Always lost in countless thoughts.

After much consideration, I decided to use Fatty as the model and write a story called “One Hundred and Ninety Pounds.” Though the pretty boys want to be protagonists and handsome men and beautiful women are the kings of film and television, the world is already full of them. No matter how attractive a pretty boy is, he can’t outshine the hottest stars. So, I thought I’d go against the grain and make a big guy the main character—who knows, maybe he’ll become popular? After all, web dramas thrive on comedy.

Fatty’s past was colorful, filled with stories worth telling. As a child, he was the elite among troublemakers. When bored in class, he’d take a dull knife and a spoon, mix them with water, and dig a huge hole in the classroom wall. Finding PE too exhausting, he’d sneak out at night and dig a pit in the running track with a pickaxe. As for fighting, there’s no need to elaborate—just in elementary school alone, he cost at least twenty thousand in medical expenses.

I polished Fatty’s mischief, turning it into comedic material, and it looked promising. Then I added Old Liang’s experiences. That guy was a dating expert, with stories from every possible setting. Have you ever taken a girl to a nightclub for a blind date? People dancing wildly all around, music blaring, and you and your date munching black sunflower seeds…

Old Liang’s blind dates numbered countless, covering every profession. If his date worked for a mobile company, he’d get a new, auspicious phone number. Soon after breaking up, that card was discarded. If his date worked at a bank, he’d open an account and get a credit card. After two dates, she’d ignore him, but by then he was used to overdrawing and spent every month paying off the bank. The coolest was making business deals during a date, turning romance and profit into a combo. While chatting, he’d learn the other’s company needed equipment, and he’d land the order.

Old Liang was a pain as a kid, always messing around with Fatty. Growing up, he changed, spending his free time on dates and rarely showing up otherwise.

Poor boys had plenty of joy—happiness here was all about them. I poured the stories of the Locust Squad into Fatty alone… Was I aiming to write an epic?

Zhang Pa wrote with gusto, laughing as he penned one joke after another. He didn’t expect to write until past four in the morning, but he wasn’t sleepy. He stepped out for a pee, came back, and kept writing. He wrote until eleven, suddenly felt tired, flopped onto the bed, and slept soundly.

When he woke again, it was eight in the evening. Groggy at first, he soon remembered the website hadn’t been updated, and instantly sobered up, sitting down to type again.

At nine, Fatty and Turtle knocked on the door. Seeing him busy, Fatty cursed, “Thought you were dead. Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

“The phone?” Zhang Pa checked his mobile—many calls in the afternoon, but he’d been asleep.

“I called eight times,” Fatty said. “What were you doing?”

Zhang Pa glanced at him, “Only remembered me after drinking? Pretending to care—I’d love to kill you.”

Fatty replied, “Obviously, drinking is way more important than you.”

“I’ve got good news,” Zhang Pa said. “The script’s got you as the lead.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Fatty was instantly wary. “Are you trying to borrow money?”

“Borrow money? Are you insulting me? I’m writing you as the protagonist, why would I need to borrow money? Just give me ten thousand.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand sperm.” Fatty poured water from a thermos.

“Alright, just count out ten thousand sperm for me, not one more or less… No need for ten thousand, ten will do, go ahead… One! If you can count out one, I’ll do whatever you want.”

Fatty scoffed, “Old pervert.”

“Is there anything serious? If not, get lost, I need to work.”

“Not enough to kill you,” Fatty said, heading out. Turtle waved goodbye and left too.

That was the daily life of the rascals in Happy Lane—lounging around, eating and drinking, another day gone.

Zhang Pa kept working, finally uploading before midnight, edging closer to perfect attendance. Then he washed his face and went to bed, but after waking, he still had to type and write stories. This was the life of a writer, and also the life of ordinary people. No matter what dreams you chase, or what you possess, life is nothing but endless, repetitive cycles.

In the morning, Pretty Boy called about dinner. “Are you free tonight?”

“Why so polite?” Zhang Pa asked.

“Tonight we’re meeting with Lu Yi Yi and a few girls to discuss the script and the theme song. You should be there.”

Zhang Pa sighed, “Who are you interested in, anyway? Why don’t you just pursue her directly?”

“I tried, but she doesn’t respond. Every time we go out, it’s always two by two, no chance to get close.”

“You deserve it,” Zhang Pa said. “I’m not going.”

“Come on, help your brother out. I’ll send you two girls as a reward,” Pretty Boy said.

“Goodbye.” Zhang Pa hung up and got back to work.

At noon, Fatty showed up, suggesting they go to the billiards club.

“Aren’t you quitting the tournament?” Zhang Pa asked.

“Quit or not, I have to play a few rounds. The entry fee was a hundred and fifty, can’t waste it.”

Zhang Pa nodded, “And my fifty.”

“Let’s go then,” Fatty said.

“I have to work,” Zhang Pa replied.

Fatty said, “With your billiards skills, you’ll be back before four. Won’t delay your work.”

“Looking down on me?” Zhang Pa asked.

“Exactly,” Fatty said. “If you’re so good, make it to the finals.”

Zhang Pa checked the time, “I’ll come back right after my match.”

“You really don’t have confidence in yourself,” Fatty sighed.

So they set off. Zhang Pa thought about bringing some books to sell, but Fatty stopped him. “You’ll be back soon, don’t bother. It’s tiring.”

Zhang Pa admitted it made sense and went light.

They really were traveling light—nothing in hand. When they arrived, the place looked like a national billiards championship. Many young men, unclear how skilled, but each brought their own cue, nestled in custom cases or bags, inside their personal two-piece cues.

That was the basic gear. Some even brought two sets—one for breaking, one for precision shots. Gloves and chalk, everyone had their own. The lazy ones used any old white glove; the more meticulous brought those stretchy three-finger sleeves, usually black.

The funniest were two middle-aged men, not only fully equipped, but also dressed in white shirts and black vests, looking very professional.

Fatty explained, “Those two are old shooters. Twenty years ago, they were masters, never worked, lived off billiards. Later, players dwindled, money was harder to make, so they found casual jobs to pass the days.”

“Not married?” Zhang Pa asked.

Fatty scorned, “Why are you so conventional? You’re supposed to be a writer.”

“Oh,” Zhang Pa replied. “Who else is a master?”

“Look up front, that big-bottomed girl—you definitely can’t beat her,” Fatty gestured.

Zhang Pa looked and sighed, “Bro, she’s probably older than you.”

“Not by much. Sexy, right?” Fatty laughed.

In the corner by the wall stood a woman about five foot seven, hair tied up, dressed in tight-fitting clothes. Her face and figure were attractive—mature, sexy, alluring.

“How do you know all these people?” Zhang Pa asked.

“Used to hang out, met a few,” Fatty said, feigning modesty.

Just then, the host appeared—a pretty waitress from the club, loudly announcing the rules, then drawing lots for the matches.

Too many people had signed up; the first round alone would take ages.

Zhang Pa got lucky—he was in the first round, Fatty was scheduled later, waiting for the first group to finish before getting a table.

Zhang Pa’s match was at the first table by the entrance, where people constantly came and went. It was the busiest, noisiest spot.

Still, Zhang Pa was lucky. Even though he didn’t play well, his opponent was worse. Best of five games. A real master like Ma Ping could finish, including setting up balls, in under fifteen minutes, even if all five games were played.

But Zhang Pa and his opponent—a long-legged girl in tight pants, making her legs look even longer—were putting on a show. The first game alone took ten minutes, with Zhang Pa winning.

“You couldn’t give me a break?” the girl said.

So he tried. In the second and third games, he kept losing. But luck wasn’t on her side. Even when Zhang Pa tried to let her win, he couldn’t just leave the ball right by the pocket. His “letting” meant pushing balls to the edge, making cue shots awkward, making it slow. By the end of the third game, all other matches had finished, and Fatty was waiting for the second round.

As they left, Fatty shook his head, “Bro, are you here to clown around or chase girls?”

Because of their spectacularly awful play, crowds gathered around the first table, laughing every time they missed a shot. Some muttered, “This level? Entering a tournament?”

That was the mood at first. By the third game, the crowd was betting, “No way he’ll make it. I bet he misses…”

When it was Zhang Pa’s turn, some encouraged him, “Don’t sink it!”

When it was the girl’s turn, the crowd cheered, “Almost in…”

Is there such a thing as “almost in” in billiards?

The first table became the club’s laughing stock—the match was utterly captivating.

Amazingly, Zhang Pa advanced. The reason was the girl couldn’t match Zhang Pa’s thick skin. After enduring three games, at the start of the fourth, she declared she was quitting.

Zhang Pa was frustrated, “Why are you more eager than me? One more loss and I’d be out. Not even giving me a chance.”

Someone nearby complimented, “Handsome, you’re really investing in wooing girls.”

The long-legged girl quickly clarified, “I like guys who play billiards well.”

Immediately, someone piped up, “I play well, they call me ‘Table King.’”

Regardless, Zhang Pa advanced and proudly went to watch Fatty’s match. To his surprise, that table finished quickly—by the time he got there, Fatty had already won.

“That fast?” Zhang Pa asked.

Fatty said, “I accept your congratulations.”

“We’re not opponents, are we?” Zhang Pa asked.

Fatty was shocked, “You advanced? You finished already? How is that possible? That fast?”

“Can you insult me without hitting below the belt?” Zhang Pa replied.

Fatty said he could, then asked for details, commenting on how pretty the long-legged girl was, how her billiards was like dancing, and that they should have played more games.

Zhang Pa called him a hopeless flirt, then turned to watch other matches.