Chapter Fourteen: Xiao Li Composes a Poem to Insult His Rival: "Your Cards Are Like Cow Dung"

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The threshold of the City God Temple was polished smooth from countless footsteps. The morning sunlight slanted in, casting a golden glow on the melon seed shells scattered across the card table. Wang Erma was bending down to pick up the Three of Hearts that Old Zhou had dropped under his stool. Just as his fingertips brushed the card’s corner, a sharp slap rang out. Xiao Li slammed his cards onto the table, causing the melon seed shells to jump.

“What’s wrong? Got stuck with bad cards again?” Wang Erma straightened up and tossed the Three of Hearts to Old Zhou. Old Zhou caught it quickly and carefully slipped it back into his pile. This morning, he had moved his chips from the gaps in the table into a cloth pouch at his waist, sitting more securely and playing with more confidence. Yet he couldn’t help but pat the pouch nervously, afraid his chips might sprout legs and run away.

Xiao Li didn’t reply. His face flushed crimson as he glared across the table. Sitting opposite were two newly arrived ghosts: one tall and thin, wearing a long gown—known as Mr. Bai, who had been a private tutor in life; the other was a short, stout ghost clutching an abacus—the underworld’s bookkeeper surnamed Qian. These two had just signed up for the beginner’s card class yesterday and were playing with Wang Erma and the others for the first time today. Their skills were mediocre, but luck was on their side—they had won three rounds in a row.

“Look, Master Ma!” Xiao Li pointed at the cards on the table, his voice trembling. “I only have two Kings in hand; the rest are just single Threes or single Fives. But they, oh, they keep playing pairs of Kings and straights, clearly bullying us!”

Mr. Bai pushed up his imaginary glasses—an old habit he couldn’t shake even as a ghost—and said slowly, “Young friend, winning at cards depends on luck, not temper. If you lose, you lose. Why get so worked up?”

Clacking his abacus beads, Clerk Qian nodded in agreement. “Exactly. I’m keeping track here—you owe us melon seeds for this round when you lose. Don’t try to cheat.”

“Who’s cheating?” Xiao Li grew more agitated and reached for the melon seed bag at the table’s corner, the half-full osmanthus-flavored seeds that Little Bai had brought this morning. Just as he was about to grab some, he quickly pulled back and stiffened his neck, glaring at Mr. Bai. “You may have won, but you play so slowly! You take half a stick of incense just to play a Three. Isn’t this deliberately wasting time?”

Mr. Bai stroked his imaginary beard with a smirk. “One must think carefully before playing, young friend. One wrong move and the whole game is lost. Don’t you understand?”

“I understand my foot!” Xiao Li rolled up his sleeve, shedding his usual gentility. “I think your skills stink, trying to win by stalling!”

Wang Erma quickly pulled him back. “Enough, Xiao Li. So what if you lost two rounds? We can win it back.” He gave Old Zhou a nod, who immediately slid his cards toward Xiao Li. Old Zhou had a good hand this round: four Tens and a straight. He was supposed to be the landlord, but he held back, worried about Xiao Li’s temper.

But Xiao Li was too worked up to listen. He stared at Mr. Bai, eyes darting, then suddenly slapped his thigh. “Fine! You love talking about principles? I’ll compose a poem for you!”

The words surprised not only Mr. Bai and Clerk Qian but even Wang Erma. Old Zhou put down his cards and stared at Xiao Li, fearing he might say something outrageous.

Xiao Li paced twice beside the table, frowning, mumbling to himself: “Lose the cards but not the spirit… have to insult their skills… and make it rhyme…” Suddenly, he stopped, puffed out his chest, and loudly recited:

“The two ghosts opposite play terribly,
Hesitate even to lay down a Three!”

The first line barely landed before Wang Erma nearly spat out his melon seeds. Old Zhou burst out laughing, quickly covering his mouth.

Mr. Bai’s face turned pale. “Young friend, how dare you speak like that? Insulting people?”

“I’m not insulting, I’m composing poetry!” Xiao Li straightened his neck and continued:

“In hand a pair of Kings I shake,
Yet dare not place them on the stake!”

Clerk Qian was annoyed and knocked his abacus on the table. “That’s nonsense! I played the pair of Kings quite quickly!”

“Quick?” Xiao Li snorted and blurted out the third line:

“Slow as a turtle’s crawl,
Delaying my osmanthus nut’s fall!”

He had meant “osmanthus melon seeds,” but “seeds” didn’t rhyme, so he switched to “nut”—something that didn’t exist in the underworld, but he made do.

“That’s your poetry?” Mr. Bai’s fingers trembled with anger. “Your tones are wrong, the couplets unmatched—utter nonsense!”

“Still better than your slow play!” Xiao Li put his hands on his hips. “If you’re so skilled, compose your own poem!”

The challenge hit a nerve. Mr. Bai, once a private tutor, couldn’t stand anyone questioning his literary talent. He rolled up his sleeve and said, “Fine! I’ll compose! Who’s afraid?”

He paced twice, glaring at Xiao Li, then finally recited:

“Yellow-haired brat, don’t be wild,
Losing games yet yelling like a child!”

“Oh, you’re fired up!” Xiao Li laughed and immediately replied:

“I yell with reason, don’t you see?
Your victories rely on luck, not me!”

“Rubbish!” Mr. Bai threw decorum aside. “We rely on skill!” He recited:

“There’s knowledge in the game we play,
Not like you, foolish greenhorn stray!”

“Knowledge? I say you’re dumb!” Xiao Li was quicker to retort:

“Calculating every card you throw,
Better go home and hug your abacus, you know!”

He glanced pointedly at Clerk Qian, who was enjoying the spectacle until those words.

“That’s none of my abacus business! I’ll compose too!” Clerk Qian grabbed his beads and rattled:

“You lose but refuse to admit defeat,
Instead you write poems that insult and cheat!”

“If insulting you’s a crime?” Xiao Li puffed up his chest. “Then it’s because your skills are pig-like and beat!”

“Who’s calling who a pig?” Mr. Bai and Clerk Qian shouted in unison, standing on either side of Xiao Li, ready to argue.

Wang Erma saw an opportunity and gave Old Zhou a subtle nod. In a low voice, he said, “Hurry, play your straight!”

Old Zhou caught on, lowered his head to pretend watching the quarrel, and swiftly laid down a five-card straight from Three to Seven. Just as he finished, Wang Erma cleared his throat at just the right volume to drown out the bickering.

“Old Zhou, your turn.”

Old Zhou pushed the straight onto the table. “Playing Three to Seven.”

Mr. Bai and Clerk Qian, still bickering over whether pig or cow was dumber, hadn’t noticed. Xiao Li was too caught up in his insults, yelling, “You’re the pigs! Your whole family’s pigs!”

“We don’t have a family!” Clerk Qian yelled louder. “We’re ghosts!”

“Ghosts are just as dumb!”

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Wang Erma stifled a laugh and signaled Old Zhou again. Old Zhou quickly pulled out four Tens and slammed them down—a bomb. Normally saved for a final move, but with the two ghosts distracted, the timing was perfect.

“Bomb!” Old Zhou whispered.

Mr. Bai finally looked up, staring at the bomb. “Hey? When did you play the straight?”

“Already did!” Wang Erma spread his hands and revealed his cards—only a big Joker left. “My turn! I play the Joker!” He slapped it down atop the bomb. “That’s it!”

Clerk Qian only then realized and rattled his abacus. “No way! We haven’t contested yet!”

“What were you doing before?” Wang Erma smiled. “You said nothing when Old Zhou played the straight, said nothing when he played the bomb, and now that I play the Joker, you complain? Too late!”

Mr. Bai’s face flushed, and he pointed at Xiao Li. “Blame him! He had to compose poems and insult people!”

“Blame me?” Xiao Li glared. “You were the ones stalling!”

“Alright, alright,” Wang Erma smoothed things over, pulling Xiao Li behind him. “It’s just one lost round. No big deal. Xiao Li, apologize to Mr. Bai and Mr. Qian, say your poem was just nonsense.”

Reluctantly, Xiao Li mumbled, “I wasn’t wrong…” but was held down by Wang Erma’s hand on his shoulder and muttered, “Sorry, I got heated.”

Mr. Bai, still simmering, softened when Xiao Li apologized and waved it off. “Fine, fine. Young folks get fiery. I won’t take it personally.”

Clerk Qian, however, still had melon seeds on his mind. “What about the melon seeds? You said the losers owe us melon seeds.”

“What melon seeds?” Wang Erma played dumb and pointed at the table. “We won this round, so you owe us melon seeds. Old Zhou, ask for them!”

Old Zhou slid his pouch aside and reached out. “Melon seeds.”

“No!” Clerk Qian was flustered, clacking his abacus. “We won the last round. You won this one. You should pay us last round’s melon seeds, and we pay you this round’s. Even-steven!”

“That won’t do.” Wang Erma shook his head. “You never collected last round’s melon seeds—they’ve expired. You owe us this round’s. Otherwise, you’re cheating.”

Mr. Bai thought Clerk Qian was being too picky and pulled him back. “Forget it, it’s just a few seeds. Not worth arguing.” He pulled a small bag of melon seeds from his pocket—likely exchanged from Lady Meng—and handed it to Wang Erma. “Here, consider this this round’s lucky charm.”

Wang Erma took it and passed it to Xiao Li. “Here, make up for it.”

Xiao Li dumped the seeds on the table, grabbed a handful angrily, and chewed loudly. Yet his eyes secretly flicked to Mr. Bai, who was whispering to Clerk Qian, probably planning their next moves.

Old Zhou carefully split the winnings of melon seeds, placing half beside his pouch. He had learned to keep chips and seeds separate, using a small stone to mark the boundary, arranging everything neatly.

Wang Erma, shuffling cards, quietly asked Xiao Li, “What was your thinking with that poem? Why didn’t you say ‘your cards stink like cow dung’?”

Xiao Li, mouth full of seeds, mumbled, “I planned to say, ‘Your cards stink like cow dung,’ but I forgot in the heat of the moment! Next time, I’ll remember!”

“Don’t wait for next time,” Wang Erma laughed helplessly. “If you keep insulting with poems, no one will want to play with us. You’d better write poems to remember cards instead of insults.”

“I can do that too!” Xiao Li swallowed and said, “I made one last night: ‘Hearts hold an Ace, Spades a King, Opponents have five cards left, Watch for bombs to spring.’ How’s that?”

“Not bad,” Wang Erma nodded. “Just a bit straightforward.”

“Straight is easier to remember!” Xiao Li grinned. “Better than Mr. Bai’s sour little poems.”

Just then, Mr. Bai spoke up. “Alright, shuffle up. Next round we’ll be landlord.”

Xiao Li straightened and readied to compose again, but Wang Erma stopped him. “No, no. Let’s just play. Winning’s better than poetry.”

Reluctantly, Xiao Li withdrew, muttering quietly, “If I lose again, I’ll add that ‘cow dung’ line.”

Old Zhou heard this and secretly tucked his four Tens back into his hand—he feared if Xiao Li really provoked them, they’d just argue and not play, wasting his bomb.

Just as Wang Erma was about to deal, the Underworld Judge shuffled in with a cloth bag and a small notebook, muttering, “City God Temple card game inspection… What’s all this shouting?”

Mr. Bai quickly stood. “Judge, we’re not arguing. This young friend here…” He pointed at Xiao Li. “He’s composing poetry.”

“Poetry?” The Judge’s eyes lit up and he leaned in. “What kind of poem? Recite it for me.”

Xiao Li blushed and tried to decline, but Wang Erma interrupted, “Judge, it’s just nonsense. We’re playing cards. Want to join a round?”

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“No, no,” the Judge waved his hand. “I have other tables to check.” He nodded toward the melon seed shells. “Remember to clean up after playing. Don’t let the little ghosts cause trouble.”

“Got it, got it,” Wang Erma bowed.

After the Judge left, Clerk Qian whispered, “Good thing he didn’t ask about the poem, or he’d have punished him for sure.”

Xiao Li puffed up again, “Punish me if you want! I’m not afraid!” Though his voice was much quieter now.

The next round was dealt. Xiao Li’s luck remained poor, with only single cards. Meanwhile, Mr. Bai and Clerk Qian’s luck grew stronger; Mr. Bai was landlord and held two Jokers.

Wang Erma signaled Xiao Li to stay quiet. Xiao Li clenched his teeth, arranged his cards neatly, and whispered his memory poem:

“No Ace of Hearts, no King of Spades,
Opponents hold two Jokers, beware the bombs ahead…”

Old Zhou, hearing this, hesitated and pulled his four Tens back slightly—he had planned to play the bomb but now hesitated.

Mr. Bai played quickly, likely afraid Xiao Li would compose again, and immediately played a pair of Jokers.

“Wow, both Jokers!” Wang Erma exclaimed.

Mr. Bai smirked. “See? No stalling this time.”

Xiao Li said nothing but suddenly stood and paced twice as before.

Mr. Bai and Clerk Qian paused their play, watching him warily.

Xiao Li circled twice, stopped, and loudly declared:

“Though two Jokers are great, don’t be smug,
My straight will trump your every shrug!”

Then he slammed down a straight from Four to Nine—just enough to beat Mr. Bai’s single card (who had followed the pair of Jokers with a single Two).

“Hey, nice one, Xiao Li!” Wang Erma’s eyes lit up.

Mr. Bai and Clerk Qian were stunned—they had been so focused on preventing Xiao Li’s poetry that they hadn’t noticed his straight.

Xiao Li smirked and was about to recite a poem, but Wang Erma gave him a warning look. Xiao Li swallowed the verse, grabbed a handful of seeds, and pretended nothing had happened.

Seizing the moment, Old Zhou slammed down his four Tens. “Bomb!”

Mr. Bai and Clerk Qian were completely dumbfounded.

Wang Erma played a straight next, leaving only one card in hand.

“I win!” Wang Erma placed the last card—a single Three—on the table.

Xiao Li stood up, this time without a poem, and shouted, “How about that? Winning beats poetry!”

Mr. Bai and Clerk Qian exchanged glances, speechless. Clerk Qian fiddled with his abacus before finally huffing, “No fair! You’re cheating!”

“Who’s cheating?” Wang Erma smiled. “You just weren’t paying attention.”

Mr. Bai sighed. “Fine, losing is losing. But…” He looked at Xiao Li, “Your earlier line ‘Though two Jokers are great, don’t be smug’ is better than your first poem.”

Xiao Li’s face flushed. He scratched his head. “I just made it up…”

“Well made,” Mr. Bai smiled. “Next time you write poems, don’t insult people. Write stuff like that—I can listen.”

“Deal!” Xiao Li agreed eagerly and tossed a handful of melon seeds to Mr. Bai. “Here, for making up.”

Mr. Bai accepted them without hesitation, popping some into his mouth. Clerk Qian joined in, grabbing some seeds. The four ghosts gathered around the table, munching seeds and discussing their next moves. The earlier tension had long since vanished.

Old Zhou carefully moved his melon seeds closer to his chips, arranging everything neatly, a secret smile tugging at his lips—perhaps feeling that winning without playing bombs was even more satisfying than hoarding chips.

Wang Erma looked at the joyful scene around the table and thought that this underworld card game was quite nice—there was Xiao Li with his poetry, Old Zhou with his chip-saving skills, and the diligent Mr. Bai and Clerk Qian. It was livelier than any card game in the mortal neighborhood.

He wondered quietly if Xiao Li would ever really add that “cow dung” line in his poems next time. He glanced at Xiao Li, who was busy gesturing and composing new memory verses with Mr. Bai, his face beaming, as if he’d long forgotten his earlier insults.