I manufacture weapons in the Middle East and am wanted globally?

Anyone who has been to war-torn regions like Africa and the Middle East knows that the gap between the rich and the poor is extremely large, which creates a very common problem.

The poor at the bottom of society band together!

In Daraa, Syria, the "garbage street" is actually a commercial street formed by the clustering of several surrounding slums.

Chen Zheng parked the second-hand Toyota Hilux pickup truck on the outskirts of the garbage street.

It's a 2005 model with a 2.5-liter turbocharged diesel engine. His dad bought it from the French peacekeeping forces, and after they withdrew, all of these things were sold off cheaply!

Industry is the most valuable, but industrial products are sometimes the least valuable.

It's said that... US AR guns in Iraq are sold by weight!

Before Chen Zheng even got out of the car, the smell wafted in.

Garbage Street is called Garbage Street because it is right next to Delaware's largest open-air garbage dump.

Syria's garbage disposal method is simple: pile it up, burn some of it, and let the wind blow the rest away.

He used to accompany his father to buy goods. The garbage street not only has garbage, but also hardware, second-hand parts, and stockpiles of inventory that have been smuggled from who-knows-where.

Syrian businessmen are very shrewd; traders from Jordan, Lebanon, Iraq, and even Turkey flock here. If you're willing to look, you can always find something good.

He parked the car, turned off the engine, and took the key out and held it in his hand.

As soon as I opened the car door, a group of children surrounded me.

They didn't speak, they just stood there staring at him, like a pack of wild dogs waiting to be fed.

Chen Zheng ignored them and lowered his head to lock the car door.

When I looked up again, there were four more women.

You can't tell her age; she could be anywhere from twenty to forty. Her makeup is so heavy it looks like she's painted a wall, and the smell of cheap perfume overpowers the stench of a garbage dump.

One of them approached, grinning to reveal a gold tooth, and said in Arabic, "Boss, wanna play? 200 pounds, very cheap."

200 Syrian pounds.

Around 35 RMB.

In China... even the aunties in the alleyways near movie theaters are at least 50. Don't ask me how I know.

He took a step back and waved his hand, saying, "No, no."

The woman with the gold teeth persisted, taking a step forward: "It's very cheap, very comfortable, and I'm skilled."

Chen Zheng's face darkened, and he said in Arabic, "I said, no."

The children moved closer, their eyes fixed on his pockets.

In places like this, if you take out your wallet, these kids can surround you in a second, and then your money will disappear.

He took a step to the side, bypassed the group of women, and walked straight into the garbage street.

After walking about 20 meters, I turned around and the group of people had already dispersed.

They were waiting for the next bus.

The main street of Garbage Street is not long, about 300 meters long, and is crowded with tin sheds and dilapidated brick houses on both sides. The ground is compacted soil mixed with engine oil, rotten vegetable leaves, and excrement from some unknown animal, which is a bit sticky underfoot.

The stalls on both sides displayed a wide variety of items.

An old man was squatting there selling used tires. The tires were stacked higher than the man himself, but they looked like they came from some battlefield.

Next door was a motorcycle repairman, with disassembled parts scattered on the ground. A boy squatted to one side, tightening screws with a wrench. Further ahead was a fabric vendor, with colorful headscarves hanging on a rope, fluttering in the wind. There was also a vegetable vendor, whose vegetable leaves were wilted, with flies crawling around on them. The woman selling vegetables didn't chase them away; she just sat there in a daze.

Chen Zheng walked quickly, his eyes scanning both sides, until he reached the entrance of a hardware store.

The shop is small, with a faded blue sign that reads "Khalid Hardware" in Arabic and English. Several buckets of engine oil, a pile of pipes, and a few shovels are placed at the entrance, all covered in dust.

Chen Zheng lifted the plastic curtain at the door and went inside.

It's a bit cooler inside the shop than outside, but it's still stuffy.

The shelves were crammed full, displaying all sorts of odds and ends—screws, nuts, drill bits, grinding wheels, flashlights—and the air smelled of rust and machine oil mixed together.

A young man was squatting on the ground, packing things into a cardboard box.

He was wearing a gray robe, covered in dust, and a checkered headscarf. Hearing the noise, he called out without looking up, "Welcome."

Then he looked up.

Upon seeing Chen Zheng, he paused for a moment, then grinned.

"Hey, Chen!" He stood up, dusting off his hands. "Long time no see!"

His name is Khalid al-Assad, he's twenty-five, and the young owner of this shop. Of course, his "Assad" has nothing to do with the president; in Syria, there are almost as many people named Assad as there are named Mohammed.

He and Chen Zheng have a good relationship; they are rare friends.

The same number as Zhang Wei.

Chen Zheng walked over and shook hands with him: "Khalid, how have you been lately?"

"It's alright, it's alright." Khalid smiled, revealing a set of slightly crooked teeth. "What would you like to drink? Tea? I have some cold ones here."

"No need to trouble yourself."

"Don't be shy." Khalid had already turned and walked inside, lifting another curtain and calling out, "Mom! Two cups of black tea! Cold!"

A woman's indistinct voice came from inside.

Khalid walked back, carried over two plastic stools, handed one to Chen Zheng, and sat down on the other himself. The stool legs were a little wobbly, so he adjusted his posture to steady himself.

"I heard something happened to your family?" He stopped laughing and lowered his voice.

Chen Zheng leaned back in his chair, sighed, and didn't hide anything from him: "Two workers were injured on the job. One broke his leg, and the other broke three ribs. Their families blocked the factory gate with machetes this morning, demanding $3000 within three days."

Khalid frowned: "Three thousand dollars could buy his life! Those bastards!"

Khalid looked at him and said earnestly, "Chen, I know you're having a hard time. If there's anything I can help you with, just say the word. I can't say how much money I have, but I can still scrape together a few hundred US dollars. Take it and get through this."

Chen Zheng waved his hand: "No need, Khalid, thank you, I can figure out the money."

Before Khalid could say anything more, the curtain was lifted, and a middle-aged woman wearing a headscarf came out carrying a tray with two glasses on it. Water droplets condensed on the glass, and the contents were a pale yellow liquid with a few mint leaves floating in them.

"Thank you, Auntie," Chen Zheng said in Arabic, taking the cup.

The woman smiled, turned around, and went back.

Khalid picked up his cup, took a big gulp, and let out a long sigh: "That feels good." Then he looked at Chen Zheng, "You said you could figure out the money issue, how? Your factory hasn't had much work lately, has it?"

Chen Zheng reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun barrel.

He pushed it towards Khalid.

Khalid glanced down, paused, and then glanced down again.

He put down the cup, reached out and picked up the gun barrel, weighed it in his hand, and looked at it closely. He first examined the outer surface, running his fingers over the marks left by the cutting tool, then held it up and peered into the light coming from the doorway.

I watched it for a full half minute.

He lowered the gun barrel, looked up at Chen Zheng, and his expression was somewhat complicated.

"Your factory has started making this?"

The tone sounded like... a sigh of regret for the young woman working as a prostitute.

"Driven by the necessities of life."

"45 steel." Khalid stuck his little finger into the barrel. "Deep-hole drilled, reamed, rifling, four right-hand twists, 240, right?"

Chen Zheng was a little surprised: "You know about this?"

Khalid chuckled. "What kind of parts haven't you seen, running a hardware store? Besides, this place..." He gestured towards the outside, "Those workshops behind Garbage Street can make anything, except this."

He tapped the gun barrel with his knuckles, making a clanging sound.

"But they can't do that kind of thing."

He said, "The inner wall is so smooth, and the rifling is so even. They can't make it like that. Their drilling machine is an old Soviet product. It's so bad that it's always off-center when drilling a hole. They have to hand-crank it to rifling. The rifling looks like it was chewed by a dog. The difference between them and you is like a Filipino monkey just learning to speak human language."

He lowered his voice as he spoke.

"Chen, your family used to make appliance parts, that's fine. But if you start doing this, the local workshop owners will gang up on you, and if necessary, they'll stop at nothing!"

Chen Zheng looked at him.

Why?

Khalid chuckled and pointed to the gun barrel: "Are you playing dumb with me? Do you know how long it takes them to make this thing? One gun barrel, from round steel to finished product, takes them three days, three days, and that's only if they're experienced craftsmen, and they're lucky enough not to produce any defective parts. If they do produce defective parts, they can only sell them as sex toys. But what about your machine? DMG's five-axis machine, does it take half a day? A whole day to do this?"

Chen Zheng didn't speak. He was afraid that if he talked for 12 minutes, the other person would think he was crazy!

Khalid continued, "They sell their gun barrels for $50 each. Yours, if you take it to the black market, as long as the price isn't too outrageous, people will be fighting over it!"

The barrel determines the lifespan of a weapon. If it explodes while you're firing, what's the point of playing?

He lowered the gun barrel and looked at Chen Zheng: "So they'll gang up on you, cause you trouble, cut off your supplies, throw dead cats and dogs into your factory, and send people to cause trouble in your area. You know how people work here."

Chen Zheng remained silent for a while.

He knew Khalid was telling the truth.

He had also seen those small workshops on the outskirts of the garbage street.

A few broken lathes, a few hand-cranked drills, and a group of old men and young men were working there, huffing and puffing.

Compared to them, our four machines are indeed a case of being outmatched.

"I have my own difficulties," Chen Zheng said.

Khalid nodded, offering no further advice. He thought for a moment, then asked, "You came to me wanting me to help you find a buyer?"

Chen Zheng nodded.

Khalid stood up, walked to the door, and lifted the curtain to look outside. The street was still the same; there weren't many people, and a few idlers were squatting in the shade drinking tea. He lowered the curtain, walked back, sat down next to Chen Zheng, and lowered his voice.

"I know a few reputable ones. Come back this afternoon and I'll ask them if they're interested in stocking up recently."

Chen Zheng nodded: "Thanks, Khalid. You can contact the customer for me, and you'll get 10% of the payment."

Friendship is friendship, and interests are interests.

No one dislikes money; otherwise, Jesus wouldn't have been sold for 30 pieces of silver, which is about 66 US dollars.

Khalid's eyes lit up. "I guarantee I'll find you a good client."

After finishing his tea, Chen Zheng suddenly remembered something and turned around to ask, "Do you have any 9×18mm Makarov ammunition here?"

Khalid stood up, walked behind the counter, bent down and rummaged around for a while, then dragged out an iron box from the corner. The iron box was dusty and had Russian writing on it. He opened it and found rows of bright yellow bullets wrapped in oiled paper.

"200." Khalid handed the metal box to Chen Zheng. "That's enough for you."

Chen Zheng took it and weighed it in his hand: "How much?"

Khalid waved his hand: "We're all friends, why would I need money?"

Chen Zheng looked at him.

Khalid grinned, revealing a set of uneven teeth: "Haven't you already made me a profit?"

Chen Zheng smiled, and without further ado, tucked the iron box under his arm and left.

Khalid stood in the shop, listening to the footsteps outside fade into the distance, before putting down the barrel of his gun.

"Another CNC prodigy has fallen from grace."

This is called "when in Rome, do as the Romans do"!

Khalid picked up his phone and started dialing.

...