One Third Remaining Chapter Forty-Three Song Yicheng and Song the Second

Many people, when consumed by anger and frustration, love to invoke the word "fairness." If you give him a little more and me a little less, it's unfair—I hate you. That is the resentment born of unequal distribution. If you gave me more yesterday and less today, that's unfair—I hate you. That is the bitterness of gratitude forgotten and favors repaid with enmity.

When Zhang Xiaoman arrived at the auto repair shed, the taxi driver was towering over the mechanic, quarreling about the very notion of "fairness."

In truth, taxi drivers like him rarely talk about fairness. After all, someone in his position, struggling every day just to make ends meet, never knowing where the next meal will come from, is always either driving or on the way to drive, braving sun and rain—where would he find the leisure to discuss fairness? But today, he had no choice, because the mechanic, who was lying flat on the ground with his hands and feet tied, kept shouting about unfairness.

“All right, Song the Younger, since you want to talk fairness with me, then let’s have it out seriously,” the driver squatted down to match Song the Younger’s level, pointing at the ceiling. “Let me ask you—how did you get this repair shop?”

Song the Younger's gaze flickered, then turned hard. He stiffened his neck. “My master gave it to me...”

“Your master...” The driver let out a derisive laugh. “That man was my father. Legally, I should be first in line to inherit this shop. It has nothing to do with you at all! But my old man, feeling sorry for you, gave you the whole place on his deathbed. As his son, I didn’t even get one car wheel. Tell me, is that fair?”

“Giving it to you would just be a waste of resources,” Song the Younger shot him a contemptuous look. “Song Yicheng, you know your own worth. Since childhood, have you ever finished anything you started? Whatever you do, you only stick with it for three minutes. The old man always said, the only way you’d ever settle down and work hard at something would be to tie you up with rope. So in the end, all you’re fit for is driving around like a beast of burden. Do you even know how to fix cars? If this shop were handed to you, it’d be a junkyard in two days.”

Song Yicheng’s eyes widened. He stood up, hands on his hips. “Well now, aren’t you looking down on me! If I don’t show you what I can do today, you really will think I’m useless...” He rummaged through a pile of miscellaneous parts nearby, took a deep breath, and said, “Watch carefully—it’s time to show some real skill!”

In no time, a freshly reassembled CVT transmission appeared at Song Yicheng’s feet. Song the Younger stared at it, dumbstruck. “You can fix cars?”

“Obviously,” Song Yicheng spat on the ground. “Like father, like son. The son of a rat knows how to dig holes. When I was learning to repair cars from my old man, you were still picking garbage off the street...”

“But then why did the master...”

“As I said, my father just pitied you...” Song Yicheng sighed. “There’s an old saying: the squeaky wheel gets the grease. I just never learned to squeak. Seeing you crying your heart out, I didn’t want to fight you for anything. My father knew I had plenty of skills, even if I was unreliable, and that I wouldn’t starve if I didn’t take over the shop. But you were different—without it, you’d probably starve to death by the roadside...”

Song the Younger’s eyelids drooped, his face shadowed, silent.

“I thought if you had the shop, you’d make something of it, but instead the business just went downhill,” Song Yicheng lamented. “If I hadn’t sent fellow drivers your way all these years, the place would’ve closed long ago. I’ve helped you out more times than I can count... But when my wife asked to borrow two thousand because she’s about to give birth, you wouldn’t give a single cent. Tell me, is that fair?”

Getting angrier with every word, Song Yicheng grabbed Song the Younger by the collar, eyes blazing. “Heaven finally opened its eyes and let me find that bag. Even if those were all fakes, I could’ve sold them as crafts and made at least two thousand—easy. But you said you had connections, dragged me in, and I stupidly handed the bag over to you... And what did you do? Put money above people—double-crossed me!”

With that, Song Yicheng balled his fist, ready to plant it in Song the Younger's eye and give him a pair of black eyes.

“Wait!” Song the Younger cried hastily. “You can eat your fill but don’t talk nonsense. Double-crossed? Didn’t I give you your share of the money from those fake jewels?”

“I did get the money,” Song Yicheng’s fist paused mid-air, “but then the next day, two idiots pretending to be buyers came and robbed me of it—and stole my taxi too. That’s just too much. That was my only way to make a living... And that blond kid outside said those two bastards were in here before, so you must have split the loot with them, and now you’re just playing innocent!”

“You’ve got it all wrong!” Song the Younger’s eyebrows knit together in grievance. “I don’t even know those two bastards. All they did was come here to get a tire changed. When I realized the car was yours, I thought something was off, so I tried to keep it and maybe fleece them for two thousand... Your wife’s about to give birth, I really wanted to help, but business has been so bad lately I even stooped to scattering nails on the road and still got hardly any customers...”

Song Yicheng frowned. “I may not be well-educated, but I’ve seen a lot. Don’t try to fool me...” He pointed outside. “That blond kid? He must be working with you. Why else would he tell me those two bastards locked you in here, unless he wanted me to vent my anger before letting you out?”

“What blond kid?” Song the Younger cocked his head, confused. “I don’t know any blond kid. To be honest, I’m not even that familiar with the people who helped sell those fake jewels. It was all through connections. I just wanted to give my unborn nephew a big gift...”

“Really?” Song Yicheng narrowed his eyes, searching Song the Younger’s face for the truth.

“It’s true!” came a hoarse voice from behind Song Yicheng. “He’s telling the truth. But that big gift of his is going to land the both of you in prison. Selling fake goods—if it’s serious, it’s not just about paying damages, it’s a criminal matter. For sales over fifty thousand, you’re looking at up to three years in prison or detention.”

Song Yicheng jumped, spinning around to see a black-clad old man and a young man in a blue uniform just a few steps away. His heart pounded as he stammered, “Who are you?”

The young man in blue pulled out his badge, his voice cold. “I’m He Wei, captain of the city’s criminal investigation team and head of the special task force. This is Professor Zhang, our consultant.” He glanced around the room. “Is it just you two here? Where are the others?”

Song Yicheng’s legs nearly gave out. He dared not meet He Wei’s gaze. Muttering, he said, “Good grief... selling fake jewels and you send a task force after us...?” Suddenly, something occurred to him and his expression eased a little. “At least I only got three thousand. That’s not even fifty thousand...”

“In fact,” Song the Younger’s voice dropped, “the whole bag of jewelry sold for fifty-eight thousand. The middleman said they’d keep twenty thousand as a fee, and another eight thousand would come to me later, as my commission...”

Song Yicheng’s eyes bulged. He stared dumbly at Song the Younger, unable to utter a word.

“Well now,” Zhang Xiaoman rubbed his nose, “you two are in real trouble—didn’t even pocket the cash, yet you’ll have to do time. By the way, didn’t you see the news? That money was fake too, so now you’re looking at counterfeiting charges—three years and up...” He cleared his throat, looking kindly at Song Yicheng and Song the Younger. “But I do have a way for you to make it up and atone for your crimes...”