On the first day of registration in technical secondary school, I beat up the school bully.
His brother threatened to take off one of my legs.
I sent a video call to my father in the Golden Triangle: "Dad, someone in the county wants to remove my leg."
There was faint sound of gunfire on the other side of the screen, and my dad frowned and looked at the map:
"Which county? It happens that the new factory is located here and there is a lack of a test site."
The next day, the gangsters in the county town discovered that there was a row of silent men in black suits standing at the entrance of all entertainment venues.
And I was sitting in their boss's office, flipping through the account books, next to the "finance director" sent by my dad.
"The accounts were done well," the director pushed up his glasses, "but the tax rate was calculated wrong."
"The rules here," he smiled and pulled out another booklet, "are according to this."
