Chapter Thirty-Six: A Brawl Sparked by a Song (Part Two)

Chapter Thirty-Six: A Brawl Sparked by a Song (Part Two)

“The Pig Song” is, in fact, a children’s tune. Yet in this moment, under these circumstances, anyone listening would sense the mockery—mockery aimed squarely at Lin Xiaofan, calling him a pig. Moreover, line after line of the lyrics seemed to mirror the man standing before them.

Perhaps the opening lines were mere coincidence, matching Lin Xiaofan’s act of blowing his nose, but the lines that followed left no doubt that this was no accident.

Pig! Your ears are so big, flapping and flapping, yet you can’t even hear me calling you a fool.

Pig! Your tail is so tightly curled, you just can’t seem to run or jump without it.

Lin Xiaofan’s rotund figure more than qualified him for such an insult, and his ears were indeed larger than most, protruding conspicuously from his head. The line about a curly tail was an obvious jab at his smug, twisted hairstyle.

A cheerful, simple song, but within a few short lines, it had set Lin Xiaofan’s temper ablaze. Staring at Zhang Le on stage, he felt an almost uncontrollable urge to destroy him.

Once that thought took hold, it refused to let go.

Pig head, pig brain, pig body, pig tail,
A good child who never turns up his nose at food,
Sleeping till the sun is high in the sky,
Never brushing his teeth, never getting in fights,
Pig! Your belly is so round, it’s clear you couldn’t handle a hard life,
Pig! Your skin is so pale, you must’ve been born into a rich family in your past life,
Ohhh—
Legend says your ancestors wielded a rake,
The fortune-teller claims love is your fate,
You giggle at pretty girls,
Never blushing, never afraid,
...

Zhang Le, carried along by the melody, sang with mounting joy and fluidity. The audience below was in stitches, especially the table where Wu Xiaoyong sat; their laughter was unrestrained. But Lin Xiaofan was anything but amused—he was shaking with rage, teetering on the edge of tolerance.

This guy, this guy dares to mock my weight, my large ears, my pig-tail hair, my big belly, my pale skin...

It’s one thing to insult a man, quite another to expose his sore spots.

Fat or big-eared, these were Lin Xiaofan’s deepest taboos. Zhang Le had turned them into a song and belted it out before a crowd.

He looked at the faces around him, all wearing that same mocking, contemptuous smile. When had Young Master Lin ever been so openly ridiculed and scorned?

“You really do look like him!”

As Zhang Le finished his final lyric, he didn’t point at Lin Xiaofan, but everyone could see his gaze settling there. Besides, Zhang Le had already announced that the song was an impromptu composition for Lin Xiaofan.

“The Pig Song, written for Lin Xiaofan.” If that wasn’t calling him a pig by name, what was?

A song created on the spot, yet it insulted a man so thoroughly it left him fuming. The crowd looked at Zhang Le with a new respect. Anyone who accused him of plagiarism now would be unreasonable or simply out of their mind.

Who but a true talent could improvise a song like this? Plagiarism? Faking it? Who would dare fake something like this before so many witnesses?

Besides, even if you wanted to plagiarize, where would you find a song like this?

Truly, his reputation for wit was well deserved.

Of course, most of the patrons here tonight were second-generation heirs, children of privilege. They cared little for musical brilliance; what impressed them was the sheer effectiveness of Zhang Le’s insult.

When it came to verbal sparring, Zhang Le was a true master. Online, a few words from him could send A-list celebrities into a tailspin. Now, with a single song, he’d driven a wealthy scion like Lin Xiaofan to the brink of collapse.

Lin Xiaofan really was on the verge of losing it. He knew all too well what would happen if this song spread. And it would spread—no doubt about that. The media pounced on sensational news like cats on fish, and even among this crowd, plenty would pay a little extra to make the song go viral.

Worse still, he’d paid half a million for this humiliation.

Lin Xiaofan felt a stab of regret for ever provoking Zhang Le. He realized it had been his own remark about “singing for money” that had lit the fuse.

The moment Zhang Le ended with “You really do look like him,” Lin Xiaofan finally snapped. He forgot all decorum, lost all self-control, and was consumed by fury.

“You son of a bitch, you’re looking to die!” Lin Xiaofan roared, grabbed a wine bottle from the table, and hurled it at Zhang Le. He barked at his companions, “Beat the hell out of him!”

He snatched up a chair to throw next, but unlike the bottle, his flabby arms couldn’t send it anywhere near the stage. Even the bottle had only made it as far as the stage, not close enough to touch a hair on Zhang Le’s head.

Lin Xiaofan’s cronies seized bottles from the table and launched a volley at Zhang Le before rushing the stage for a brawl.

Feng Lei, seeing Lin Xiaofan lose his temper and start throwing bottles, didn’t hesitate to join in, grabbing a bottle and flinging it as well.

“Young Master Lin, isn’t this a bit much?” Wu Xiaoyong stood up, his voice cold.

“Screw you!” Lin Xiaofan was beyond reason, his rage boiling over. He even turned his anger on Wu Xiaoyong, and, cursing, hurled a bottle at him.

“Damn it! You want to go crazy? I’ll join you! Beat him!” Wu Xiaoyong dodged just in time, seething with anger. He grabbed a bottle and threw it back.

Fights in bars and clubs weren't uncommon, but this establishment catered to the city’s elite; brawls were virtually unheard of.

Never before had such a thing happened here, so naturally, it was quite the spectacle.

As the two factions clashed, the bystanders stepped aside, laughing, cheering, and urging them on.

Their numbers were about equal, but with someone like Zhang Le on one side, the fight was one-sided from the start.

Zhang Le easily floored those who charged the stage to gang up on him, but suddenly sensed an attack from behind. He shifted aside in an instant, swinging a powerful blow at his assailant.

His opponent was skilled too, pivoting on one foot and countering with a palm strike to Zhang Le’s waist—a classic move from the Eight Trigrams Palm. This man was clearly a master.

Spinning, twisting, advancing, and retreating, his form was fluid and fierce—a dragon in motion, a monkey in retreat, an eagle in his shifts, a tiger in his power. He had mastered the essence of the art. Though his internal energy was still at the basic level, his fighting experience was formidable. Even with Zhang Le’s superior training, he was soon on the defensive.

Though Zhang Le had also learned authentic martial arts, his practical experience was lacking; it was only natural to be outmatched.

“A Biao, stand down!”

A voice rang out. The man instantly withdrew, shot Zhang Le a final look, and returned to stand beside a man in his thirties. Zhang Le, of course, did not pursue.

“Gentlemen, for the sake of my establishment, shall we call it a night? If this continues, I fear my club will be reduced to rubble,” the man said, surveying the scene.