Fists can't cross Tianjin

Chapter 6 Buying Meat

Four o'clock in the morning.

While Tianjin was still fast asleep in its deepest dreams, in a reed bed along the South Canal, west of San Tiao Shi in the HQ district, shadowy figures and flickering will-o'-the-wisps were already visible.

This is the "Pigeon Market," also known as the Ghost Market.

In this era of tight-knit planned economy, this was the largest underground free trade zone in the HQ district. Things that couldn't be sold in the open or were impossible to buy could be found here by chance.

Chen Zhuo had come from the Xigu side, walking along the riverbank for more than half an hour, deliberately choosing areas without streetlights. In the distance, the outline of Beiyang Bridge could be seen, resembling a black beast lying on the river.

In the reed marshes, shadowy figures moved about.

There were no streetlights, only beams of light from flashlights, like sharp swords swaying wildly in the darkness.

There's an unwritten rule here: don't ask for directions when inspecting goods, and don't speak during transactions.

If you see something you like, you squat down and gesture the price with your hand. Pinching your fingers inside your sleeve is a traditional technique passed down from older generations. Of course, these days it's not so particular; people mostly whisper or directly gesture with money.

Chen Zhuo wrapped his tattered cotton-padded coat tightly around himself and wandered through the crowd like a lost soul.

At that moment, he was so hungry that he saw stars, but his eyes were frighteningly bright.

The street stalls displayed all sorts of things, a dazzling array that conveyed a sense of absurdity about the times.

The stall on the left had a bunch of red and green Chairman Mao badges and a few unbound comic books of "The Red Lantern"; the one on the right sold parts for a transistor radio that he had assembled himself, as well as a few copper wires that he had secretly taken from the factory.

Further ahead, a few furtive people were huddled together, clutching colorful coupons in their hands—national grain coupons and industrial vouchers that were more valuable than money.

Even in the corner, an old man was selling a few of these rare Yuan Shikai silver dollars, charging exorbitant prices.

Of course, there were also swindlers.

"Take a look! This is our family's secret magic pill! One pill will refresh your mind, two will keep you tireless, and three will grant you immortality!"

A gaunt old man in a Zhongshan suit was enthusiastically peddling a pile of dark, unappetizing pills. Next to him was a red brick, which he claimed could be split open with a single palm strike after taking the pills.

Chen Zhuo glanced at it.

Those were bricks soaked in vinegar, as crisp as biscuits. As for the "power pills," they smelled like flour and brown sugar, maybe with a little licorice mixed in.

He shook his head and didn't linger.

He's looking for meat.

Real meat.

As soon as we turned the corner, a strong smell of blood hit us.

Deep within the reeds, several people were squatting. In front of them was an oilcloth with strips of red and white pork laid out on it.

This is "black meat".

It didn't go through a food station, and it didn't have a blue stamp, so it might have been slaughtered illegally, or it might have died of disease. But these days, being able to eat meat is like celebrating the New Year; who cares if it's from a sick pig?

Chen Zhuo leaned over to take a look.

Good meat, with two fingers' thickness of fat, looks very tempting.

The stall owner was a bald, burly man wearing a greasy leather apron with faded red lettering faintly visible on the corner: "...Second Meat Union".

He didn't shout out, but he mumbled something under his breath.

Upon closer listening, it turned out to be a recitation from the Peking Opera "Picking the Chariot." Although the voice was hoarse, the rhythm was perfectly accurate.

"Look at that dark hole ahead, it must be the thieves' lair..."

As he sang, the boning knife flew up and down in his hand.

"Let me catch up and wipe them all out!"

The words had barely left his mouth when the knife fell swiftly.

That technique was absolutely brilliant.

With a single cut, the flesh separated from the bone, clean and efficient, without even a speck of meat remaining. This was definitely not the skill of an ordinary illegal slaughterhouse vendor; it was more like the work of a master craftsman who had worked in a state-owned meat processing plant for decades, the kind of expert who could dissect a pig with his eyes closed.

There was a sign next to it: 1.5 yuan per jin, no coupon required.

This price is twice as expensive as the state-run butcher shop's cheap meat (78 cents a pound).

But there was no other way; you needed meat coupons to get cheap meat. Chen Zhuo was unregistered, without even a food ration book, let alone such a scarce commodity as meat coupons. If he wanted to eat meat, he had no choice but to come here and get ripped off.

He touched the three yuan and fifty cents in his pocket.

That's enough to buy more than two pounds of good meat.

But Chen Zhuo hesitated for a moment and then shook his head.

Two pounds of meat would be a feast for an ordinary person, but for his body, which looked like it had been reborn from starvation, it was just enough for one meal. What would he do tomorrow? He needed to save the rest of his money for emergencies; he couldn't just fill his stomach.

We need to find something with a good price-performance ratio.

His gaze shifted from the pile of red and white pork belly to a pile of unwanted scraps next to it.

It was scraps of lymph node meat, bits of fat, a few lean pork bones, and even half a pig lung that hadn't been properly cleaned. It was all bloody and looked disgusting.

Most people think it's dirty and are unwilling to buy it.

But this stuff is oily, cheap, and plentiful.

"Hey buddy, wanna see some meat?"

The stall owner seemed to sense Chen Zhuo's gaze, and raised his face, which was full of fat.

The boning knife in his hand flew between his fingers as if it were alive.

Chen Zhuo didn't speak, his gaze falling on the burly man's hands.

His hands were calloused, his knuckles were thick, and his wrists were flexible and powerful. Especially his knife, with its thick back and thin blade, was sharpened incredibly fast.

"A martial arts expert?" Chen Zhuo thought to himself.

Tianjin is indeed a place where hidden talents abound; even the butcher in the ghost market is skilled in martial arts. Judging from the calluses on his hands, he probably practices the Bagua or Five Elements sword style, which emphasizes unorthodox techniques and cutting along the center line.

"How much for that pile?"

Chen Zhuo pointed to a pile of unwanted "scraps" next to him.

The butcher glanced at him, his eyes scrutinizing him as if he were looking at livestock.

"That thing? That's for feeding dogs. You want it?"

"want."

Chen Zhuo's voice was hoarse. "How much?"

The butcher stopped turning his knife and looked Chen Zhuo up and down.

"You look like you know your own martial arts. What's wrong? A down-on-his-luck martial artist?"

The butcher squinted and made a sarcastic remark using theatrical jargon, "This guy's got the makings of a martial arts actor."

Experts can see the details. Although Chen Zhuo stood there motionless, his steady, three-body stance (though he was just standing, the intention was clear) could not escape the butcher's discerning eye.

"Just trying to make a living," Chen Zhuo said, neither humble nor arrogant.

"That's true. These days, you can't eat your fill with hard work; you have to learn to be humble." The butcher sighed, his tone carrying a hint of desolation.

He casually grabbed the large bag of scraps weighing four or five pounds, thought for a moment, then cut off a piece of high-quality pork belly weighing half a pound from the cutting board next to him and threw it into the oil paper bag.

"Give me a dollar. Take it."

Chen Zhuo was taken aback.

This whole bag of stuff, that piece of pork belly alone is worth seven or eight cents. This dollar is practically free.

He was about to reach out and take it.

A sly glint suddenly flashed in the butcher's eyes, and he uttered a single word:

"pick!"

Suddenly, the boning knife was held horizontally, its back like a spear on a stage, carrying a force that could send the "Iron Chariot" flying, pressing down on Chen Zhuo's wrist without warning.

"collapse!"

This strike carried no murderous intent, but rather a heavy, downward force—the "collapsed palm" force from Baguazhang, and also the integrated power of a martial arts performer on stage.

If it were an ordinary person, their wrist would have been broken on the spot, or at least forced to their knees.

Testing your skills?

Chen Zhuo didn't even blink.

Chen Zhuo didn't even blink.

Just as the blade was about to strike him, his wrist, as if coated with oil, twisted inward in a strange way—a "crocodile form" from Xingyi Quan, specifically designed for slippery force. His fingertips lightly flicked the blade.

"Ding!"

A crisp sound.

The downward force was instantly dissipated into empty space by this bounce.

The butcher's knife trembled slightly, almost slipping from his grasp.

"Um?"

A glint flashed in the butcher's eyes—the excitement of meeting a worthy opponent.

"Sounds good. From Xingyi Quan?"

"Just practicing blindly." Chen Zhuo withdrew his hand without saying anything more.

"Can you really develop this kind of listening skill through haphazard practice?"

The butcher laughed, a meaningful laugh. "Fine, if you don't want to tell me, I won't ask. Life's a long road; if you ever want meat again, just come."

Thanks.

Chen Zhuo took out a crumpled one-yuan note and handed it over.

People in the martial arts world value fate. He remembered this kindness.

"No need to thank me. The energy you have reminds me a bit of myself back in the day."

The butcher waved his hand, then lowered his head to continue sharpening his knife. "Let's hurry up and go. It's almost dawn, and Lei should be here soon."

Chen Zhuo, carrying the heavy oil paper package, turned and walked into the darkness.

Behind me, the butcher's hoarse humming came:

"Qiao'er, I was betrothed to the Zhao family when I was a child..."

The rough voice hummed the lyrics of a female opera character, sending a chill down Chen Zhuo's spine in the desolate ghost market.