Delong's Rage and Rally

On the southern outskirts of Seattle, on the edge of an industrial area eroded by time and neglect, rusted railway tracks, like the skeletons of dead beasts, silently meander through the overgrown wasteland.

A few low-rise factory buildings, their exterior paint peeling and windows boarded up or covered with dirty plastic sheeting, are scattered about. The air is thick with the acrid smell of machine oil, garbage, and some kind of volatile chemical. This is a forgotten corner of the city, a crack where the sun never shines.

One of the factory buildings, with its exterior walls painted with faded, dark red, blurry "XX Machinery Repair" lettering, was an important stronghold of the Wild Dog Gang in the southern district. The factory gate was crooked and barely held up by an iron chain. But behind an inconspicuous small iron gate painted green on the side, however, lay a hidden world.

Behind the door was a dimly lit corridor piled with clutter, leading to an office hastily partitioned off with steel plates and bricks. It was more of a hideout than an office. The room, less than twenty square meters, was filled with a strong mixture of smells: tobacco, cheap marijuana, sweat, and leftover food.

The walls were filthy, covered with faded posters and a few blurry photos. A crippled desk was piled with empty bottles, fast food wrappers, several curled-up pornographic magazines, and half-disassembled, greasy handgun parts. Two dirty sleeping bags lay in the corner.

Right now, this office is experiencing a storm.

"Aaaaaah--!! Fuck! Fuck the fuck! Fuck!!!"

Delong's roar was like that of a wounded beast, rampaging through the cramped space, making the walls seem to tremble. His intact left hand was waving wildly, slamming everything within reach against the walls, the floor, or even the ceiling!

"Bang!" A half-full Jack Daniel's's whiskey bottle smashed against the metal filing cabinet opposite, splattering glass and brown liquor everywhere, mixing with the dried stains that had long since dried, and flowing down.

"Crash!" He slammed his shoulder against the crippled desk, scattering trash, parts, and magazines all over the floor like a shower of petals. The half-disassembled pistol parts clattered and rolled into the corner.

"Thump! Thump! Thump!" He raised his foot, clad in heavy work boots, and kicked the thin, somewhat warped plywood partition wall frantically, each kick sending dust flying down from the entire wall and ceiling.

His right index finger, which had been broken off by Lü Yi and was now hastily secured with dirty bandages and a splint, was throbbing with excruciating pain due to the violent movement and emotional agitation. But he didn't care; or rather, the pain only fueled his rage.

His face was contorted with rage and humiliation, turning a deep purplish-red, with veins bulging on his forehead and neck like wriggling earthworms.

His bloodshot eyes were bulging out of their sockets, their gaze chaotic and frenzied, burning with a fury that could consume everything. His bald head and face were covered in sweat, dust, and splattered alcohol, his short hair sticking up in a messy mess, his football jacket open, revealing a sweat-soaked gray T-shirt underneath, and his chest heaving violently like a broken bellows.

A disgrace! An unprecedented and utter disgrace!

His fingers were broken in public! He was kicked so hard he almost passed out! He was forced to play that damn "game" with a gun to his head! And finally... he actually knelt on the ground and called that damn, grinning Asia Monkey "Grandpa"!

"Grandfather"!!!

Those two words were like a red-hot branding iron; every time they flashed through his mind, they burned his very soul, making it scream and convulse. He seemed to see again the indifferent yet mocking look in the eyes of that Asia Monkey squatting in front of him, slapping his cheek with a gun; he seemed to hear again the clear, slow countdown, like the whisper of a demon; and finally, his own humiliated, tearful cry of "Grandpa"...

"Ugh—" Delong bent over suddenly, retching violently, but nothing came out. Only the burning sensation of acid and bile surged into his throat. He held onto his knees, panting heavily, sweat dripping from his nose and chin onto the ground, mixing with dust to form a small puddle.

Outside the office, in the dimly lit corridor, two young Black men, dressed in worn-out hoodies and covered in tattoos, stood against the wall, listening to the terrifying noises coming from inside, exchanging a chilling glance.

One of the tall, thin guys, nicknamed "Bamboo Pole," lowered his voice and asked in a low, husky tone, "Hey, Rat, what's going on today? Boss has been like this ever since he got back, like he's gone mad. Weren't you guys supposed to pick up 'goods' at the airport? Where are they? And what happened to the bandage on Boss's hand?"

The one he called "Rat" was the same underling who had gone to the airport with Delong today, witnessed the whole thing, and was later terrified by ABZ. He was short, with shifty eyes, and his face still showed lingering fear. When Bamboo Pole asked him, his face turned pale, and he subconsciously glanced at the closed office door, then at the end of the corridor, as if afraid of being overheard.

He leaned closer to the Bamboo Pole, his voice hushed and rapid, trembling with lingering fear. "Damn it, don't even mention it... We ran into a brick wall! No, we ran into a tank! A bunch of Asia, they looked unremarkable, but their henchmen were all tough guys in black suits, carrying submachine guns! Just like in the movies!"

He quickly recounted what had happened in the airport parking lot, omitting some details but focusing on how Delong was easily taken down, held at gunpoint, and forced to play that "game." Finally, he swallowed hard, his eyes darting around, and added in an almost inaudible voice, "... Then, the boss... the boss was forced to kneel down, and... and even called that Asia kid...'Master.'"

"What?!" Bamboo Pole gasped, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. He instinctively cried out in surprise, then quickly covered his mouth, looking horribly at the office door, afraid that Delong inside would hear. "You... you didn't hear wrong? Boss really... really called out?"

The Rat quickly covered his mouth tightly, its face deathly pale and its eyes filled with terror. "Damn it! Keep your voice down! Don't drag me down with you if you want to die! I heard you perfectly well! I almost peed my pants! You think I wanted to say that?!"

The two were staring at each other in horror when the sounds of smashing and yelling in the office suddenly stopped.

The deathly silence was more unsettling than the commotion that had just transpired.

A few seconds later--

"Bang!!!"

The thin plywood door was suddenly pulled open from the inside with tremendous force, slamming against the wall with a loud bang that sent dust flying from the door frame.

Delong stood at the door.

He looked even more terrifying than he had a few minutes earlier. The flush of rage on his face had faded somewhat, leaving only a morbid, crazed, and resolute pallor. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with spiderweb-like veins, staring blankly, unfocused, yet like two eerie, burning will-o'-the-wisps. His hair was smudged with ash, his face bore traces of dried wine, and his lips were cracked and trembling slightly. His bandaged hand hung limply at his side, while his undamaged left hand was clenched into a tight fist, his knuckles white from the force, and the veins on the back of his hand bulging.

He slowly, extremely slowly turned his stiff neck, his bloodshot eyes like rusty blades, scraping over the Rat and Bamboo Pole at the doorway, who were trembling with fear and almost shrinking into the wall.

The two of them felt a chill run down their spines from his gaze, their legs trembling. They instinctively lowered their heads, unable to meet his eyes.

A hoarse, low sound, like sandpaper scraping, escaped Delong's throat:

"People..."

He paused, took a deep breath, his chest heaving violently, and then suddenly burst into a hysterical roar:

"Gather everyone!!! Now! Immediately! ALL OF THEM!"

Spit almost landed on their faces.

"Bring your weapons! All of them! Rifles! Pistols! Knives! Baseball bats! Bring whatever you can!" Delong's voice was distorted by extreme rage and a kind of desperate, deranged madness. "I'm going to kill those damn Asia Monkey! Now! Immediately! Right now! I'm going to skin them alive! Hang their skins on the door! I'm going to let them know who the hell is in this!!!"

The roar echoed through the empty, dilapidated factory, carrying an apocalyptic madness.

The Rat and the Bamboo Pole trembled in fright, nodding repeatedly without daring to utter a word. They scrambled around and ran deep into the factory, shouting in distorted voices as they ran, "Assemble! The boss's order! Everyone, grab your weapons and assemble! Quickly!"

Delong stood at the doorway, his chest heaving like a bellows, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the void ahead, as if he could already see Lin Feng and Lü Yi being torn to pieces. He muttered nervously, a mixture of vicious curses and roars.

Before long, groups of people began to gather in twos and threes on the uneven, oil-stained, and garbage-strewn open space in front of the factory. They were all members of the Wild Dog Gang in this area, or rather, thugs. The number gradually increased to twenty or thirty, ranging in age from their teens to their thirties, dressed in all sorts of clothes, mostly slovenly, with numbness and rage from long-term life at the bottom of society on their faces, or excitement caused by drugs.

They gathered together, lacking any military discipline. Some squatted in corners, expertly rolling marijuana, taking a deep drag, and then exhaling the grayish-white smoke with satisfaction; others leaned against rusty shipping containers, loudly telling vulgar jokes in slang, shoving and shoving each other; still others fiddled with their weapons—shotguns with sawed-off barrels, old revolvers, baseball bats wrapped in duct tape, and even rusty machetes and chains. The air was thick with the cloying smell of marijuana, the stench of sweat, and a restless, violent undercurrent.

"I heard the boss got into big trouble at the airport?"

"Looks like they got taken care of by a few Asia guys?"

"Really? Asia? Ha, those spineless cowards?"

"Who knew, judging from the boss's appearance, he was like a mad dog..."

"Who cares? As long as there's a fight, I'm itching for a fight anyway."

Whispers and unbridled discussions flowed through the crowd. Fear? Perhaps a little, but more so, a mischievous, gossipy spirit and a blind, incited violence. For these people living on the edge of chaos and violence, a bloody revenge might just be a stimulating collective action, an opportunity for them to prove they are "ruthless," to gain "respect," and a few small benefits.

"Bang!"

A gunshot rang out, abruptly drowning out all the noise.

The crowd fell silent instantly, all eyes turning to the factory entrance.

Delong emerged. He had changed into a black leather jacket, which he wore open. The morbid madness on his face had lessened slightly, but his eyes were even more sinister and ruthless, like a venomous snake eyeing its prey. In his left hand, he held a silver Colt Python revolver, the muzzle still emitting wisps of smoke—the shot he had just fired had been aimed into the air.

He walked step by step to the front of the crowd and stopped. His gaze slowly swept over his men, and everyone he saw unconsciously straightened their chests, looked away, or revealed a more ferocious expression.

Delong spoke, his voice hoarse, but with a deliberately suppressed, chilling calm that was more terrifying than a roar:

"Brothers."

He paused, letting the word ferment in the silence.

"Today, our Wild Dog Gang has had shit smeared on our faces."

He spoke slowly, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, dripping with bloody hatred.

"At the airport. A bunch of yellow-skinned Monkey, who seemed to crawl out of some hole, broke my fingers." He raised his bandaged right hand, his facial muscles twitching. "They pointed guns at my head, toying with me like a dog."

A low, angry murmur arose from the crowd. Regardless of whether they usually submitted to Delong, at this moment, the label of "Wild Dog Gang" and their self-identity as "wolves" rather than "sheep" were touched, and a sense of shared hatred and anger began to grow.

"This isn't just a slap in my face." Delong's voice suddenly rose, his left hand raising the gun again, but not towards the sky, but towards the crowd, moving slowly as if pointing at each and every one of them. "This is a slap in the face to all of us! It's telling the South, telling all of Seattle, that the Wild Dog Gang are a bunch of toothless mangy dogs! A bunch of cowards who won't even bark when their asses are kicked!"

"Roar--!" Someone was provoked and let out a low growl.

"If we cower here like cowards today, too ashamed to retaliate," Delong's eyes widened, his voice cracking with rage, "Then tomorrow, nobody will be afraid of us! Nobody will obediently pay protection money! Nobody will give us face! Those Vietnam, those Mexico, even those homeless people picking up bottles on the street, they'll all be crawling all over us and shitting their ass on us!"

"We'll be despised by everyone! We'll be swept into the gutter like trash!" he roared, the veins in his neck bulging again. "Here, weakness equals death! Today we're cowards, tomorrow we're dead! Do you want to be dead?!"

"NO!!!" The crowd was completely ignited, erupting in a cacophony of violent roars. Young faces were contorted with rage and blind fanaticism, and weapons were raised high in their hands.

"So!" Delong let out a final, beast-like howl with all his might, "Now! Follow me! Go find those damned Asia Monkey! Find them! Tear them apart! Skin them! Hang their skins on our doorstep! Let everyone see what happens when you mess with the Wild Dog Gang!"

"Skin them alive!!" "Kill them!!" "Wild Dog Gang! Roar--!"

The frenzied shouts nearly lifted the dilapidated roof of the factory. The thoroughly incited gang members, brandishing their weapons and with bloodshot eyes, surged like mad dogs released from their cages towards the few old cars and motorcycles parked at the edge of the open space. The engines were violently started, emitting a piercing roar.

Looking at the flames of violence he had personally ignited, Delong's face revealed a cruel, vengeful, and ultimately insane grin. Without further hesitation, he turned and walked towards his modified Chevrolet Camaro, painted with exaggerated flame patterns.

The time for revenge has come.

He wanted to let blood wash away all the shame.