But it is far too difficult.

“So, when you mentioned getting into the top rankings just now, you meant buying votes, right?” the Fatty asked.

Pencil glanced at him and smiled, “Buying votes helps, but hype does even more. Take Zhang Fear’s books—even if there are no subscriptions, every search on the site brings up his works, every pirate site is filled with his books, everyone’s talking about him, spreading the word. That alone can make a book sell.” He paused, then continued, “Some top authors don’t rely on subscriptions for earnings. They profit from copyrights—films, TV, publishing, comics. As long as they can sell the rights, that’s money. And to sell, the book has to be a hit.”

Fatty asked, “According to you, how much does it cost to buy votes?”

“It depends on the results you want. There are specialists for this, just search on shopping sites, prices vary.” Pencil smiled. “Here’s a bit of insider gossip: some vote sellers have connections inside the website, like ticket scalpers at train stations.”

“Seriously? Is that true?” Fatty exclaimed.

“I don’t know, I really don’t know. People say so. But here’s something I do know: on some small sites, their books have no clicks, so editors fake the numbers. When the day comes, they just enter whatever digits they feel like—tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, all depending on their mood.” Pencil said, “Honestly, it’s the same in every field. The world is built on people, and people have flaws and selfishness. Think about your workplace, your colleagues—right?”

Fatty pondered, “That’s right. I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Zhang Fear said, “You’re one of them, and still have the nerve to call others idiots?”

Fatty grinned, “I’m happy to be one.”

Pencil laughed and continued, “But, to be blunt, you need a foundation to buy votes. With your results, it wouldn’t matter if others buy votes or not. It won’t make much difference. If you spend your own money on votes, you’ll lose whatever you put in. Why do others buy votes? Some are taking risks, gambling. For the top authors, buying votes is an investment. The money they spend comes back to them—spend one, earn two. Wouldn’t you do it?”

Zhang Fear said nothing.

Ocean said, “Let’s drink.”

Fatty agreed, “Yes, let’s drink.” He filled his glass, stood up, and toasted Pencil, “You’re a real friend, honestly, loyal and righteous. To say all this, you’re amazing.” Then he turned to Ocean, “You’ve got a good friend here. Really, you’ve made a good choice.”

“Of course. If he wasn’t, we wouldn’t have been friends for so many years,” Ocean retorted.

Fatty toasted Pencil again, downed his drink, poured another, and said, “Good things come in pairs. Thank you.”

After Fatty’s toast, Zhang Fear stood up, “First time meeting, I’m not good with words. Just, thank you.” He downed his glass, poured another, drank, poured a third, drank it down. After three in a row, he said thank you.

Pencil replied, “You’re too polite, we’re all friends.” He raised his glass in response.

Ocean shouted, “What about me? Why’s nobody toasting me?”

Fatty said, “Drink by yourself.”

Ocean cursed, drank a glass, and said, “Let’s play finger-guessing.”

They drank late into the night. Softie called several times, but both said they wouldn’t go. The four men drank merrily. Ocean promised to host next time for a proper drink. Pencil also offered to host—everyone was having a good time.

When the meal ended, Fatty hurried to pay the bill and saw Ocean and Pencil off before contacting Softie.

Softie was in a crowd of flowers, singing with a bunch of girls. When Fatty called, he cursed, gave the address, and launched into another tirade.

Fatty and Zhang Fear arrived at the karaoke lounge after eleven. Entering the private room, they saw Softie sitting serenely, a girl singing in front, another picking songs at the machine, two girls chatting beside Softie… That was everyone, including Softie, a total of five.

Fatty asked, “Where are the dozen you promised?”

Softie replied, “Lights off at eleven, they went back to school.”

“They’re not going back?” Zhang Fear asked.

“They’re staying at classmates’ homes,” Softie answered, “Zhang Baihong just left—you came late.”

“Late is late,” Zhang Fear said, “I’m just here to sober up.”

“Who’d you drink so much with?” Softie asked.

Fatty answered, “You don’t know how tough this business is for Fear. Most are total flops.”

“Come on, nothing’s easy.” Softie turned to Zhang Fear, “How much of the script have you written?”

“Not a single word,” Zhang Fear replied.

“Hurry up, and also think of some lyrics.” Softie raised his glass, “Let’s drink now.” He pulled the girl next to him for introductions, and the drinking began.

Fatty, being too large, was simply ignored. Zhang Fear managed to get by, at least passable in looks, so the girls tried to chat with him, though nothing came of it.

Near two in the morning, everyone dispersed. Softie and the three girls took a cab to drop them home.

One girl had an apartment, so the four went over. When she entered the complex, Zhang Fear and his companions took a cab home.

In the car, Softie kept nagging, saying Zhang Baihong was at least a small actress, waited so long for you, and you didn’t show—really not giving face.

Zhang Fear said, “I trust my own charm. She wasn’t waiting for me, but for Big Dog.”

“Whatever,” Softie said, “Finish the script, and remember, I’m the lead actor.”

“Just wait,” Zhang Fear paused, “Even with a script, you’ll need to audition.”

“Hell with that,” Softie said, “Here’s what I think: I play the male lead, you make Zhang Baihong the female lead, that girl is really pretty.”

Zhang Fear acted as if he hadn’t heard.

When they got home, Zhang Fear thanked Fatty before heading upstairs.

Every profession requires communication. Before meeting Pencil, Zhang Fear felt like a solitary wanderer, writing alone, unaware of many things. Simply put, he lacked sources of information and knew little about the writer’s circle. Today, Pencil had lifted the veil for him.

After drinking so much, he went straight to bed. The next morning, his head ached; he slept another two hours before getting up.

He washed, found something to eat, and turned on the computer. As soon as he logged in, Pencil sent a friend request. After accepting, he stared at the chat window for a while before closing it. He didn’t know what to say, far from the easy camaraderie of last night.

He opened his document and began the daily grind, three hundred sixty-five days without rest—even on New Year’s Eve, he had to update, had to finish his work.

By noon, he made instant noodles and watched a comedy skit. Laughter for the soul, comfort for the stomach—he felt content.

Suddenly, the phone rang—an unfamiliar number. He answered, “Hello.”

“Why haven’t you accepted my friend request?” The voice was female, pleasant.

“Who is this?” Zhang Fear checked the number—it was unfamiliar.

“I’m Zhang Baihong!” she said, slightly louder.

“Oh, hello,” Zhang Fear replied, “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

“Why haven’t you accepted my friend request?” she repeated.

Zhang Fear asked, “What friend request?”

“WeChat!” Zhang Baihong said angrily.

Zhang Fear laughed, “I don’t have Wi-Fi at home, so I rarely use WeChat.”

“You’re so stingy you could die,” Zhang Baihong said, then hung up.

Zhang Fear thought for a moment, then called Softie, “Did you give my WeChat to Zhang Baihong?”

“It’s just your phone number, right?” Softie asked. “Why, what’s up?”

“Why did you give it to her?” Zhang Fear asked.

“I told her you wrote your own books—she was curious and wanted your number. This is your chance, seize it,” Softie said.

Zhang Fear replied, “There are at least tens of thousands of failed writers like me across the country. What’s so special?”

“Whatever, remember to write lyrics,” Softie hung up.

Zhang Fear pondered, then called Fatty, “Are you home?”

Fatty said, “I was just about to call you. Come over.”

Zhang Fear agreed, hung up, shut down the computer, locked the door, and went downstairs.

On his way out, he met the long-haired girl coming up. She greeted him, “Dinner’s on me tonight—what do you like to eat?”

Zhang Fear asked, “Why dinner?”

“You’ve helped us so much, even offended Guo Gang for us. The least we can do is treat you to a meal. Let us thank you.”

Zhang Fear said, “No need, I appreciate the gesture,” and went to Fatty’s home.

Fatty was online, called him over, “Here are the prices, there are monthly packages. Want to buy votes? I’ll pay.”

Zhang Fear said, “You ask me for pocket change when playing billiards, but for this much money? Forget it.”

“That’s different—this is an investment. When you make it, pay me back…” Fatty said, “If you don’t, I lose out, right?”

“Yes, it’s very easy to lose money,” Zhang Fear replied, “I can’t afford this, not doing it.” As he spoke, he took out his phone, connected to Wi-Fi, and opened the chat app to accept Zhang Baihong’s request.

Her profile had plenty of photos; he skimmed through and closed it.

Fatty kept asking, saying he didn’t understand the business, but if buying votes helped, Zhang Fear should go for it.

Zhang Fear said, “No need. I’m not good enough.”

“Up to you,” Fatty closed the webpage and stood up, “I’m off to play mahjong.”

Zhang Fear said, “Didn’t you say you’d lose weight last month?”

“Last month was last month,” Fatty said as he headed out.

Zhang Fear followed, “You really are too idle.” As they went downstairs, his phone vibrated twice—WeChat notification. Zhang Baihong messaged, “Stingy old Zhang, finally willing to use data?”

“It’s Wi-Fi,” Zhang Fear replied.

“Shame on you,” she sent back. Zhang Fear glanced at it, put his phone away.

“Who was that?” Fatty asked.

“Not telling,” Zhang Fear went home to work.

Dinner ended up being with the two girls next door, at Big Tiger Barbecue on the street. During the meal, the round-faced girl kept thanking him.

Zhang Fear asked, “Aren’t you worried? Offending King of Firecrackers.”

“Of course I’m worried. That’s why I didn’t go to work today,” the round-faced girl replied, “We’re planning to switch workplaces.”

Zhang Fear nodded.

He really couldn’t connect with the two girls, and didn’t want close contact, so he finished quickly, paid, and went home.

The girls, dissatisfied with the drinking, said Zhang Fear shouldn’t have paid, offered him money.

Zhang Fear declined, found an excuse to leave early, and went home to write his script.

After these few days of turmoil, and some bedtime brainstorming, he had a rough outline: writing about familiar things, stories from his own life. It made it easier to find the right mood. The only challenge was the humor—he had to make people laugh, and laugh often.