Chapter 410: Explosion! Film Emperor “Blackmailed” on the Street Late at Night?
“Ka—!”
As Gu Zhiyuan finished that roar.
Jiang Ci, who a second ago had been hysterically shouting “My name is Chen San” on the stage,
went limp and slid down along the microphone stand.
His butt had barely hit the ground when a snore erupted.
Instant sleep.
And the film emperor who had just used his back to act, aloof and noble, was no better off.
Gu Huai took off his bow tie, casually leaned against a dusty flight case nearby,
stretched his long legs out with no regard for appearances, and closed his eyes to rest.
“Alright, stop playing dead.”
Lin Wan clicked along in her high heels and walked in, looking at the scattered “ruined soldiers” on the floor,
her eyes slightly red, but her mouth still merciless: “If you didn’t know better you’d think this was a refugee camp. Wrap! Two days off!”
She snapped her fingers, and several assistants behind her immediately stepped forward: “The car’s outside, we’ll take you back to the Sheraton, have a good shower and a sleep.”
“No.”
Two voices answered at the same time.
Jiang Ci groggily opened one eye, while Gu Huai kept his shut.
“Hmm?” Lin Wan raised an eyebrow.
Gu Huai opened his eyes, and there was an unusually stubborn look about him.
“I’m not going back.”
“The ‘Chen San smell’ hasn’t worn off. If I go back and shower, the feeling from just now will be gone.”
He turned to Jiang Ci: “Let’s find a place nearby, squeeze in somewhere?”
Jiang Ci yawned, rolled over and sat up, giving Gu Huai a thumbs-up:
“Brother Huai, you’re ruthless.”
“But I should warn you, there’s only one guesthouse around here,”
“Standard room eighty, no window, soundproofing basically nonexistent — you’ll hear the neighbor fart and still be able to tell it’s chive filling.”
Gu Huai’s mouth twitched, then he calmly nodded: “That’ll do.”
Lin Wan looked at these two lunatics, then finally fixed her gaze on the equally expectant Gu Zhiyuan, helplessly rubbing her temples.
“Fine, you guys are artists, be lofty.” Lin Wan tossed the car keys to an assistant, “I need to get back to the company to finish the script, I won’t accompany you. See you in two days.”
…
Two a.m.
Suburban guesthouse, Room 302.
Three single beds squeezed into a ten-some-square-meter space, leaving almost no room to step.
Gu Huai sat on the middle bed,
staring at a bright red pair of underwear hanging from the headboard, the four golden characters “Great Luck and Great Profit” printed on them, lost in five minutes of life contemplation.
“This is…” Gu Huai hesitated, pointing at the red underpants.
“A talisman for the house.” Jiang Ci was washing his feet with a basin, not looking up,
“The last pair tore, this is the spare. Brother Huai, don’t disdain it, it’s been blessed, wards off evil.”
Gu Huai: ”…”
Gu Zhiyuan lay on the innermost bed, already snoring like thunder.
“Grumble—”
A loud sound shattered the quiet.
Gu Huai instinctively clutched his stomach, looking a bit embarrassed.
Jiang Ci took his feet out of the basin, dried them, slipped on his slippers, eyes shining: “Hungry?”
Gu Huai nodded modestly: “A little.”
“Let’s go.” Jiang Ci grabbed that tattered coat and draped it over himself, “I’ll show you the world.”
…
Ten minutes later.
The back alley of Yingshi City, a whole street of smoky, fiery “dirty stalls.”
Three figures sat furtively on the smallest plastic stools in the corner.
Gu Huai was fully disguised.
Black trench coat collar turned up high, hat brim pulled down over his brows,
a black mask on his face, only a pair of watchful eyes exposed.
“Brother Huai,” Jiang Ci skillfully poured boiling water over some greasy bowls and chopsticks,
“if you dress like that, strangers might think you came to collect protection money.”
“You don’t understand.” Gu Huai’s voice muffled behind the mask, “This is professional demeanour.”
“Cut it out.” Jiang Ci pushed the scalded bowls and chopsticks toward him,
“Here, nobody cares about looks, they only care about meat.”
The owner brought over a charcoal copper pot, red oil boiling, the aroma brazenly stabbing into their noses.
“Beef tripe, yellow throat, duck intestines, and two jin of lamb slices!”
Jiang Ci shouted, then tossed a plate of beef tripe into the pot.
Gu Huai looked at the reddened broth, hesitated, and reached for his chopsticks.
He picked up a slice of tripe and, copying Jiang Ci, swirled it in the pot.
“Seven up and eight down, count in your head.” Jiang Ci coached from the side, “Oh right! When you lift it—I’ll go!”
Gu Huai’s hand shook, a few drops of scalding broth splashed onto the back of his hand.
This film emperor who walked the red carpet with composure was suddenly flustered,
jerking his hand back, the tripe on his chopsticks “plop” falling back into the pot and sinking.
“Tsk tsk tsk.” Jiang Ci shook his head and sighed, full of frustrated pity,
“Life level nine cripple, Brother Huai. That tripe’s ruined, old and tough.”
Gu Huai looked at the slightly reddened skin on his hand,
then at Jiang Ci’s aggravating face, and competitiveness flared unexpectedly.
“Again.” Gu Huai picked up his chopsticks, eyes more focused than when acting.
While the two were battling over a few tripe slices,
a few sneaky camera flashes flickered behind a utility pole not far off.
Gu Huai froze mid-chop, his expression turning cold.
“Someone’s there.”
“Seen them ages ago.”
Jiang Ci didn’t look up, scooped a big mouthful of lamb from the pot,
and mumbled with food in his mouth, “They’ve been squatting there half an hour, their legs must be numb.”
They were paparazzi who often staked out the studio city.
Tonight they planned to catch some B-list star scandal,
but luck struck big: they filmed Gu Huai and Jiang Ci eating skewers late at night!
This was a massive scoop!
Top film emperor and up-and-coming emperor getting drunk on the street? Any headline would explode!
The paparazzi’s hands trembled with excitement as they prepared to retreat and file their pieces.
“Hey! You guys!”
Jiang Ci suddenly turned, still holding disposable chopsticks,
and yelled in the utility pole’s direction: “Finished shooting? Come over and sit for a bit?”
The paparazzi froze.
Run? Or stay?
Before they could react, Jiang Ci was already standing,
wobbling as he carried half a bottle of beer toward them.
“Don’t run.” Jiang Ci threw an arm around the lead paparazzo’s neck, that natural familiarity,
that easy charm acting like long-lost brothers, “It’s late and not easy, you’ve been buzzing around for us Brother Huai, right?”
The paparazzo stared at the enlarged face before him, trembling, then glanced at the distant figure who still radiated aura even while sitting on a plastic stool, and stammered: “Teacher… Teacher Jiang, we were just passing by…”
“Passing by’s great!” Jiang Ci hauled the paparazzi over to the table, “Passing by is fate. Come, come, sit and eat.”
The paparazzi were forced to sit, staring at the boiling red oil pot, shivering.
Is this a Hongmen Feast or what?
“How are the photos?” Jiang Ci clamped a piece of lamb into the paparazzi’s bowl, “Is the composition decent? Did you make Brother Huai look handsome?”
The paparazzo, shaking, handed over the camera.
Jiang Ci flipped through some shots, frowning: “No, this won’t do, lighting too dim, too much noise. This one makes Brother Huai look one meter fifty tall.”
He handed the camera to Gu Huai: “Brother Huai, you judge.”
Gu Huai took the camera and removed his mask.
That face that sent countless fans into fits of screaming, right there under the dim streetlight, seriousness on display.
“The angle is indeed wrong.” Gu Huai pointed at the screen, earnestly discussing technique with the paparazzo,
“Next time you shoot me eating, angle the lens slightly up so my jawline looks cleaner.”
“And when shooting tripe, don’t snap at the mouth-open moment; capture the chew-and-savor afterward, that tells more of a story.”
Paparazzo: ”???”
Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?
Am I listening to the film emperor teach me how to secretly photograph him?
“Okay, lesson’s over.” Jiang Ci hung the camera back around the paparazzo’s neck and clapped his hands,
“You can take the photos, exclusive, post them as you please. But…”
Jiang Ci gestured at the wreckage on the table: “You guys should show some appreciation for this meal, right?”
“Huh?” The paparazzi were stunned.
“Huh what?” Jiang Ci was self-righteous,
“You took our images to make money, isn’t buying the subjects a hotpot too much to ask? This is copyright exchange, you know the law?”
The paparazzi looked at Jiang Ci’s cheeky face, then at Gu Huai beside him who clearly tacitly approved of such tactics.
Their resolve collapsed.
Ten minutes later,
the paparazzi went to the owner teary-eyed to settle the bill, glancing back every few steps as they left.
They not only failed to dig up dirt, they ended up paying three hundred yuan for the hotpot.
“Is that… settled?” Gu Zhiyuan belched and looked blank.
“What else?” Jiang Ci picked his teeth, utterly content, “It’s resource reallocation. They got traffic, we hitched a meal—win-win.”
Gu Huai put his mask back on, watching the paparazzi’s retreating backs with amusement in his eyes.
“Jiang Ci.”
“Yeah?”
“Next time they shoot me, remind me to suck in my stomach.”
Jiang Ci froze, then burst into laughter: “Hahaha! Brother Huai, you’re getting bad influence!”
…
Early the next morning, Weibo exploded.
A photo set titled “Top Film Emperor Caught Eating Skewers Late at Night, Suspected of Being ‘Spiritually Controlled’ by Jiang Ci” rocketed to the top trending spot.
In the photos, Gu Huai sat on a low stool, mask on,
but the tense look in his eyes as he fought for a piece of tripe was clear.
Beside him, Jiang Ci in a shabby suit smiled unrestrainedly, shoving a large bite of meat into Gu Huai’s bowl.
Only overflowing everyday warmth and brotherhood poured off the screen.
Netizen comments went wild:
[Is this really the otherworldly Film Emperor? He looks all tugged and frenzied over a bite!]
[Jiang Ci is toxic, right? He turned the emperor into the neighborhood uncle!]
[Is this the catering for King of Extras? Looks delicious, I want to be ‘spiritually controlled’ by Jiang Ci too!]
…
The two-day break vanished in a blink.
Morning sun pierced the mist, lighting the mottled wall of the old theater.
The shuttle bus labeled “Commuter Shuttle” stopped again.
Jiang Ci, Gu Huai, and Gu Zhiyuan stood side by side at the entrance.
Gu Zhiyuan had shaved his beard, eyes clear;
Gu Huai had regained his alienating, cold energy, only now with a thermos cup in hand;
Jiang Ci still wore that ill-fitting Chen San costume, but the roguish smile in his eyes had reined in.
“Last scene.”
Gu Zhiyuan looked at the theater doors, took a breath and steeled himself like a general about to go to battle.
“This is Chen San’s final scene, and the soul of this film.”
“Acceptance speech.”
Jiang Ci adjusted the red underpants bought from a street stall for fifty yuan.
He looked up and grinned at Gu Huai.
“Brother Huai, ready to listen to me brag?”
Gu Huai twisted the thermos cap, took a sip of goji berry water, and calmly said:
“The stage is yours.”
“Don’t mess it up.”