Chapter 5
The next morning, I went down to the garage and found my motorcycle smashed up.
Headlight shattered.
Tire slashed.
License plate gone.
I actually laughed.
It was obviously them.
And honestly, I was disappointed.
After all the damage I’d done to them, this was the best they could come up with? A few thousand yuan in repairs? It almost felt insulting.
But it gave me inspiration.
If they wanted to ruin a vehicle, I’d show them what real vehicle destruction looked like.
I borrowed a car from a friend, bought a bag of sugar, and spent three days tailing the husband.
Finally he drove to a sketchy massage parlor on the edge of town and parked his Land Cruiser in a quiet back area a little distance away. He got out looking nervous and disappeared inside.
I moved fast.
I popped the hood, opened the engine, and poured in the sugar.
Once it heated and melted, it would gum up the entire system, destroy the engine, and leave him with a repair bill so nasty it would feel like losing half the car.
Insurance wouldn’t touch it either.
That was the beautiful part.
When he came back out a couple of hours later, he started the SUV, drove less than a hundred yards, and then smoke started pouring out from under the hood.
He jumped out in total confusion.
I was already driving away laughing.
Three days later I went back home.
No pounding on the door. No fresh threats. No retaliation.
That bothered me.
People don’t just let go of that kind of hatred.
Not after a business loss, not after a dead engine, not after having their family humiliated again and again.
No.
If they had gone quiet, it meant they were planning something bigger.
And I couldn’t wait.
So I prepared.
I made a few calls to my old friends, kept my schedule normal, and acted like I had no idea what was coming.
Then, on Wednesday night around ten, I was walking home through a narrow alley with a bag of fruit in one hand when I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
The husband was there.
And he had brought backup.
Several thick-built men with clubs.
Just like I knew he would.
He walked up and slapped me hard across the face.
That one actually stung.
I clutched my cheek and put on my best innocent expression. “Why’d you hit me?”
He pulled out a stick and snarled, “You ruined my shop. You ruined my car. Do you know what that engine costs? Tonight if I don’t break both your legs, I’m not a man.”
I kept pretending. “Didn’t you smash my motorcycle first? I was only giving back what I got.”
That made him even angrier.
He shouted, “That cheap motorcycle isn’t worth anything!”
I said, “That’s not the point. You smashed mine because I didn’t have a car. If I had a car, you’d have smashed that too, right? I ruined yours because you didn’t have a motorcycle.”
He almost choked on rage.
Then he shouted for the men to hit me.
That was my cue.
I pulled a pepper spray canister from my pocket—the kind I’d been carrying around for three days waiting for this exact moment—and emptied it straight into their faces.
They hadn’t even lifted their clubs yet before they were howling, clawing at their eyes, stumbling all over themselves.
I gave a sharp whistle.
From the mouth of the alley, more than twenty of my friends came rushing in.
Guys I had known since childhood.
I had told them to come empty-handed. No weapons. No extra charges. But that didn’t stop them from being effective.
They swarmed the men on the ground and started kicking.
Five full minutes.
Hard.
By the end of it, the husband was begging.
I finally stepped in, kicked him once in the backside for good measure, and yelled, “That’s enough. Move!”
We scattered in every direction like we always used to.
No evidence. No neat little package for the police.
Still, I was nervous for a while. If the cops really started pulling on threads, there was always some risk.
But two hours passed.
Nothing.
Then I realized the truth.
He wouldn’t dare call them.
Because he had been the one who brought men to jump me.
He had gotten beaten at his own game.
And now all he could do was swallow it.
Or so I thought.