them very uncomfortable… Damn, I can’t say it in some simple words. All you have to remember is that when you see Vietnamese people here, you just beat them up hard! And those Indians and Middle Easterns are all not good. We have a deep resentment with them! But among them, the Vietnamese are the most insidious!”
As soon as he’s speaking, he pulls out a cartridge clip from under his seat, then skillfully holds the pistol and fills it with bullets. He takes a quick aim in his hand, with a bloodthirsty smile at the corner of his mouth!
I know, this kind of smile and temperament, only the kind of people who has really rushed through the storm of shots and shells would have.
I drive around across the several streets according to Uncle 7’s instructions. I think I’ve lost the direction and don’t know where I am, just driving the car straight into a garage. Several repairmen in the garage have a respectful smile on their faces when they see Uncle 7 is sitting on the copilot. Uncle 7 is joking with them, and then someone pushes over a wheelchair. I stand by and look at him. Uncle 7 is suddenly smiling at me and waving: “What are you doing, boy? Come and push me!”
Behind the garage is a big warehouse. I push Uncle 7’s wheelchair into it. Along the way, I see that there’s no foreigner in the garage. Everyone look at me in surprise, but I see that their eyes towards Uncle 7 are somewhat evasive and seem to be a little fear to him.
When we get to the back of the warehouse, push the door open, we enter a big room with several tables. There’s an old man of the same age as Uncle 7, wearing a work uniform. Even more amusing is that he’s wearing sleeves on his arms, like an accountant in the 80s, calculating something with an account book.
Uncle 7 coughs. The man looks up at us and frowns: “7, how do you come?” He turns his eyes on my face and asks, “Who is this young man?”
“Chen Yang, come here and meet Papa 8.” Uncle 7 says to me solemnly. I know very well what I should do now. I immediately take a step forward and shout respectfully, “Papa 8!”
The man is about fifty years old, with gray hair and the deep wrinkles on his face, low stature, fair skin and elegant appearance. What makes my eyelids jumping is that I accidentally see his left hand with only three fingers. But my eyes just turn away quickly. I know it’s impolite to look at other people’s physical disabilities.
“What Papa 8, just eight fingers.” He’s smiling. His smile is peaceful, but his eyes are sharp.
“This kid came by seapath and got into trouble in mainland. Ocean asks him to come to us.” Uncle 7 is saying with laughing, “Just now, he saved my life!”
“What?” Papa 8’s eyebrows are wrinkling, “What happened to you just now?”
