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

"Qinqiang Poor" is a racially discriminatory term originating from anti-Chinese sentiment in the United States in the 19th century and later spreading to the Middle East. It has nothing to do with the Chinese opera "Qinqiang". Its core meaning is an insult to Chinese laborers in the late Qing Dynasty, and its essence is equivalent to "Sick Man of East Asia".

They insulted Chinese people, calling them "as lowly and insignificant as insects."

It is an extremely serious racially discriminatory term.

The young man's voice silenced everyone in the ward, followed by a sharp rebuke from Hassan, who was lying on the bed: "What nonsense are you spouting!"

The young man also saw Chen Zheng sitting inside, and his face turned awkward.

Chen Zheng recognized the guy; he was the one who had threatened to burn down the factory after Hassan was injured, leading a group of men to do so.

He's supposedly a local hoodlum.

Hassan's wife nudged her brother, fidgeting with the envelope in her hand, and said, "The young boss brought the money, don't talk nonsense!"

The young man's eyes flashed with greed when he saw the Syrian pounds inside.

Although Chen Zheng was unhappy with the way they addressed him, he forced himself to stand up and told Hassan and the others to get some rest and that he would come to see them again in a couple of days.

The young man suddenly spoke up: "Stop!"

Then, with a smile on his face, he said, "My brother-in-law and the others are injured. Since you're so rich, you should give them more, right? Give them an extra 20000 Syrian pounds for nutritional expenses. It's just a small amount of money for you anyway."

"Aren't you Chinese people supposed to be very generous?"

Chen Zheng's face darkened. He turned his head and then smiled, saying, "You want money, right? Come here." He then beckoned with his finger.

The other person hesitated for a moment before walking over.

"Fuck your mother!"

Chen Zheng immediately kicked the other man in the chest. The young man's already thin body slammed into the wall with a dull thud.

Chen Zheng grabbed the other man's hair and shoved the gun into his mouth before the man could even cry out.

Upon feeling the "giant" in his mouth, panic and fear flashed in the young man's eyes. He froze on the spot as if he had been electrocuted, his legs trembling and a muffled "woo-woo" sound coming from his throat.

Chen Zheng lowered his voice, his eyes red, and said, each word seemingly squeezed out through clenched teeth, "You son of a bitch, believe me or not, I'll blow your head off!"

Whenever a fight broke out, Chen Zheng felt his scalp tingle and his whole body tremble. This wasn't out of fear, but rather a feeling of...excitement.

I never felt any pain when I was in a group fight before.

A silence fell over the ward.

The patient in the next bed quickly covered his head with the blanket and dared not make a sound.

Chen Zheng turned to look at Hassan and the others, who were also stunned.

In their impression, the young boss was a very mild-tempered person.

He never speaks loudly, always smiles at everyone, and never delays or owes wages; sometimes he even gives extra hundreds of pounds as tea money.

During the Chinese New Year, each worker would also receive a red envelope.

But despite his mild temper, Chen Zheng was not a great philanthropist.

When I was studying in the country, fighting was a common occurrence.

In his first year of high school, a few thugs blocked his classmate's way at the school gate and demanded money. He rushed up alone with a mop handle and broke one of them's nose.

The homeroom teacher was so angry that he slammed his fist on the table and cursed him as "a bandit reincarnated."

He patted the young man's face with a light but firm touch, making a loud slapping sound, like he was patting a dead fish.

"Next time I see you, I'll blow your head off!"

Then, laughing, he pulled the gun out of the other man's mouth, wiped the saliva off the barrel on the young man's clothes, and tucked it back into his waistband.

Then he turned around, smiled at Hassan and the others, and said, "Get some rest, I'll come again next time."

After saying that, he turned and left without looking back.

The sound of footsteps gradually faded away in the corridor.

After he left, the ward was quiet for a full ten seconds.

Hassan's wife cried out and rushed to help her brother.

The young man leaned against the wall, his legs as weak as noodles, his face as white as plaster, his lips trembling, unable to utter a single word for a long time.

"Are you alright? Are you alright?" The woman slapped his face anxiously.

The young man finally caught his breath and burst into tears, his face covered in tears and snot: "He...he had a gun...he shoved a gun into my mouth..."

Hassan's wife turned and shouted at Hassan, who was lying on the hospital bed, "Why didn't you get up to help my brother? Are you dead? What kind of brother-in-law are you?"

Hassan lay on the hospital bed, his chest wrapped in bandages, his left arm in a cast and sling around his neck, unable to move. He tilted his head, looking at his wife, his voice soft, but every word was clear.

"Then why didn't you say anything just now?"

Hassan's wife was taken aback.

"You were standing there, and when he put a gun in your brother's mouth, why didn't you stop him?"

Hassan stared at her. "What are you afraid of? Are you afraid the gun won't have eyes? Are you afraid it'll shoot you too?"

"I..." The woman opened her mouth, but couldn't speak.

"Now that everyone's left, you're getting all excited."

Hassan closed his eyes, his voice filled with an indescribable weariness. "Don't you know what kind of person your brother is? He's always idle and causing trouble, extorting money from this person today and that person tomorrow. Last time he led people to cause trouble at the factory, I told him about it, but he wouldn't listen and insisted on acting like the boss. Now look what happened?"

He opened his eyes and glanced at his brother-in-law.

The young man was still leaning against the wall crying, his crotch was wet, and urine dripped down his trouser leg onto the ground, leaving a dark stain on the dusty cement floor.

Hassan sighed and turned his head to look out the window.

He paused for a moment, then said, "You offended him today, and he retaliated on the spot. That's actually quite good."

"If he doesn't say a word, your brother should be careful."

……

Chen Zheng left the ward and walked down the corridor to the third floor.

He put his hands in his pockets and touched the grip of the APS. It was plastic, a bit rough, but felt good in his hand.

To be honest, he was a little nervous just now.

If that kid isn't afraid of death and insists, he might not dare to fire.

It's not that I'm afraid to kill, it's just that killing someone in a hospital is too much trouble.

After all, things aren't completely chaotic yet!

But that kid chickened out.

It's right to back down.

Ninety-nine percent of people in this world are cowards; the only difference lies in whether the way they scare them is right or wrong.

He went up to the third floor and pushed open the door to the ward.

His father was already asleep, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling like an old blower.

The IV dripped slowly, the clear liquid flowing down the thin tube into the indwelling needle on the back of his hand.

His mother sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the brown paper envelope in her hand, her head down, lost in thought.

"Mom." Chen Zheng walked over and sat down next to her.

His mother looked up; her eyes were still red, but she didn't cry.

"Your dad's asleep," she whispered, gesturing towards the bed. "He was just talking about you. How are Hassan and the others?"

"Your body is recovering very well."

Chen Zheng nodded and took out a wad of US dollars from another pocket, in hundred-dollar bills. Franklin's smiling face was particularly dazzling under the light.

His mother's eyes widened when she saw the stack of money.

Chen Zheng handed over the money, "2000 US dollars, take it for now. I'll bring you some more in a couple of days."

His mother took the money, her fingers trembling slightly. She counted it bill by bill, twice, then clutched the money tightly in her hand and looked up at Chen Zheng.

"Zheng," her voice was very low, almost inaudible, "tell me honestly, what kind of business are you in?"

Chen Zheng looked at her.

His mother is in her early fifties, but looks like she's in her sixties.

She's been worrying herself sick all these years in Syria. Her father's factory isn't making money, the family expenses are high, and she's reluctant to spend money on herself. She only has a few clothes all year round, and they're all faded from washing.

Her eyes were very similar to his, round and bright, but now they were filled with worry.

Chen Zheng stood up, bent down and hugged her. His mother was very thin, and her bones hurt his arm. "Your son won't do anything stupid. When I've earned enough money, I'll buy you a big house in China so you and Dad can enjoy a comfortable life."

His mother didn't say anything, she just patted him on the back.

"I'll buy plane tickets for you and Dad in a couple of days. We'll go to Saudi Arabia first. The medical facilities there are better. I'll get Dad a full check-up first. If he can't be cured in Saudi Arabia, we'll go to the United States."

"But--"

"Mom," Chen Zheng interrupted her, his tone serious, "My dad's life is more important than anything else."

His mother opened her mouth, but couldn't say anything. She just nodded, and tears started falling again.

Chen sat in the hospital for another half hour.

I chatted with his mother about everyday things, about the factory, about the workers, and about Khalid.

His mother listened, nodding occasionally and chiming in with a word or two now and then.

Before leaving, Chen stood at the door for a while and looked back at his father on the hospital bed.

Sunlight streamed in through the window, falling on his father's face, making his sallow complexion appear even more haggard. His hand rested on the blanket; his fingers were thin and long, with prominent knuckles and grayish-white fingernails.

Those were hands that had spent half their lives working with CNC machine tools.

Chen Zheng gently closed the door and left.

……

When I left the hospital, the sun was blazing.

In August, the midday temperature in Delaware can reach 45 degrees Celsius. The air is so hot it feels like a steamer, and you feel like your lungs are burning just by taking a breath.

Chen Zheng opened the car door, and a wave of heat rushed out, like a sauna. He started the engine and turned the air conditioning up to the maximum. The cold air that blew out had a musty smell, but it was better than nothing.

Just as I shifted into gear, my phone rang.

Three words popped up on the screen: Khalid.

Chen Zheng answered the phone, but before he could even speak, the other end exploded.

"List!!!"

Khalid's voice was so loud it sounded like he was shouting from a mountaintop; even through the phone, you could feel him gesturing wildly, "Abu Ali called! He wants all your goods!!!"

Chen Zheng tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"You want them all?"

"I'll take it all!" Khalid's voice was almost hoarse with excitement. "He said yesterday's batch was of such high quality that he'll let you take as many as you want, and the price is negotiable!"

Chen Zheng took a deep breath.

"How much does he want?"

"The first batch, 500 barrels! APS grade!"

Khalid said, "He also wants 20 whole guns! He's raised the price: $100 per barrel, $550 per gun!"

Chen quickly calculated in his mind.

The total price was $61000, which is considered high in Syria. Of course, it would be at least double that in the Golan Heights.

But there's nothing I can do; my own company doesn't have the transportation capacity right now.

His throat was a little dry.

When do you need it?

"The sooner the better!" Khalid said. "He said ideally within three days. Chen, can you make it?"

"I can do it," he said.

"Okay!" Khalid breathed a sigh of relief. "Then I'll reply to him. And—"

"What?"

"Abu Ali said that if you can supply goods in the long term, he is willing to sign an exclusive agreement with you, and he will take care of all your goods in the future, at a price 15% higher than the market price."

Chen Zheng frowned, somewhat hesitant.

Exclusive agreements have their pros and cons. The good thing is that someone has a safety net; the bad thing is that if the other party "collapses," what will happen?

Finding new clients is also troublesome.

Seeing his hesitation, Khalid seemed to understand something, and lowered his voice into the phone, "His identity is complicated. Do you know about the Sumerian Brotherhood?"

The Syrian Muslim Brotherhood is an abbreviation; its full name is the Syrian Muslim Brotherhood.

They are backed by Turkish sponsors.

Upon hearing this, Chen Zheng immediately made the decision!

"Okay, you arrange a time with him. I love doing business with the Muslim brothers!"

As he spoke, he added, "Allāhu akbar!"

……