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Chapter 19: A Troubled Household
Pipes’ story was as straightforward as ever. The protagonist, afflicted with what society calls a "cognitive impairment," had been shuffled through university by the admissions office and, upon graduation, landed a job at a factory. His hobby? Fiddling around with metal pipes—twisting them into bizarre shapes, stuffing marbles inside, then watching them roll unpredictably.
It was an odd, childish pastime, but one day he constructed something more intricate than usual. When he dropped in a marble, it vanished entirely, failing to emerge from the other end.
The thought struck him: if he scaled up this contraption proportionally, could he crawl inside and disappear too?
Without hesitation—or regard for physics—he did just that. And in true nonsensical fashion, the protagonist found himself transported…to heaven.
[“The first person to pick up a stick wasn’t the strongest or smartest member of the tribe. He did so because everyone else didn’t need one—but he did. To survive, to compensate for his weakness, he needed it more than anyone. I don’t believe there’s anyone on this earth who wants to vanish from it more than I do; which is why I invented that pipe—not some brilliant engineer fresh out of a top-tier technical institute running this factory.
…”]
“This piece is so good, I’d even nominate it for the Lu Xun Literary Award,” Deputy Chief Editor Wu said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve read Pipes, Old Li—you know how remarkable it is.”
“It certainly is,” Old Li replied, nodding slowly. “But it’s precisely because of Pipes that I’m even more convinced about something.”
“Oh?” Wu raised an eyebrow, waiting for the punchline.
“Gu Lu’s family situation isn’t great. In fact, it’s downright terrible.”
Old Li’s reasoning was simple enough. Gu Lu claimed he was broke. But for a kid preparing for high school entrance exams, lacking basic living expenses spoke volumes about the state of his home life.
Deputy Chief Editor Wu pulled up the edited manuscript of Pipes on his computer. It described heaven not as a reward for good deeds but as a refuge for those unable to find joy in the mortal world.
“Therefore,” Wu murmured softly, reading aloud only to himself, “if you’re truly miserable here—if people keep telling you that your mind doesn’t work right—figure out how to get here. And when you do, bring mahjong tiles instead of marbles. We’re sick of those.”
“A poet’s misfortune, literature’s fortune.” The phrase flitted across Wu’s mind. Gu Lu might not be a poet, but he was undoubtedly a writer—and without hardship at home, he never would have penned Pipes.
“If Gu Lu submits again, skip the initial review process entirely,” Wu declared decisively.
“What about payment next time?” Old Li asked, ever mindful of finances. “One-fifty per thousand words?”
“No, one-fifty won’t fly,” Wu countered. “His writing is excellent, but its entertainment value falls short. Paying that rate wouldn’t sit well with the publisher.”
Ah, always thinking of the magazine’s bottom line. No wonder Wu was deputy chief editor while Old Li remained stuck as a secondary reviewer.
After a moment’s reflection, Wu proposed a compromise: “If the quality holds steady, we can offer him one-thirty per thousand words (pre-tax).”
Pipes and Good Intentions would appear in the May issue’s blue edition. “Send Mr. Gu a few extra copies,” Wu instructed. “Let him show off a bit.”
Story Digest wasn’t exactly highbrow lit, but for a ninth-grader, getting published there was cause for celebration.
The world was like a giant toddler—reckless, full of surprises.
Back at home, Gu Lu faced an unexpected turn of events: his father returned carrying bags of groceries. Braised fish, stir-fried potatoes and peppers, and half a jarred duck bought from outside.
Dinner had always been a silent affair, but tonight, Gu Lu's father broke the quiet. “Let’s talk, son. Really talk.”
“You’re not doing well in school,” he began bluntly. “You’re not cut out for academics. Have you thought about what comes next?”
How dare you shamelessly twist the truth? Gu Lu’s eyes widened. His grades were dragged down by their dysfunctional household—how could his father dismiss him as unsuited for learning?
“For the rest of the semester, forget school. Go straight to Yu Zhou Engineering College and study cosmetology and hairstyling.” Gu Lu's father laid out his plan. “I have a buddy who owns a barbershop. I’ll put in a word for you. Learn the trade—it’s practical, and you might make a living someday.”
“Excuse me?” Gu Lu blinked, caught off guard. Memories of his previous life surged back—the same abrupt derailment during junior year, sent off to vocational school before finishing middle school.
“I want to finish junior high first,” Gu Lu replied calmly, choosing not to argue yet. Some battles couldn’t be won with words alone, especially against a stubborn parent.
Come on, Ye Shengtao Cup, Bingxin Cup—don’t let me down now.
As urgent as he felt, the competition timelines wouldn’t budge. Judging was still weeks away. Thankfully, both results would come before the high school entrance exam, giving winners leverage for direct admission—a carrot dangled tantalizingly before students, parents, and schools alike.
“Fine,” Gu Lu's father relented. “Your old man hasn’t got much to offer. You’re growing up—you should understand. At your age, I carried stools from the countryside, walking dozens of kilometers to sell them in the city.”
“Oh, one thing.” Gu Lu retrieved a certificate from his room—an award from a recent district-wide writing contest.
“My essay got selected for publication in a collection. Since I’m underage, they need a copy of my guardian’s ID.” He waved the freshly printed contract under his father’s nose.
Signing as a guardian? Easy. Gu Lu had forged signatures before—even on contracts with major publishers in his last life.
Predictably, Gu Lu's father showed zero interest in the fine print but beamed proudly at the award. “Not bad! I was quite the literary talent back in my day. Clearly, you inherited my genius genes.”
“I’ll photocopy my ID tomorrow,” Gu Lu's father promised. “Tonight, let’s celebrate your win. Crack open a bottle of baijiu!”
Just say you want to drink, Gu Lu thought, rolling his eyes as he shoveled food into his mouth.
Moments later, Gu Lu's father produced a bottle of Wuliangye from who-knows-where and started pouring shots—for himself, naturally.
Before alcoholism took hold, the Gu household hadn’t been bad off. But once addiction set in, things spiraled quickly. Shouldn’t premium liquor like Wuliangye have been beyond their means?
After dinner, Gu Lu logged onto the mobile internet portal and spotted a message from Mu Zi Zi.
First, she announced the good news: rates were bumped by ten yuan per thousand words. Secondly, Old Li left feedback: [Honestly, Story Digest readers are looking for light entertainment—call it bathroom reading. They crave twists and turns over deep thoughts or philosophy. If you can amp up the drama, you’ll hit the upper limit.]
The top rate for Story Digest? One hundred fifty yuan per thousand words—0.15 yuan per character.
Talk about serendipity! Who better to deliver twists than Edogawa Rampo?
[Orange Chief: I’ll give it a shot.]
After replying, Gu Lu closed the browser. “I miss the days when data plans gave us twenty gigs a month.”
Modifying The Human Chair, Gu Lu adhered to his minimalist approach: change nothing unless absolutely necessary.
He also identified the trigger for synthesizing the second book. It stemmed from the titular short story within The Human Chair. In the craftsman’s letter to the wife of a provincial bureaucrat, he wrote, [Had I been born into wealth, perhaps money could have indulged me in all manner of distractions to ease the sorrow of my grotesque appearance. Or, had I possessed greater artistic talent, maybe poetry could have helped me forget…]
Echoes of the spectacled vendor's complaints.
Life truly was full of surprises.
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