How did hiring someone to press a pig image during Chinese New Year become a top trend?

The old Red Star Cinema actually lost its "star" a long time ago.

It huddled deep in the alleys of the old town of the neighboring county, like a toothless old man crouching in the shadows.

The ticket window at the entrance was boarded up and covered with posters of treatments for psoriasis and small penises.

Only that huge, peeling red-painted five-pointed star stubbornly hangs on the lintel, teetering on the verge of collapse.

The black Raptor pickup truck, like a wild beast that had wandered into a china shop, stopped on the patch of withered grass.

The car door opened.

Director Zhang was the first to jump down.

He straightened the collar of his police uniform and then touched the wooden pistol at his waist.

His expression was so serious, as if he were carrying out a cross-provincial arrest mission.

Xu An, carrying the tin box, followed behind, his legs feeling a little weak.

"Second Uncle, this place looks... like a haunted house!"

Xu An muttered to himself, "This place is chilly and doesn't look like anyone lives here."

The second uncle pulled his sunglasses down, revealing a pair of thieving eyes, and looked around.

"What do you know? This is called the patina of time."

"This place was the CBD of that era forty years ago, it was very trendy."

Director Zhang ignored the nonsense spouted by the uncle and nephew.

He strode up to the rusty iron gate.

There was no knocking or calling out.

He simply reached out, grabbed the rusty iron lock, and gave it a hard shake.

"Splash—!"

The clanging of chains echoed in the empty courtyard, startling a flock of sparrows.

In the live stream, millions of netizens held their breath.

This doesn't look like they're going to collect a debt; it looks like they're going to raid a drug den!

A long time passed, and just when Xu An thought there was no one there at all.

A strange sound came from inside the door.

"Tap...tap...tap..."

That was the sound of wood hitting the ground.

The pace was slow and heavy, as if someone was measuring this distance with their life.

Immediately afterwards, an old, hoarse voice came from behind the iron gate.

"Tickets are sold out."

"There haven't been any more matches for a long time."

"Let's go."

His voice carried a lifeless weariness.

Director Zhang gripped the iron gate tightly, his knuckles turning white.

He took a deep breath, focused his energy in his dantian, and roared.

"I'm not buying a ticket!"

"I'm here to get a refund!"

"In 1982, at Liuwan Commune, I only watched half of 'Shaolin Temple'!"

"Refund!"

The sounds from inside the door abruptly stopped.

A deathly silence.

About a minute later, the rusty little door opened a crack, accompanied by a screeching sound.

A withered, wiry hand reached out and shakily unlocked the door.

The door opened.

An old man wearing a faded blue Zhongshan suit stood in the shadows, leaning on a smooth jujube wood cane.

He was very thin, with a severely hunched back, and most noticeably, his left leg.

With his trouser legs hanging loosely, swaying in the wind, Xu An zoomed in with his phone camera.

His face was lined with deep wrinkles, but his eyes suddenly lit up when he saw Chief Zhang's police uniform.

It quickly dimmed again.

Old Zhao looked at Director Zhang, and then at the young man behind him holding a cell phone.

Finally, their gaze fell on the yellowed, tattered movie ticket in Director Zhang's hand.

He smiled.

His smile looked worse than crying, his face full of wrinkles squeezed together.

"It's you..."

"That...little baby who sat behind the screen until dawn?"

Director Zhang was stunned; he had imagined countless scenarios of their reunion.

He thought about handcuffing the swindler, about interrogating him harshly, and even about smashing that wooden gun in his face.

But looking at this disabled old man in front of me, and at his empty trouser leg.

Director Zhang's pent-up anger of forty years was suddenly poured over him like a bucket of ice water.

"you……"

"Your legs..."

Director Zhang's voice trembled slightly, a rare moment of loss of composure in his professional career.

Old Zhao glanced down at his broken leg and waved it off dismissively.

"Hey, it's worthless."

"Back then, that imported light bulb exploded, and we had to pay three thousand yuan in compensation."

"The house has been sold, but we're still short five hundred."

"I carried coal in a coal mine for half a year. Then there was a landslide, and my leg was crushed."

"But it's alright."

"It was considered a work injury, and the mine compensated me with 800 yuan."

"I not only lost the money for the light bulbs, but I also have three hundred left."

"I've taken over this abandoned movie theater."

Old Zhao spoke casually, as if he were just talking about what he had for breakfast that day.

But Xu An felt a chill run down his spine.

A leg, just to pay for a light bulb? Just to avoid owing the government money?

The live stream chat exploded instantly.

[ID breaks down in tears]: My God... I thought he was running away with the money, but it turns out he sold his leg to pay off his debts?

[ID Veteran]: This guy is ruthless! And also a man of principle! Is this what credibility meant back then?

[ID Director Zhang, don't cry]: Director Zhang, this gun... let's not pull it out, shall we?

Director Zhang stood there, like a statue.

His lips trembled, and his eyes, which had seen so much evil, were now frighteningly red.

"Why...why don't you go back?"

Why didn't you tell us?

Old Zhao, leaning on his cane, turned and walked inside, his back hunched over like a shrimp.

"Why go back?"

"It's true that the movie wasn't finished."

"It's a fact that I've become a useless person."

"Go back and make a fool of myself in front of you? Or do you want my pity?"

"Besides..."

Old Zhao's voice suddenly softened, carrying a sense of pilgrimage-like devotion.

"I still have the film."

"I have to protect it."

"What if one day... someone as stubborn as you comes knocking on the door wanting to see the second half?"

Xu An followed him inside. The movie theater was dark, and the air was filled with a musty, dusty smell.

But at the far end of the screening room, the old-fashioned projector was polished to a shine.

Spotless, it stood like a silver statue in the darkness.

Old Zhao walked to the projector and put down his cane.

He stood on one leg, skillfully opened the film box, and took out the film that had been preserved for forty years.

On the film canister, three large characters were written in red pen: "Shaolin Temple".

"Little baby."

Old Zhao didn't turn around, but continued skillfully hanging up the pieces while saying...

"Are you still a police officer now?"

"Good."

"Even though I didn't learn Shaolin Kung Fu, I can still be considered as fighting against evil and protecting the innocent."

"Five cents, I can't pay you back."

"I'm returning this half of the movie to you now."

"Could you... atone for my sins?"

Director Zhang didn't say anything. He walked step by step to the projector.

He pulled out a five-cent coin from the 80s that was already soaked with sweat from his hands.

With a "snap".

It was gently placed on the projector stand.

Then he took out the wooden pistol and placed it next to the coin.

"Keep the change, please."

"This gun..."

"I handed it in too."

Old Zhao paused for a moment.

He turned his head and looked at the ugly, rough wooden gun that had been polished to a shine.

That was a childhood dream, and also a policeman's original aspiration for forty years.

Old Zhao laughed, this time a very relaxed laugh, even the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes disappeared.

"middle."

"I've accepted it."

"Sit down properly."

"The movie... has started."

"Click—"

The projector switch was pressed.

The machine, which had been dormant for forty years, began to emit a buzzing sound.

It sounded like an old man whispering, or like the sound of time flowing backward.

A beam of light pierced the darkness and shone on the slightly yellowed screen.

Dust particles danced in the beam of light, like countless sealed fragments of memory.

A stirring melody, tinged with static, came from the speakers.

"Shaolin, Shaolin..."

"Countless heroes and valiant men have come to admire you..."

The screen flickered, revealing Jet Li's young and dashing face.

Xu An stood in the corner, holding his phone.

I watched as the middle-aged man in the police uniform sat upright in that broken chair in the first row.

He sat upright, just like the ten-year-old boy who sat on the threshing floor forty years ago.

At this moment, time overlapped; there were no police officers, no disabled people.

There was only one projectionist who kept his promise, and one child whose dream finally came true.

The second uncle stood next to Xu An, sniffed, and put his sunglasses back on.

"Oh shit."

"It's really windy in this movie theater."

"Miscellaneous eyes."

The number of viewers in the live stream exceeded 200 million.

No one posted any comments; everyone listened quietly to "The Shepherd's Song."

Looking at the figure under the beam of light, this wasn't watching a movie; it was clearly giving one last boost to one's youth.