South of the river dam, on the large open space in front of a row of bungalows, Uncle Zhang rubbed his hands together, his tone displeased.
"Even when hitting a dog, you should look at the owner. And here I am, the owner, standing right next to you, watching my own dog get beaten. Does that seem right to you?"
No, it doesn't!
Just before, Xiao Jiang hit the dog, sending it flying 2 meters with a single slap. It looked scary, but Uncle Zhang was a pig killer.
Every day, he dealt with things ordinary people didn't, and back in his busiest days, with a knife in his hand, he could slaughter six pigs in one day.
Then there was the cleaver he wielded, chopping bones and meat. His life's skill was all in his arms.
As for his diet, it was good. Pig offal, pig intestines—he never ran short of them. Uncle Zhang ate heartily, and his arms were, frankly, bigger than others' thighs.
