Chapter 52

Hello, everyone. I’m Zhao Bujiao, the theater’s cat.

The boss originally said we wouldn’t celebrate Christmas this year because Chinese folks don’t observe foreign holidays. But no sooner had the words left his mouth than they stirred up a massive storm—every theater group lost their minds.

Our Intestines Theater Group took the brunt of it. Diao Chan declared that in the Metropolis Lower District, nobody cared anymore about dividing people into Chinese or foreigners; it was all one big melting pot. Even the 33rd Layer Mental Hospital wouldn’t mind lighting firecrackers on Christmas Day to chase off the Year Beast, pairing dumplings with red wine, and tossing in a heartfelt “Hallelujah” kissy face. Jue Jue chimed in that he could take the stage for a Christmas edition of Wu Family Slope, where Mary endured thirteen years in a frigid stable before the great merciful Lord Jehovah finally arrived.

Next up was the Xizi Theater Group. Brother Mu said he didn’t care what holiday it was—as long as there was a feast, it was a good holiday. He even added that the hot mulled wine from last Christmas had been pretty tasty, though it lacked punch; this time, they ought to swap it for huadiao rice wine. I figured he was just itching for payback after Brother Qian drank him under the table last time. Sure, with his tolerance, toppling Brother Qian would be a long and arduous path, but hey, a person’s got to fight for that one breath of pride. I wished him the best in his next round.

Finally, the Xuezi Theater Group approached us. To be honest, I never quite got why they called themselves Xuezi—it sounded like “boot,” giving off that cozy stuffed-in-your-socks vibe from autumn long johns. The boss explained it was because the audience dubbed them that way. The audience’s eyes are sharp as snow, and the theater had to follow the audience line: from the people, to the people—so don’t ask why again, or the story falls apart.

In any case, the “boot”—er, Xuezi Theater Group—said that although they were bona fide foreigners, they were fictional ones from the Western Continent, which didn’t celebrate Christmas either. What was Christmas? Never heard of it. At the same time, Boss Lin proclaimed that holidays were prime money-making opportunities. Letting cash slip away made you a fool. Never heard of Christmas? No problem—the Thirteen Rows would sort it out internally: discounted tea on Christmas Eve, free-flowing silver shards on the day itself. Who’d pass up a holiday like that? From now on, tomato sauce was tomato sauce, and Christmas was Christmas!

I thought it sounded great. Christmas good, making money good, people good—everybody good.

And me good too. Meow meow meow meow.

With all the theater groups chiming in, the theater formed the “Christmas Feast Do-Whatever Special Committee.” Meow, what a mouthful—that name took me several tries to memorize. Anyway, this ragtag crew was up and running. The committee brainstormed, urging everyone to chip in cash where they could, muscle where they couldn’t, run two hundred meters? Make it five hundred. Eight hundred? Push for a thousand. No takers for three thousand? Hand it to Brother Qian—he had the guts, heh heh heh.

Reality proved they’d dreamed too big. Sure, everyone was eager to help, but this bunch from the theater? Every last one was a walking disaster. They were better at causing chaos than contributing. You know the saying: one monk fetches water for himself, two carry it together, three flip the table. Get these guys together, and they wouldn’t just flip the table—they’d blow up the theater. I remembered one time the Xizi Theater Group did exactly that, all because An Pinger insisted on using heating pads as hot plates for her hot pot. The explosion left everyone covered in soot, but that didn’t stop the feast. They sat amid the rubble, ate their fill, snapped pics for the memories, then scored a one-day trip through the original novel’s forty-first chapter. They came back meek as lambs.

I digress. Point is, at our theater, eating was the top priority. Big holidays, small ones, every few days we’d gather for a meal. Running out of excuses? Just pick someone and throw them a birthday bash. I recall Zhao Meiyou celebrating over eight hundred birthdays one year—three times a day on average, lunch, dinner, and midnight snack. And it made perfect sense: a guy who’d reincarnated a thousand times had filled every single day of the year with birthdays from his past lives. He even had a dedicated room at the theater stacked floor-to-ceiling with birthday cakes. I strongly suspected that place was some kind of site—the cakes inside never spoiled.

Once during a game of truth or dare, someone asked: dog-shit-flavored chocolate or chocolate-flavored dog shit? Zhao Meiyou said he’d never tried chocolate-flavored dog shit but could give it a go next time. Though he did have dog-shit-flavored cake on hand. “If there’s fortune to share, it’s mine; if hardship, it’s yours—come on over and sample it!”

Oh yeah, Shadrian often snuck into Zhao Meiyou’s Cake Room to pilfer treats. Sometimes cakes would mysteriously end up half-eaten, complete with lipstick marks. Zhao Meiyou threw tantrums, trying everything—new locks, cameras, rat traps—but never caught the culprit.

Digressing again. Whatever, let’s ramble wherever. I’m a cat, after all; cats don’t follow human logic. Watch if you want, or don’t.

This time, for Christmas, everyone gathered in the central kitchen. The rule: each theater group had to contribute ten dishes. Strictly forbidden: Red Date Onion Koi Soup, brain-flower cake, hand-green congee, daddy-flavored dumplings, any fried bugs, or killer bread. Drinks: no tomato sauce or sour cream additives. Especially banned: creative dishes from Mu Geshen or Zhao Meiyou. Warm welcome to Second Brother Song and Professor Xia taking the helm.

Truth be told, Chef Chai’s cooking was pretty solid too, but the guy was hopeless. He always let his spouse freestyle on his finished dishes, turning a hundred points into a big fat zero.

By rights, none of this was my business. I’m the theater mascot—just show up with my head on my shoulders and wait to eat. But Zhao Meiyou gave a grand speech in the Intestines Theater Group, declaring we didn’t keep idlers—or idle cats. I, Zhao Bujiao, had to pull my weight for the Christmas feast. I was furious, meowing my protests up a storm. I thought I’d cursed him out good, but Zhao Meiyou claimed I was just too thrilled, belting out my happy meows. He even asked Brother Qian if he agreed, and Brother Qian nodded—said Zhao Meiyou was spot on.

I’d misjudged you, Brother Qian. How could you? I was a teary-eyed kitty.

Exploiting cat labor—unforgivable! I lodged a fierce protest, but Zhao Meiyou threatened me in private: agree, or he’d neuter me. I shot back that it wouldn’t work; I came from Schrodinger Factory, gender undetermined. Worst case, no balls. Then the rascal said he’d turn me into a flying butter cat instead, hauling me onstage Christmas Eve for perpetual motion performance. Meow, who you tryin’ to scare?

The poor but unbroken spirit holds strong. A cat with pride doesn’t cave at a time like this. So I puffed up my chest, took a deep breath, and meowed loud—keep that buttered toast away from me! Fine, I agreed!

What’re you staring at? I said the poor but unbroken spirit, but I’m a cat, not human. Cats are always right; cats get treats for everything.

So under this conniving couple’s plot, I had to pitch in too. Sigh, the world’s gone to the dogs—always scheming ministers plotting against Us, villains enslaving cats. The heartless Zhao Meiyou even assigned me a Herculean task: steal the boss’s hidden booze! Meow meow, why not send me to swipe scripts from the fourth troupe’s backstage?

Rumor had it the boss had a wine cabinet in the theater, same principle as Zhao Meiyou’s Cake Room or Dingdang Cat’s pockets—portable, wearable, pull it out anytime. I’d seen Zhao Meiyou yank all sorts from his pockets: cat food, makeup brushes, high heels, cleavers, surgical anesthetics—you name it. Honestly, at this rate, he’d eventually fish out Brother Qian one day.

Anyway, pinpointing the boss’s wine cabinet was a mystery, like Doctor Who’s TARDIS—popping up in the theater’s oddest nooks. Legend had it once under Little Ai and Professor Xia’s bed. Finding it was like needling the ocean; I’d have to scour every theater group.

Zhao Meiyou said no sweat—he’d cover for me. Though I suspected he just wanted an excuse to slack off and dodge prep duty. But I didn’t fancy becoming a flying butter cat, so whatever he said, went.

Thus, Zhao Meiyou took me first to the Xuezi Theater Group for Professor Xia. He and this super stunning beauty hit it off instantly, diving deep into anatomy and face-changing techniques. Heads together, arms slung, they went hunting Mu Geshen, hollering at the Xizi Theater Group door: “Chai Shuxin, get your hubby out to play!” “Chai Shuxin, is your husband home?” “Doctor Chai wants your man for some hanky-panky!”

Doctor Chai never emerged. Instead, Second Brother Song did, straight from the kitchen in his apron, wok spatula in hand, fed up and telling the two noisemakers to shut it. Chai Shuxin and her husband weren’t home; keep disturbing, and he’d stew them both for ingredients.

That lit Zhao Meiyou right up. “Ingredients? Awesome! I was ingredients plenty in my reincarnation experiments! Brother Qian even ate me—delicious!” Second Brother Song’s face soured, looking guilty. Then Professor Xia quipped: “Ingredients it is! How d’you want ’em, sir? In bed or on the street?” That set Second Brother Song off cursing; two sentences in, fists flew. And just like that, the trio brawled.

Man, beauties scrapping is a sight for sore eyes. Love to watch, always watching.

So Zhao Meiyou, you butcher, step aside—you’re dragging down the brawl’s hotness average. Want in? At least bring Brother Qian.

Their racket drew the whole theater. Folks hauled stools, cracked melon seeds, some even set up cameras for live streams. I slipped into the Xizi Theater Group amid the chaos. Every group had its kitchen standard-issue; theirs connected to Yeshui Zhuhua. I snuck in, sniffing everywhere.

This was Second Brother Song’s stir-fry—water-boiled fish, smells divine. Boiled midnight snack—why’s it chicken now? Tastes bad. Silly girl’s math homework—so many wrongs. Mountain ghost’s spending money—can’t spend it, pfft. Red Date Onion Koi Soup. Blech. Eldest Miss Yanyan! Big sis hugs! Sis’s lap smells so good! What’s this—Master Mo! You sneaking eats too? Keep your white crane away! It pecked me bald last time! What? You think petting me buys me off? We’re principled in Intestines Theater Group! Need riches and romance—missing either, no deal—

Purrr, so nice. Master Mo’s petting technique is top-tier.

Right, what was I here for again?

Oh yeah! The wine cabinet!

I snapped out of bliss-town, ransacked the entire Xizi Theater Group—no dice. With the two hotties and one guy still duking it out outside, I darted into the Xuezi Theater Group.

What’s this, Boss Lin’s abacus—how come I feel like it was swiped from Wu Laosan? What’s this, Narcissus, what’s this you’re wearing, how come I feel like I’ve seen this outfit at Professor Xia’s place? What’s this, Demian, are you the one who eats little cakes or the one who plays violin, oh you’re the one from Imperial University—nope! I figured it out, you two are playing dress-up again! Your violin playing’s off-key! You’re the one who calls Little Ai “daddy”!

Don’t jerk me around! I still have serious business! What’s this, lipstick? Oh, Professor Xia’s lipstick——

Hold on.

Dear viewers, prize quiz!

Guess whose lipstick this is: Professor Xia’s, Professor Na’s, or was it left here by the night-snack chef or Zhao Mo De who came over to visit?

Uh, um, ah, oh, mm.

Kitty isn’t suited for thinking about such difficult problems, kitty is leaving.

I’m just scampering around the theater all meow-meow-mimi-like, and outside, those two big beauties and one guy feel like they’re almost done fighting—I gotta hurry. Oh heavens, liquor cabinet, where the heck are you— what’s this, Biluochun, I don’t like drinking that. What’s this, coffee, even dogs wouldn’t drink it. What’s this, black sesame paste, take it away quick. What’s this, brown sugar water with sweetened osmanthus, cloyingly sweet. What’s this, the boss, hi boss, bye boss. What’s this, the boss’s liquor cabinet, hehe, I found it.

Ding ding ding ding! Open the liquor cabinet! Open sesame! Here I come for the hidden stash!

Wait, hold on, how come there’s only one bottle of wine inside?

What kind of booze is this? Sneak a sip.

It’s delicious! One more sip.

Take another sip.

Delicious, delicious! Let me have a few more sips—me a sip, I a sip, this one a sip, yours truly a sip, lonely me a sip, the emperor a sip, your humble servant a sip, this young scholar a sip, this kitty a sip, your daddy a sip, old me a sip, and finally, a self-penalizing sip.

Burp, tasty, tasty meow, good meow meow.

Meow meow, meow meow meow, meow meow, meow, meow meow hic, meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow meow meow meow, hic, meow meow.

Meow.

Meow meow! Meow meow meow meow meow meow meow! Meow! Meow meow meow meow!

Meow!