Taoist priest goes to America

Qiguer's eyes were bloodshot after a night of work, with fine blood vessels filling the whites of his eyes. However, he did not show any signs of fatigue and did not even rub his eyes.

His face was as cold and indifferent as it had been the night before, as if he didn't care at all about the pain and exhaustion in his body.

The fuel gauge on the dashboard had dropped to the edge of the red line. He took a coin out of his pocket, flicked it into the air, caught it, glanced at it, and put it back in his pocket. Then he turned the steering wheel and swerved the car onto a side road.

The path is lined with low-rise houses, some of which are private residences and others are shops.

He stopped in front of a grocery store. The storefront was white, and several bags of potato chips and bottles of cola were displayed in the window.

He turned off the car, opened the door, and got out.

Chigur's leather shoes crunched on the gravel ground. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A pistol was tucked into his waistband, the silencer already screwed on, a small section of the black muzzle peeking out from under the hem of his shirt.

He didn't bring the black leather bag; he only took out his wallet from his pocket.

He pushed open the door of the grocery store. The bell on the door rang. The store was narrow, with aisles only wide enough for one person to pass through. The shelves were filled with all sorts of things: candy, canned goods, drinks, and cigarettes.

The cashier was at the far end of the shop, a tall counter with an old-fashioned cash register on it. Next to it was a stack of newspapers and a cup with a few pens stuck in it.

An elderly man with gray hair was sitting behind the cashier, wearing a red short-sleeved shirt.

The old man was reading a newspaper when he heard the doorbell ring. He looked up, glanced at Qiguer, and then looked down to continue reading his newspaper.

Chigur walked quietly between the shelves. He placed a bag of beef jerky and a bottle of milk on the checkout counter, then put his hands in his pockets and waited.

The old man put down his newspaper, stood up, took out a white plastic bag from under the counter, and put the items into it one by one. He pressed a few buttons on the cash register, and the cash register popped out of the drawer with a "ding".

"Seven yuan and thirty-five cents," the old man said.

Chigur took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and placed it on the counter.

The banknote was wrinkled, but Qiguer pressed it flat with his finger.

The old man looked down to make change. He placed the change on the counter and pushed it towards Qiguer, but Qiguer did not take it.

The old man raised his head, glanced at him, and then lowered his head again. Qiguer stood in front of the counter, his hands hanging at his sides, his eyes looking at the old man.

The old man waited for two seconds, but Qiguer did not move.

"Is it raining where you are?" the old man asked, as if trying to find a topic to break the uncomfortable silence.

The old man pointed out the window. "I see mud on your car. Which way did you come from?"

Qiguer didn't even blink. "What, which way?"

"Which way are you coming from?" The old man rubbed his hand under the counter. "I see your license plate is from Brooklyn, but the mud on your car looks like it came from Queens. Was it raining there?"

Chigur looked at him, his eyes expressionless. "I don't know."

The old man frowned. "How could you not know?"

"What business is it of yours where I go, friend?" Chigur took a step forward and pressed his body against the counter.

The old man's lips moved slightly, and he pulled his hand out from under the counter and placed it on the countertop.

"I didn't mean anything by it, I was just asking casually."

"Just asking," Chigurh repeated. His voice was calm, but the words "just asking" came out of his mouth like a Gestapo officer writing Jewish names on a list.

The old man didn't speak; he took his hand off the counter and placed it on his knee.

"What time do you close?" Chigur asked.

"Around nine o'clock."

"Nine o'clock," Chigurh repeated. "What time do you go to bed?"

The old man's Adam's apple bobbed. "It's past nine. Going home. Ten o'clock."

"Where do you live?"

"They live right behind here. Walk down this street, turn the corner."

Qiguer picked up the candy from the counter, looked at the nutrition facts label on the packaging, and popped it into his mouth to chew.

The crumpled candy wrappers slowly straightened on the counter, making a soft "rustling" sound.

"How long have you been running this shop?"

"Twenty years."

"Twenty years." Chigurh held the banknote between his fingers and placed it on the counter.

What's the most valuable thing you've ever lost by flipping a coin?

The old man's brows furrowed. "What?"

"Coins, coin tosses, what have you gambled on? What's the most valuable one?"

The old man shook his head. "I don't gamble."

"You didn't understand my question." Chigur reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin.

The silver coin was badly worn; the year on it had been worn away, and the eagle's wings were also worn and indistinct.

He held the coin between his thumb and forefinger and held it up in front of the old man. "Look at this coin," he said, "it's come to you just like you've come to this day."

The old man's gaze shifted from the coin to Qiguer's face.

"Isn't it here?" Chigur placed the coin on the counter, pressed it down with his index finger, and pushed it in front of the old man.

"It came to you today, just as you came to me today."

The old man did not speak.

“Guess what it is,” Chigurh said. “Front or back. If you guess right, I’ll pay you.” He gestured with his chin toward the bag of snacks and the pack of cigarettes. “Then get out of here.”

The old man's lips trembled. "What will I get if I win?"

"Everything, everything, everything your eyes see." Chigur chewed on a candy, the sound of his chewing filling the silence with an eerie sense of oppression.

"Is that all?" The old man hesitated for a moment.

Chigur looked at him. "That's all."

The old man's eyes were fixed on the coin. "What will happen if I lose?"

"If you lose, you lose." Chigurh's voice remained unchanged. "Just like I lose, I lose. The rules are the same for everyone."

The old man opened his lips, as if he wanted to say something, but then swallowed it back.

"I don't need to guess," the old man said. "I don't need these things. Take them. I don't want the money either. Go."

“You’re betting your own life,” Chigurh said. “You just don’t know it.”

"You risked your life the moment you were born from your mother's belly." Chigurh picked up the coin from the counter and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

You have no choice.

He flicked the coin into the air. It spun upwards in the dim light of the grocery store, then spun again as it fell. Chigurh caught the coin with the back of his right hand and covered it with his left palm.

"Guess," Chigur said.

"Front." The old man closed his eyes and chose an answer with trembling hands.

Qiguer lowered his head.

The coin features a blurry image of an eagle with its wings spread.

Qiguer twitched his brow twice, then looked up at the old man.

"Frontline," Chigur said.

The old man's tense body slowly relaxed, and the back of the chair creaked.

Qiguer picked up the bottle of cola and the bag of beef jerky from the counter and put them into his plastic bag.

"Well done," Chigur said.

Chigur glanced down at the coin, then looked up at the old man.

"Don't mix this coin with other money. It saved your life. Keep it in a separate pocket. Otherwise, you might forget it saved your life someday when you need it."

Qiguer turned and walked towards the door. After taking two steps, he stopped and did not look back.

The doorbell rang, and the door closed.

The old man sat in the chair, listening to the sound of the gray sedan starting up. The engine hummed, the tires rolled over the gravel road, the sound grew fainter and fainter, and finally disappeared into the twilight.

He looked down at the coin still lying on the counter. He reached out, picked it up, and held it in his hand.

The coin was cold, and its rough texture made his palms ache.

He let out a long breath, grabbed the counter, and slowly bent down to pick up the newspaper that had just fallen to the ground.

Because his hands were still shaking, he couldn't hold the edge of the newspaper and had to try twice to pick it up.

He unfolded the newspaper again, sat back in his chair, and began to read the news in black and white again.

At that moment, the old man heard a sound—the sound of an engine.

Before he could even look up, the wall behind him shattered.

Bricks, mortar, and iron frames flew in together, and the front of a black SUV crashed through the wall, into the counter, and hit the old man.

The old man's body was pushed backward by the front of the vehicle, crashing into the shelf behind him. The shelf collapsed, and cans, bottles, and boxes rained down.

The old man was trapped between the front racks of the car. His eyes were still open and his mouth was still moving, but his body had been flattened on the racks.

The car headlights were still on, shining on the broken bricks and snacks scattered on the ground, and on the old man's distorted face.

Chigur sat in the driver's seat, his hands on the steering wheel, his expression unchanged. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

Qiguer turned off the engine, took out the key, opened the car door, and got out.

His leather shoes stepped on the broken bricks, and on the coin the old man had dropped on the ground; he didn't even look at the coin.

He walked around the front of the car, went to the counter, bent down and picked up a bottle of Coke from the ground.

There was a layer of dust on the Coke bottle. Chigur wiped it with his sleeve, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip.