Mo Yan - Pow!

The contest over, Big Belly Wu was sent to the hospital, where he was opened up and the half-eaten fritters labouriously removed from his stomach. My father was not sent to the hospital, but he paced the riverbank all night long, stopping to bend over and vomit every few steps, leaving behind a partial fritter each time. A pack of half-starved dogs, eyes ravenously blue, followed him, eventually joined by dogs from neighbouring villages. They fought tooth and nail over my father's regurgitated fritters, from the top of the riverbank down to the river itself and back up. I didn't witness the events, of course, but they have created a vivid scene in my imagination. It was a frightful night, and my father was lucky the dogs didn't eat him too. If they had, I wouldn't be here. He never did describe to me what it felt like to throw up all those fritters. Whenever my curiosity got the better of me and I asked about his chilli and fritter contests, his face would redden. ‘Shut up!’ he'd snap. I'd obviously be touching a nerve, a very painful one. Though he never said so, I knew he'd suffered grievously over those fifty-nine chilli peppers and the three pounds of oil fritters. Back then, people added alum and alkaline to the flour along with sodium carbonate. The unrefined cottonseed oil they used was so black it was almost green, and highly viscous, like tar. And it was loaded with chemicals like gossypol, DDVP and benzine hexachloride, pesticides that do not easily break down. My father's throat must have felt like it had been scraped raw and his stomach must have bulged like a taut drumhead. Unable to bend over, he must have taken painfully slow steps, holding his belly tenderly with both hands, as if it might explode. He must have seen the flashing eyes of the dogs behind him, green like will-o'-the-wisps. I'll bet he thought that those dogs could hardly wait to rip open his belly to get at the fritters inside, and that thought led to another, that once they'd finished off all the fritters, they'd turn on him, starting with his internal organs, then his flesh and finally his bones.

Given that history, Father frowned at my report to him and Lao Lan about the meat-eating contest between the three workers and me. ‘No,’ he said sternly. ‘Don't get involved in anything that shameless.’ ‘Shameless?’ I retorted. ‘How? Don't people tell the story of the pepper-eating contest between you and Lao Lan with admiration?’ Father banged his fist on the table. ‘We were poor,’ he said, ‘do you understand?’ ‘Poor!’ Lao Lan tried to cool the air: ‘It was more than that. You took the challenge to eat fritters because you loved the things, but the chilli-eating contest between you and me was for more than just a crummy pack of smokes.’ Lao Lan's words took the edge off of Father's anger. ‘There's nothing wrong with contests,’ he said, ‘except for eating contests. A person's stomach can only hold so much but the supply of good food is limitless. Even if you win, you're gambling with your health. However much you eat is how much you have to throw back up.’ That made Lao Lan laugh. ‘Lao Luo,’ he said, ‘don't get carried away. If Xiaotong thinks he's up to it, I don't see anything wrong in organizing a preview for the meat-eating contests.’ My father calmly stood his ground. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can't allow it. You have no idea how it felt.’ My mother's anxieties arose out of a different concern: ‘Xiaotong,’ she said, ‘you're a growing boy, and your stomach is no match for those young men. It wouldn't be a fair fight.’ ‘Well, since your parents don't want you to do it,’ Lao Lan said, ‘then forget it. I couldn't bear it if something happened.’ But I refused to back down. ‘You don't understand me, none of you. I have a special relationship with meat and a special ability to process it in my digestive system.’ ‘I agree,’ Lao Lan said, ‘you're a meat-boy but it's too risky. You need to realize that you're our hope for the future. We're counting on you to implement many innovations for United.’ ‘Dieh, Niang, Uncle Lan,’ I said, ‘I know what I'm doing, you don't have to worry. First, take my word for it, they can't win. Second, I'm not about to gamble with my health. Actually, I'm worried about them and suggest that we get them to sign waivers so we're not responsible for any consequences.’ ‘That's something we can do if you insist on going through with this contest,’ Lao Lan said, ‘but I want a guarantee that you'll be in no danger.’ ‘I can't say this about everything,’ I said reassuringly, ‘but I have absolute confidence in my digestive system. Do you have any idea how much meat I put away every morning in the plant kitchen? Go ask Huang Biao.’ Lao Lan turned to my parents: ‘Lao Luo, Yang Yuzhen, why don't we let him go ahead? My worthy nephew's capacity for meat is the stuff of legend, and we know that his reputation is based on eating and not boasting. We can take the precaution of having a doctor sent over from the hospital to deal with any emergency.’ ‘Not for my sake,’ I said, ‘but it's a good idea to have one on hand for the safety of my rivals.’ ‘Xiaotong,’ my father said sternly, ‘in the eyes of your mother and me you're no longer a child, so you're responsible for your actions.’ ‘Dieh,’ I said with a laugh, ‘what are you so worried about? What are we talking about here?—a meal. I eat every day—I'll just eat a little more for the contest. And I may not even have to. If they throw in the towel early, it's possible I'll end up eating less than usual.’

My father was hoping that the contest would be a low-key event but Lao Lan said: ‘If we go ahead with this, then it has to be a public affair. Otherwise, it's a waste of time.’ Needless to say, I was hoping for a larger audience and not just the workers in the plant. Ideally, we'd put up posters or blare it over PA systems to attract people from the train station, from the county and township and other villages. The bigger the crowd the greater the people's emotional involvement. What I really wanted was to establish my authority at the plant and make a name for myself in the world. I wanted to win over all those people who had doubts about me, and then have them admit that Luo Xiaotong's reputation was not undeserved but earned one bite at a time. And I wanted to show my three rivals that they had thrown the gauntlet down in front of the wrong person. They had to realize that while meat is good to eat it's hard to digest. If you aren't equipped with a digestive system specially designed for it, your troubles begin with your very first swallow.

I knew they were in trouble even before the contest began, and that their punishment would be doled out not by Lao Lan, not by my parents and not by me, but by the meat they sent into their stomachs. People in Slaughterhouse Village like to say that a person has been ‘bitten’ by meat. That means not that meat can grow teeth, but that a steady diet of it is bad for your stomach and intestines. I was sure that my rivals were going to be badly ‘bitten’ soon. I know you're strutting about looking forward to a real treat. But before long you'll wish that tears were the worst you'd suffer. No doubt they feel like kings at the moment, waiting to be celebrities at the end of the contest. Even if they lose, at least they'll have a stomach full of free meat. I knew that many among the audience would have the same idea; some would even be a bit envious and kick themselves for missing out on a great opportunity. Just wait, my friends, you'll soon stop kicking and start congratulating yourselves. For you are about to see what a spectacle these three make of themselves.

My challengers were Liu Shengli (Victory Liu), Feng Tiehan (Ironman Feng) and Wan Xiaojiang (Water Rat Wan). Liu, a big swarthy man with large staring eyes, was in the habit of rolling up his sleeves when he spoke. A coarse individual, he'd started out as a pig butcher. Since he was surrounded by animal flesh all day long, you'd have thought he'd gained some insight into the nature of meat. Now, gambling on meat-eating was stupid, but that's what he wanted to do so he must have had something up his sleeve. As they say: Good tidings don't just show up, and what shows up isn't always good. I'd have to keep my eye on him. Tall, skinny Feng, with his sallow complexion and bent back, looked like a man who'd just recovered from a serious illness. People with his complexion were rumoured to possess unique and astonishing skills. I'd once heard a blind storyteller say that among the hundred and eight Ming Dynasty bravehearts were several sallow-faced ones who were blessed with extraordinary fighting skills. I'd have to keep my eye on him too. Wan, nicknamed Water Rat, was small in stature, had a pointy mouth, cheeks like a chimp and triangular eyes. A first-rate swimmer, he could catch fish underwater with his eyes open. I'd heard nothing about him or any special capacity for meat, but everyone knew he was a champion watermelon-eater, and anyone who wants to be a champion eater must gain that reputation through competitions—it was the only way. Wan Xiaojiang once put away three whole watermelons by attacking them as if he were playing a harmonica, side to side, back and forth, spitting out the black seeds as he went along. Another one to keep my eye on.