Chapter 4 Four

Around noon, I went to my chief and presented the manuscripts that I had shot.Those red handwriting on the printer paper prove that I lived up to the salary the company gave me-this is a big pile of corpses!Those strokes were like red trickles flowing over the pile of corpses.The male staff members under me lay prone on the ground with their hands folded behind their backs, twisting their necks like slaughtered chickens; the female staff members fell on top of them.The most beautiful flower in my room is lying on someone else's back, her small face is very serene - although she is as light as a swallow, the curve of her upper body is as good as her narrative ability.I shot right under her left breast, and blood was streaming out of her navy blue top.There is another flower in my room, with a strong figure, as if I was knocked down by me during the run, running in the corpse, with two strong long legs sticking out from the skirt.They fell so sexy under my fire, it's too bad you can't see them.The reason I shot them was that the stories were untrue - had no basis in life.The boss flipped through the manuscripts, picked the places I crossed out, and read them.I stared blankly at the sunlight coming in from the window—it shone on the smooth floor, reflected on the ceiling, and when it reflected off the ceiling, it turned into a diffuse white light—closed these manuscripts, and looked at the I smiled silently and put it on the case.Then I stretched out my hand and said: What about yours?I present a few pages of typed paper.

In these new stories, I am either Cleopatra's favourite, or a plesiosaur—the latter measuring fifty-six meters in length and weighing two hundred tons.If it crawled into this office, it would stick its neck out of the window, or make three or four circles, and chat with the boss in this tortuous and tactful posture.I expected the boss to see these stories and fly into a rage, pull out a pistol, blow my head off, and my depression would be completely cured. Our place is different from the Egyptian desert.We are not only symbols written on the wall, but also stories of all kinds of treason.These stories were sent to the head's desk, waiting to be crossed out by the red pen.An "X" was drawn with a red pen. As you know, X is a sex symbol... After reading my manuscripts, the boss smiled and put them in the drawer.This head is about the same age as me, still gorgeous and moving, with thin eyebrows and very sexy painted lips.She stretched out her fingers on the glass plate, thin and pale, reminiscent of silkworms crawling on mulberry leaves-she had a Greek nose, and she was nicknamed Cleopatra, or "C" for short. "K" stretched out his hand again and said: What else?I presented a few pages of typed paper again. This is the eleventh draft of "Teacher-Student Love".She took a quick look and said, "The time has changed to autumn... I just put it on the top of the stack of manuscripts on the desk, without even hitting a fork."Although I couldn't see my face, I knew it had turned gray. "K" put his hand on the glass, his face glowing, and said: Your book has been well received by the market, and has been a bestseller for more than ten years-it doesn't take much effort to rewrite it.My face must have turned the color of a pig's liver. "Ke" knows how to humiliate me best, and after just flipping through it, I can see the biggest change in this draft: the time of the story is changed to autumn.She also said that there is no need to spend a lot of effort on rewriting... In fact, after the manuscript is handed over from me, it will go through dozens of deletions and revisions. When it is finally published, the time will be changed back to summer, which is exactly the same as the first edition.Those words hurt me badly.She's a novelist herself, that's why she's so bad... I silently stood up and got back to work. "Ke" also knew that the joke was not good, so he lowered his voice and said: I will take a good look at your manuscript.She secretly took off her high heels and stretched out her feet, wanting me to step on them.But I didn't step on her.I jumped over it.

I went back to my seat in depression.Now I have nothing to do, I can only write my novel: "The teacher's face is very white, but her eyebrows are wide and black. But the atmosphere in the classroom is oppressive... She repeated the question, the world is silver, I am very upset Willingly replied: You are talking about after the heat death. This is not a question of thermodynamics at all, but a riddle: after the heat death, the whole universe will be cool and hot like a silver ingot. As we all know, silver is the best conductor of heat. On a piece of silver, there will never be one place that is hotter than the other. As for whether anyone will get rich from so much silver, I don't know for sure. So I have solved the mystery.

I turned my head to the window again, where there was an iron fence, and there was some ivy growing over the fence, but someone cut the vines, so the ivy was dying.On the hillside, the pair of squirrels were gone.All that remains is this window, and the dead ivy on it, which reminds me of a darkroom, where there are some ropes hanging across the air, and some film held in bamboo clips is drying on it.The light here is dim and the air is humid, similar to a darkroom. The teacher raised his eyebrows in surprise when he heard the answer.She shook her head, turned and walked towards the podium.What I am writing now is based on life. "Life" is the sound of nature, you must listen attentively.The teacher is about 1.55 meters tall and is tightly bound in a wrinkled silk shirt.She has to tiptoe to write on the blackboard.Sometimes the hair falls over her face, and she gets chalk on her hands, so she blows it with air: her eyes are up, her face is white, and her mouth is pouted, which is really weird—but I have written about it Many times.In a wet classroom with the fluorescent lights on and off..." Every time I write this mystery, I get frustrated because whether I like it or not, I have to go back to the original story and solve the mystery: this is Like self-blasphemy, you can imagine all kinds of strange beginnings, and there is always an ending in the end: sticky hands... I hate this answer. I hate heat death. Now that the answer has been revealed, the story can proceed smoothly .

Now I can talk about what happened in my teacher's bedroom: "Walking into the door of that room, a limp bed was placed facing the door, which filled the whole room and squeezed several small bookshelves. At the edge of the wall. After entering the door, the knees are squeezed tightly beside the bed. At this point, there seems to be nothing to do except turn around and sit down, and if we don't turn around and sit down, we can't close the door. etc. With the door closed, we were facing a wall with a door. There were tiny cracks in the skin, and fine dust accumulated in the raised places. We stayed under this high wall. I found myself in the embrace of the teacher's heavy arms. She grabbed my T-shirt and tried to pull it off my head. It wasn't easy, you can imagine a little lady moving the refrigerator in the corner, and that's what happened. Later She said, "Damn it! You undid the belt. The belt held the shorts, and the shorts held the T-shirt. No wonder she couldn't pull the dress off. She just pulled me off the ground. At this point I was like A prisoner waiting to be hanged, the clothes covered my head like a hood, I couldn’t see anything, and my arms were suspended in the air by the sleeves. I fumbled around to untie the belt. The teacher pulled off the clothes and said to me : I have to take a good look at you - you are a bit strange. At this time, I am holding up my hands, looking like I have surrendered my guns. There are many people in this world who have surrendered their guns, but few are as spectacular as me The appearance of surrender. My arms are very long, and I can touch the door frame while sitting on the bed..."