The rat has skin

One afternoon in mid -

August, as the scorching sun began to slant slightly westward, the renowned writer and Ming Dynasty
historian Shi Tou, returned home from the Secheng Publishing House. Opening the front door, he found
a letter tucked under the door. He bent down to pick it up; it was signed by a man named Zhang Ziwu, without a date or
address , which puzzled him.

Clutching the letter in his hand, he strolled into the kitchen. After busying himself for most of the afternoon, his stomach began to rumble.
He took out the leftovers from the previous night's meal from the refrigerator, intending to reheat them. Taking advantage of this brief
respite , he sat down in the kitchen chair, determined to see who had sent him this letter.

Zhang Ziwu? Who the hell is that? He had no idea who he was. Could it be one of those nobodies trying to get attention
? The thought made Shi Tou chuckle inwardly. He knew everything he had achieved
was hard-won; he had finally gained fame, and now even rats were eyeing him. How annoying!

"Tsk!" He spat viciously into the trash can, finally feeling much better. Reflecting on his rise to fame
, Shi Tou deeply regretted his desperate attempts to curry favor with others to achieve his current success—bah! Genuine
talent cannot be faked. Sometimes, Shi Tou couldn't help but hate his past self for his lowliness, for his desperate attempts to please others and his insincere
flattery, only to revert to his true colors after achieving fame.

Shi Tou is thirty-three years old this year, and his achievements are the result of over ten years of research into Ming Dynasty history. He deeply questions whether
he should continue to work so hard. Over the past few years, with fame came a lot more temper.
Take yesterday, for example; he still couldn't understand why he felt such a strong urge to curse those who didn't benefit from his work. Admittedly, Shi Tou himself
felt he had become somewhat arrogant. Few people with his level of success possess such self-awareness, so his
arrogance was undeniable.

His masterpiece, published yesterday, was, in his imagination, a masterpiece destined to be passed down through the ages,
sure Comments would flood in like a tidal wave. He was already imagining
how to face the overwhelming tide of praise—should he be humble or arrogant? Because this
was he deserved. With his overflowing talent and boundless inspiration, he
could unleash a torrent of words on his keyboard, having long since captured the hearts and minds of the masses.

He lay back in his chair, his peripheral vision casually sweeping over his home. While not comparable to the wealthiest in Suzhou
, it was still a comfortable haven compared to the lowest of the low. His house was located in
the heart , the most bustling and noisy area in the city, but the glass windows effectively blocked out the outside noise
, creating a sense of tranquility amidst the chaos. This feeling of superiority was wonderful
.

His house wasn't small, and one particular living room stood out—it was round and curved. A weekly
cultural salon was held there, a gathering of his friends including Wei Chen, Nana, Hell Butterfly Maru, and a
writer who wrote about daughters getting married. This formidable group of critics, historians, and literary giants was not to be
underestimated. Stone was the leader, Wei Chen the cultural advisor, Nana the vanguard, and Hell Butterfly Maru
the commander of the leading artillery regiment…

Just last night, Sunday evening, they had held their regular meeting there.
Naturally, the most discussed topic was freeloaders, a topic first raised by the great writer and historian Stone
.

The heated debate rivaled that of the Cultural Revolution; Stone stood up several times, his face contorted in fury
, venting his anger. His domineering attitude must have been incredibly shocking to everyone who witnessed it. The topics shifted
between praise and commentary, but the indispensable theme remained freeloaders, permeating the entire cultural salon meeting
.

In short, the "anti-freeloaders" group, led by Nana, mainly targets readers who read articles but don't give
them "likes," thus feeling unsupported and unfair to Nana's hard work.

The "freeloaders" group, led by the renowned historian Shi Tou, a specialist in Ming Dynasty history, focuses on readers who give
"likes" but few comments. For a scholar of his caliber, this psychological disparity is inevitable, leading to psychological distortion.
Even a literary giant like Shi Tou, or even a writer like Qin Shou, would be disheartened by few or uninspiring comments .
Let alone a self-proclaimed historian who has studied Ming Dynasty history for over a decade.

② Note: As I've said before, pretentious people who don't boast about their years of reading
always seem unconvincing and lack confidence. Therefore, emphasizing their experience is inevitable and necessary. Here, I
believe that a person
's culture and level of knowledge can often be discerned in just a few words; this cannot be faked. The reason I keep criticizing them is that those writing serialized historical fiction generally
lack sufficient expertise. But at least some people know their place and won't use this as a gimmick; they're only after their own
desires to
make a fortune. But it's different for great Ming Dynasty historians like Shi Tou; they have an elitist mentality and want to cultivate a persona for themselves. Speaking of cultivating a persona, even Mystery Man has become obsessed, which is a pity. These people all want others to worship them wholeheartedly, so I'll do my
best to reveal their true colors one by one. Hmm, it seems I'm the biggest pretentious one
.

After reading the letter he had just received, Shi Tou suppressed his rage. He
wanted nothing more than to tear the letter to shreds. Only after venting his emotions did he calm down. The price of this calm
was, of course, smashing many of his own dishes. Only when he saw the broken dishes scattered all over the floor did he realize
his rash behavior and feel remorseful.

"Zhang Ziwu..." he muttered to himself, then cursed bitterly, "You bastard,
you'll die a horrible death ! You ruined my reputation, I, a hypocrite, will not let this go unavenged!"

Stone took the leftovers from last night from the microwave and angrily devoured them in one gulp. After finishing, he
went to the living room, picked up the phone, dialed a number, and said a few short, forceful words: "Find
Zhang Ziwu for me, and be quick. If you don't find any useful information within twenty-four hours, don't bother coming back." Then he hung up
.

He paced back and forth in the living room, his gaze vicious. Two hours later, the phone rang. Stone
answered mumbled a few words, and then thoughtfully looked away. Less than two seconds after hanging up,
a photo appeared on his phone. Stone stared intently at the target for a long, long time. Stone kept staring at him.

Stone turned back and read the letter again: a very short letter containing content he
didn't want to face—"No need to thank me, because of me, you've reached a higher level."

Stone froze. A nonsensical string of words. What did he mean? Stone was once again
enraged.

Time passed, and finally he got up from his chair, put on his clothes, and closed the door. He had to find out
the truth . If this wasn't resolved soon, it would be deeply etched into his heart, like a heavy
cross he would carry for life.

Now, Zhang Ziwu—this ordinary name—was haunting Stone's mind,
a nightmare. Stone drove his beloved car away from home to discuss it with Wei Chen.

2

A week later.

In the deathly silent Zhang Ziwu family home, his wife, Ye Lan, stood guard at the mourning hall, burning joss paper for her husband's body .
Ye Lan carefully burned one sheet of joss paper after another by the coffin, murmuring something unintelligible. Her expression
was extremely haggard.

After keeping vigil all night, Ye Lan was physically and mentally exhausted. When others offered her something to eat, she said she had no appetite and immediately
got into the car to go to the crematorium… At the end of the day, Ye Lan hurriedly washed herself and went to bed.
When she woke up in the middle of the night, her eyelids were terribly swollen. Three days had passed since her husband's death. For those three days, Ye Lan had been
recalling Zhang Ziwu's difficult account of what had happened to him in the hospital. He knew his life was nearing
its end, and he didn't want to die without knowing the truth. So he told his wife the reason:

Zhang Ziwu had been in a car accident and then stabbed to death on the night of September 13th. For several days, Zhang Ziwu
had been loitering around the city. As a journalist with a conscience, he wanted to expose the scandals of some famous writers
. During that time, he published several articles criticizing their works. Naturally, his righteous indignation and
overly upright character angered some readers, who called him a spineless,
cowardly, and spineless person in his articles.

He knew that what he was doing was a thankless task, and he might even be universally condemned. That day, after work, he
returned home past ten o'clock. The streets were deserted. A car hit the unsuspecting
Zhang Ziwu from behind, then got out and stabbed him several times before fleeing the scene as he lay bleeding.

An ambulance took Zhang Ziwu to the nearest hospital, where he was diagnosed with a fractured left shoulder and suspected intracranial
hemorrhage . His spleen had been stabbed to pieces with a fruit knife. He barely managed to stay afloat in the hospital
until his wife arrived and he died.

After Zhang Ziwu's death, Ye Lan, while sorting through his belongings, discovered a large number of her husband's manuscripts, almost all of which
touched on the theme of freedom and democracy in writing. Naturally, in Zhang Ziwu's mind, freedom and
democracy were relative, not the kind where one could do whatever they wanted.

The freedom Zhang Ziwu championed was in the realm of written expression; he believed everyone had
the freedom to write, the freedom of speech, and the freedom to remain silent.

In his writing, Zhang Ziwu gave an example: some great writers, ungrateful for their reputation, constantly emphasized that their
articles were free for readers, and that readers shouldn't just read them and not comment. In reality, this was a form of moral blackmail
. You have the freedom to post your articles, and others have the freedom not to read them. Even if readers read your
articles , they still have the freedom to comment. This is completely different from putting effort into writing and posting articles and expecting
a response. It's not that doing something guarantees a reward; there's no necessary relationship, and others have no obligation. Rather,
one has the right to demand more effort from oneself. Often, writers only need to reflect on themselves and have a clear conscience
. If they constantly calculate with a utilitarian mindset, they will ultimately harm themselves. Therefore, having a
balanced mindset is very important.

At the end of the article, Zhang Ziwu deliberately flaunts his own abilities, saying he would never do such despicable things—
asking for others to read his work is shameful! It's unimaginable that a self-proclaimed cultured person would do something so damaging to himself.

Ye Lan reviewed several of her husband's speeches, finding some with an aggressive tone and
somewhat stiff reasoning, perhaps due to limited reading. For example, this passage: "

Great writers shouldn't consider it a great injustice if their efforts don't receive the desired return.
We should respect everyone's freedom. If a reader deliberately criticizes the author, saying things unrelated to the content,
that's wrong. They're deliberately provoking trouble. It's normal for the author to feel wronged when criticized in this situation."

Our great historians and writers suffer injustice simply because their masterpieces, once posted,
don't receive a warm enough response, the comments aren't appealing enough, or the reviews don't meet their expectations. So, they resort to desperate measures , resorting
to insults—how are they any different from readers who are just looking for trouble and attacking authors?

What was originally a small matter ultimately stems from their own problems. Some
writers, who initially possessed an elitist mindset, are unaware that their illness has become incurable.

After reading several articles, Ye Lan was confused. What did this have to do with her husband's murder?

Just then, she saw her husband's diary again. She flipped to the most recent entry, finally finding
a description of a great historian's pretentious behavior, begging for comments from readers. Zhang Ziwu was
outraged and wrote several articles exposing Shi Tou, this great writer, as a hypocrite. He listed numerous pieces of evidence
proving Shi Tou was both a hypocrite and a scoundrel. Shi Tou thought he was like Jiang Wen, believing he could
"earn money standing up" like Jiang Wen, unaware that he was already kneeling before readers begging for comments. This is shameful
behavior. This essay, once published, attracted criticism from a brainless idiot named Shi Tou.

Zhang Ziwu initially ignored it, thinking it was a minor matter, but unexpectedly, it
enraged Shi Tou's fanatic, who felt his writing was being disregarded. Driven by this, Shi Tou decided to commit a major crime and killed
Zhang Ziwu.

3.

My name is Rao Canfen, an unemployed man who loves reading novels. In the novels written by others, I
satisfy my fantasies about not being able to achieve great things in real life. Recently, I've become obsessed with
a very, very excellent historical fiction author named Shi Tou.

I absolutely love Shi Tou's novels about the late Ming Dynasty. In his novels, I'm projected onto the story
as a hero, feeling like I'm the protagonist, ready to fight the enemy, slaughter the Manchu dogs, and make those barbarians...
Pigskin will never turn over.

But I cannot change the tide of history. The Ming Dynasty is gone. My Ming Dynasty was ultimately ruled by the Manchu
cavalry . I hate that history. They openly used our money, not only did they play with our women
, but they also destroyed our land. In modern times, they even humiliated our country and lost our sovereignty. My Han chauvinism has taken over my mind. I
will never forgive the crimes of the Manchus.

Although I hate the history of the late Ming Dynasty, I am hopelessly in love with this Ming Dynasty. In my eyes
, it was a great dynasty (Note: I want to laugh). My Ming Dynasty lasted for 276 years without ceding territory
, making peace through marriage, or paying reparations. The emperor guarded the country's gates. Ming Dynasty, I love you (pfft), the Ming Dynasty in my heart.
Just as I was immersed in joy, a discordant voice broke in. That person, he deserves to die! A guy named Zhang Ziwu, he really doesn't know what's good for him, he actually grabbed the "word lice"

of my favorite great historian . 　　Zhang Ziwu is such a jerk. What's the difference between him and those Manchu scoundrels? He actually dared to launch a scathing attack on my favorite historian, based on the idea of maintaining existing national unity, saying that it shouldn't be mentioned anymore at this stage for fear of negative consequences. Screw him. 　　He even used this standard to put forward a derogatory view of my idol, claiming that any essay with such thoughts is unacceptable, a step backward in history, and an attempt to incite national division. Moreover, he inserts his own agenda , so he looks down on those guys. 　　Holy crap, who does that jerk think he is? Does he even have the right to criticize? My idol's love for the Ming Dynasty is none of his business. Screw him, what a huge accusation! He accuses others of moral blackmail, yet he himself is the biggest moral guardian. I don't care, he's definitely crossed me. Even though his reasons seem plausible, I don't bother reading them. I simply can't stand his sharp tongue, especially his mocking remarks about my idol in his article, saying things like, "After studying history for over a decade, this is the level he's reached? It's laughable!" 　　The thought of killing him had been brewing in my mind for a long time. Only killing him could appease my idol's anger! 　　That noon, I went out again and bought a newspaper. It featured my idol's work. I absolutely adore his writing, so I eagerly started reading. Wow, it was so well-written! I read it over and over again, completely engrossed. His writing was truly excellent; how so? Because he effortlessly expressed what I wanted to say but couldn't . 　　As I read on my way home, I didn't notice someone bumping into me, causing the newspaper to slip from my hands. He picked it up for me and glanced at it. 　　"Oh, you also read about Ming Dynasty inventors?" 　　I didn't understand what he meant. 　　He pointed to an article about my idol in the newspaper and said, "Hey, this one, this guy has problems." 　　Hearing someone speak ill of my idol, I got angry, my face flushed red, and I asked him, "What do you mean ?" That's when I saw his true colors. He looked shifty and sleazy. 　　"I'm just telling the truth." 　　"You're talking nonsense!" I was so angry that I started fighting with him. 　　In the end, I beat him and learned from him that he was Zhang Ziwu. I beat him up again, and he couldn't fight back. I demanded that he apologize, but he refused. 　　"I didn't say anything wrong, why should I apologize?" 　　"You're stubborn, aren't you? I don't believe I can't beat you until you apologize." 　　So we fought again, and in the end, we were both taken to the police station. Then, I followed him, hoping to find an opportunity to kill him later. 　　I had just gotten home when my second uncle saw the bruise on my lip and asked what happened. I didn't say, and he kept nagging , saying I'd caused trouble again, and that I'd never listened to him since I was a child. I was annoyed and angry; his words made me furious, so I left home again. The anger from home, combined with my pent lust, made me feel like I was about to explode, so I went to a brothel to have sex with women. 　　The women at the brothel spoke softly and sweetly, and I could play with their breasts. As long as I paid, they'd do whatever I wanted. 　　Ah, ahhh. Oh, oh oh oh 　　. Mmm 　　, mmm mmm mmm. 　　Their service was excellent; as long as the money was right, there were many ways to release my pent-up emotions. The reason I always sought out female masseuses to release my pent-up emotions when I was in a bad mood was because my girlfriend often cheated on me. 　　When I first discovered my girlfriend was having an affair, I swallowed my anger and forgave her as long as I didn't see it with my own eyes. Even if she cursed or hit me, I would immediately lick her genitals and serve her until she was satisfied, begging her to come back to me. 　　After doing this several times, and licking her salty-smelling genitals many times, one time she completely enraged me and actually had sex with another man at home. 　　I came home from work that day, and just as I was about to insert my key into the lock, I heard a faint moaning sound. Out of curiosity, I gently opened and closed the door, shuffling towards the source of the sound. 　　I saw with my own eyes her being picked up and fucked by a man I recognized—her boss. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, while his lewd hands were supporting her large, soft buttocks, his erect penis inside her vagina, thrusting in and out with nine shallow thrusts followed by one deep one. 　　I watched her excitedly gripping it inside, and I was furious. I rushed in and started . That bitch even helped him, pulling me away and telling me to let go and stop hitting him. 　　Afterwards, I was beaten black and blue by that man, and I had a huge fight with her, telling her to move out. A year , she said one thing and I was begging to come back. She was crying on the phone, saying she missed me. 　　So I let her move back in. They say a dog can't forget what it ate, and later she cheated on me again, this time with my friend Xiaoqiang. I kicked her out again. 　　At first, I still missed her; we'd been together for three years, and I was a little reluctant to let her go. But there was no way back; I'd already said it all, there was no turning back. I also started to fall into depravity. Later, I went to prostitutes a few times with my best friend and found that I actually liked the feeling. 　　Yang Wei invited a group of friends to a nightclub to celebrate my bachelor party. He randomly called in a bunch of girls to celebrate with me, which not only drained my savings but also maxed out my credit card by nearly 3,000 yuan, totaling more than 8,000 yuan. 　　That night, I was so drunk that I had no recollection of how many girls I had slept with.

The young women's eyes lit up when I took out a wad of cash and threw it on the table. They readily presented their smooth,
white bodies to me. Then they let me caress their breasts,
and soon their panties were quietly removed. I pressed against one of the women's breasts, and she wrapped her arms around my back
. Some of the other women kissed my back, while others licked my anus.

Then I guided my penis to her vagina, slowly inserting it, my hips rising and falling
in a tense and stimulating act of primal desire. I kept checking the time on my phone,
calculating my sexual prowess.

At first, I tried to mimic the techniques used in Japanese adult films, remembering
the "nine shallow, one deep" method from pornographic books. Gradually, I realized my mind couldn't synchronize with the actions, so I gave up, only
mechanically thrusting and pushing.

In less than five minutes, I collapsed, exhausted, onto a woman. Her eyes rolled back, seemingly
condemning She then pushed me away, her disgust palpable; she wanted nothing more than
to brush off the dirt odor clinging to her, her contempt undisguised.

Now, I'm back at the club. The story continues, told in the third person. (Briefly concluded
.)

After finding a familiar masseuse, Rao Canfen quickly led her to a room.

Rao Canfen went too far; dripping wax was the least of his tricks. Pinching nipples and biting until they bled were common occurrences. The
masseuse couldn't bear his sexual abuse and tried to leave, saying she wouldn't take the money anymore. During the argument,
she said some insulting things, things Rao Canfen absolutely didn't want to hear.

"Are you a beast? You're so perverted!"

At that moment, Rao Canfen felt he was so incompetent that he couldn't even stand a prostitute. In that instant, Rao Canfen could no longer tolerate it. He
was furious and grabbed the female masseuse's hair, pulling it hard. She was in so much pain that she knelt down and begged for mercy, screaming. He
asked her fiercely, "What are you people? You're out selling yourselves and you dare to look down on people? I'll fuck you!"

After saying that, Rao Canfen pulled off the female masseuse's bra and ripped off her panties. He then used a candle to
shove into her vagina. The female masseuse was in unbearable pain, but Rao Canfen ignored her and pulled the woman's hair hard with one hand
, while punching her in the stomach with his other fist. The woman screamed in pain. Rao Canfen had
completely lost his mind; he was like a mad dog. Not content with just punching the female masseuse
, he started kicking her relentlessly. The louder the woman cried, the more excited Rao Canfen became,
kicking her until she collapsed to the ground.

Looking at her motionless body, Rao Canfen thought with contempt, "Damn it, she can't even
take ." He picked up the newspaper again; it was stained with blood,
obscuring the words of his idol's masterpiece. Enraged, Rao Canfen stomped hard on the woman's stomach, then kicked her
several more times.

He flipped her over, face up, blood streaming from her nose, her lips swollen and red. Her breasts were bruised and swollen
, and her calf joints were bruised from his blows—a testament to the force he had used. Rao Canfen
trembled as he brought his index finger close to her nostrils, only to find she was no longer breathing.

He took a step back, collapsing to the ground unintentionally. His mind was in turmoil; he decided to go all the way
. Since he had already killed someone, what did it matter if he took another life?

That night, Rao Canfen finally waited for the right opportunity. He borrowed a car and
waited not far from Zhang Ziwu's company. He had been doing this for a week now

…

(The End)

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