Vol 2 Chapter 594 Little Bastards and Playwrights

Bill’s father died, a week after Bill turned eleven.

Big Bill was a porter at the dock. On the day of the accident, he was hit on the thumb of his left foot by a box full of frozen fish, and his bones were shattered like crushed peanuts.

After hastily treated at the hospital not far from the dock, Big Bill went home to rest, but unexpectedly the wound turned out to be tetanus.

Big Bill had a high fever for three days, and finally passed away talking nonsense.

A strong man in his thirties died just like that.

When watching his father’s body being taken away, Bill couldn’t believe that all this was really happening.

He looked at his father’s livid face, feeling that he would wake up at any time, and then smiled until the beard on his lips was raised, and the wrinkles around the corners of his eyes stretched to his cheeks, and then said, this is to amuse him.

But my father didn’t wake up after all, and the corpse with a special smell was pulled away by people.

Bill’s mother left their father and son very early, and his father was a rare man among the dock workers who didn’t drink, and he was very kind to Bill. They have a good father-son relationship.

When something like this happened, Bill always felt that he should cry a lot, but the strange thing was that he couldn’t cry.

This caused a slight panic in his heart, as if the day was extraordinarily long one day, and the night did not know where it went. When such a thing happened, it would always make people panic.

In order to relieve this panic, Bill did something.

He first cleaned up the house, and cleaned it up according to his father’s instructions and requirements. The clothes were all hung up and sorted, and the boots were polished.

His father said: “Without a woman around, a man has to live a good life.”

Then he went to settle some personal grievances.

The Woody brothers are a bunch of little **** in the downtown area. Once they blocked Bill in the public toilet and beat him up because he didn’t like it.

At this time, he didn’t have any timidity in his heart, so he asked the Woody brothers to settle the account. A man found them on the street and directly fought them with wooden sticks. on the ground,

My father said: A man must maintain his dignity.

After this battle, he was also seriously injured. One of his eyes was swollen high, he couldn’t see anything, his ears were buzzing, and his chest hurt a little when he inhaled, suspecting that his rib was broken.

A few minutes after the fight, the pain finally surfaced, and the pain in several parts of his body made him breathe cold air.

Although it was very painful, he still couldn’t cry. It was as if the doctor had given an anesthetic in my heart, and the pain never appeared, which made people very suspicious.

He didn’t want to go home yet, he limped down the streets of Xiacheng, and people didn’t know what happened to him when they saw him.

Soon, he walked near the park and saw a boy sitting quietly on a bench.

He was holding a red pen in his hand and was holding a brown notebook, on which he was writing something. His eyes were serious, and there was a kind of complacent leisure in that seriousness. Bill was envious of people with such eyes.

Bill had seen this boy his age, and he knew his name was Wordsworth. However, he didn’t know what he was doing at the moment.

Seemingly attracted by the quiet, comfortable atmosphere around Wordsworth, Bill sat beside him.

“What are you doing?” Bill asked.

Wordsworth looked up from his own world and turned to see Bill who was obviously injured, but he didn’t seem too surprised.

He turned the notebook in his hand towards Bill at an angle, so that he could see the elegant handwriting on the notebook: “I’m trying to write an opera script.”

“Opera? A script?”

“Uh…” Wordsworth put the cap on, “that’s the story.

“I’m trying to write my own story.”

“Why write a story?” Bill couldn’t understand. It seems that writing stories can’t make money. If you don’t make money, how can a man support himself? -Why write a story?

Wordsworth heard an interesting question, he frowned and tilted his head, showing an expression that an eleven-year-old boy would not normally show: “I don’t know. It’s like wanting to go out for a walk on a sunny day, not too specific. Reason. When I’m free, I want to write stories.”

Bill just learned how to spell the words “seagull” and “steel”, and this Wordsworth actually started writing stories.

This had to make him feel some admiration.

“Can I read your story?” Bill asked suddenly.

Wordsworth looked a little surprised, but soon calmed down. He looked at the line of handwriting on the book and said, “Yes. But the book is not completely written yet. Can I show you the big idea of ​​this story?”

No one would refuse to listen to a story, Bill sniffed and nodded.

Wordsworth patiently turned the book to the first few pages, and slowly began to speak.

It’s a very simple story, but Wordsworth writes it brilliantly with all the words and phrases an eleven-year-old boy knows.

The story takes place in ancient times. There was a town surrounded by city walls and was targeted by an evil dragon. The dragon was guarding outside the city. As long as anyone dared to leave the city, he would be eaten by him. Therefore, no one dared to leave the city.

But if it goes on like this, no one will go out hunting and shopping, and the people in the city will starve to death. They had a meeting and decided to send men in armor and swords to kill the dragon.

This should be done by the young and powerful, but the young people in the city are busy getting married, having children, eating, drinking, and having fun, and they dare not leave the city. In the end, the discussion is over.

People would rather starve to death in the city than go out and challenge the dragon for everyone.

However, some people are different from others.

One night, an old man who was not welcome by young people in the city put on his armor, picked up a sword, and left the city alone.

This old man had no family and no worries. He couldn’t bear to watch the people in the city starve to death like this, so he decided to be that warrior without being a warrior.

Choosing to start at night is not only to avoid people’s eyes and ears, but also to sneak attack while the dragon is sleeping.

The ending of the story is that after dawn, people found that the dragon was dead, and the old man in armor also died beside the dragon. He perished with the dragon.

Bill realized that Wordsworth was indeed writing an opera script. He wrote the rhyming lyrics for the old hero and sang it in an aria, in a childish, yet uplifting voice.

Listening to Wordsworth talking about the ending of the story, the soul that had been numb seemed to be awakened by something, like a frozen stream suddenly flowing.

Bill’s nose was sour, and a heat surged in his heart, rushing directly to his eyes. Tears fell just like that.

Bill knew why he was crying: when Wordsworth was telling the story, he saw the figure of the old dragon slayer. UU reading www. uukanshu.com

Although the age did not match, the man he saw wearing armor and holding a sword was his father, old Bill.

In this story, the father no longer dies by hitting his middle toe with a wooden crate carrying frozen fish. He died like a hero.

Bill’s tears first flowed to himself, then he wept bitterly, and finally he burst into tears. Tears flooded like spring rain.

After reciting the script, Wordsworth was a little overwhelmed for a while – he didn’t know that his story was so touching.

Because Bill was crying too deeply, he had to wait quietly beside him, waiting for the rain to gradually decrease.

Tears were mixed with the dried blood on his face. Bill cried so much that his entire face was covered in tears. He choked and asked, “Why, why… this old man doesn’t have a name?”

“I haven’t thought of a name yet.” Wordsworth knew that Bill was a “little bastard” unlike himself. But what he didn’t expect was that the little **** would cry like this.

After a long while, Bill swallowed several times, as if begging, “Can you…can you call him Bill?”

“Bill?” Wordsworth took out a handkerchief and gave it to the guy, “A name with you?”

Bill wiped his face with a handkerchief and nodded. It’s actually the same name as my dad.

Dad died, but he died heroically.

Seemingly unable to refuse such a request, Wordsworth smiled and nodded: “Okay, let’s call him Bill.”

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