After transmigrating to the Qin Dynasty, he became the poorest village head in East Third Mile.
He thought he would spend the rest of his life squatting on the doorstep and drinking cold porridge, until he carved a bamboo tablet: “Zhao Ce, Village Head of East Third Mile.” On the back, a line of tiny writing read: “Licensed to serve. Specializing in dealing with anyone who refuses to cooperate.”
Local thugs smash down his door? He deals with them under Qin law.
The magistrate of Xianyang threatens him? He gives as good as he gets.
Zhao Gao sends people to audit his accounts? He turns your entire Imperial Treasury upside down.
Other hooligans rely on their fists. He relies on the rules.
The more tables he flips, the more chairs there are for people hoping to bring him down.
But he never looks back.
The ashes of Da Niu, at the foot of Mount Li, have yet to cool. Granny Wang’s porridge is still warm on the stove, and that limping yellow dog is still waiting for him at the mouth of the alley.
Some call him the greatest menace in Xianyang.
Seated in his study, the First Emperor finished reviewing the last memorial and asked:
“Where has that licensed hooligan gotten to now?”
