Chapter Four: Old Zhou’s “Bomb Phobia” — Squeezed Rotten but Never Exploded

Underworld Card Games: From Dou Dizhu to Six-Chong
Volume 1, Chapter 4: Old Zhou’s "Bomb Phobia": Clutching Them Until They Rot

Just as Meng Po tucked her cilantro jar into her apron pocket, the Judge raised a tin megaphone and shouted, "Group A, second round of team formation! Free pairing, three per team. Start in a quarter of an hour!" The stone floor of the City God Temple erupted into chaos. Little ghosts clutched their cards and scurried toward familiar teammates. Old Chen was pulled away by the "Weeping Ghost" from the next table—that ghost insisted that if they teamed up, they wouldn't have to drink cilantro soup if they lost. Clutching two sunflower seeds given to him by Wang Er-Ma, Old Chen walked away, looking back every few steps.

"Brother Wang, who should we team up with?" Meng Po was adding osmanthus to her soup bucket. She looked up to see Wang Er-Ma frowning at the crowd and handed him a bowl of sweet soup without cilantro. "How about those two Impermanence brothers? Little Hei and Little Bai play decent cards, though they love to steal them."

Before Wang Er-Ma could answer, he saw a short, elderly ghost clutching a cloth bag, shuffling along the base of the wall. The ghost wore a faded grey tunic, the opening of his bag tied tightly shut. As he walked, he clutched it as if it held a stone, checking the ground every two steps for fear of dropping something. It was Old Zhou, who had spent the last few days squatting in the corner of the card hall. He had won three underworld coins playing "1-dollar pot" Dou Dizhu and had spent a full half-hour counting them, only to tuck them into his bag as if they were gold bars.

"Are you... Old Zhou?" Wang Er-Ma remembered him and waved.

Old Zhou jumped, his bag thumping against his leg. He hurriedly covered the opening, nodding like a chicken pecking rice. "Y-yes... it’s me. Hello, Uncle Wang." His eyes, however, darted toward Meng Po’s soup bucket, his Adam’s apple bobbing—he had been watching from the sidelines earlier when Meng Po "disciplined" Old Huai with the cilantro soup.

"Want to team up?" Wang Er-Ma asked straight out. "We’re one short. If you join, Meng Po handles the sweet soup if we lose, and if we win... we’ll split half a bag of sunflower seeds with you."

Old Zhou’s eyes brightened, then he quickly lowered his head. "I... I’m not very good at cards..." His hand instinctively reached into his bag, pulling out a shriveled sunflower seed, which he rolled between his fingers. "And I... I don’t like playing bombs."

"Not liking them is fine; I love eating bombs," Wang Er-Ma said, patting his shoulder. "You’re in! Our team is called the 'Ma-Ye Won't Bomb Team'—no, wait, the 'Ma-Ye Bomb-Through Team'!"

Meng Po giggled. "That’s a good name. Sounds like a winning one." She fished a handful of fresh seeds from her apron and shoved them into Old Zhou’s hand. "Eat these for now; I’ll fill your bag if we win."

Clutching the seeds, Old Zhou’s hands trembled. He pulled his bag tighter to his chest and whispered, "Th-then I’ll join your team."

As soon as they stood in place, the Judge shouted for the match to begin. The opposing team consisted of three ghosts: Old Li, a "Gambling Ghost" who used to frequent casinos and always spun a die in his fingers; a "Bookkeeper Ghost" with broken-rimmed glasses who had to click his abacus before playing a card; and a "Peddler Ghost" with a scale at his waist who looked at everyone as if they owed him money.

"Oh, picking up a 'miser' for your team?" Old Li sneered at the bag in Old Zhou’s arms. "Old Zhou, don’t go tucking your bombs into your pocket to take home again today!"

Old Zhou blushed, shrinking behind Wang Er-Ma, his grip tightening on the bag. Wang Er-Ma glared at Old Li. "We're here to play cards, not gossip. Don't come looking for excuses when you lose."

Old Li was the landlord for the first round. While dealing, the Bookkeeper Ghost clicked his abacus for a long time, verifying seventeen cards per person, before pushing up his glasses. "Correct. Proceed."

Wang Er-Ma’s hand wasn't bad—a pair of Kings, three 2s, and a bomb of four 6s, though he had several single cards. Meng Po held a pair of Kings and caught his eye, signaling she could handle the singles. Old Zhou, huddled in the corner, arranged his cards meticulously: reds with reds, blacks with blacks. After arranging them, he patted them down as if stamping banknotes.

"I’ll lead with a 3," Old Li said, his die spinning rapidly between his fingers.

Meng Po responded quickly: "King!"

The Bookkeeper Ghost pushed up his glasses: "Ace!"

Wang Er-Ma was about to play his small Joker, but he noticed Old Zhou suddenly raise his hand, only to shrink back, his face turning bright red. Wang Er-Ma checked his hand—Old Zhou held a 2, which could beat the Ace. "Play it!" Wang Er-Ma whispered.

Old Zhou bit his lip, his fingers picking at the cards. After a long silence, he mumbled, "W-wait... what if there’s a single card later?" He pressed the 2 back into his hand.

Because of this hesitation, the Bookkeeper Ghost smoothly played a 5, the Peddler Ghost followed with a 7, and Old Li threw down a straight: "3 through 8!"

Wang Er-Ma quickly covered with his "5 through 10," but Old Li slapped down four Jacks: "Bomb!"

A puff of black smoke erupted from the table, thicker than the one from Old Huai’s earlier move. Ghostly phantoms drifted out from the smoke, clawing toward Old Zhou—he let out a cry of terror, dropping two cards: the 2 and a Queen.

"Pick them up!" Wang Er-Ma helped him retrieve them, noticing the corners of Old Zhou’s cards were crumpled, the edges frayed as if they had been kept in his pocket for half a month.

Old Li laughed so hard he slapped the table. "Old Zhou, are you using these cards to keep your hands warm?" Amidst the chaos, he played a pair of 10s. The Bookkeeper Ghost followed with a pair of Kings, and in the blink of an eye, Wang Er-Ma’s strategy was blocked.

When it finally ended, Wang Er-Ma was left with a small Joker, Meng Po with a pair of 8s, and Old Zhou... Old Zhou still had five cards, four of which were neatly stacked: the four 2s.

"Why didn't you say you had four 2s?!" Wang Er-Ma’s eyes widened.

Old Zhou shrank his neck, tucking the four 2s to the back of his hand. "I... I wanted to save them... what if I could double the points with a bomb later?"

As he spoke, Old Li threw down his final card, a big Joker: "Out! Spring!"

"Spring" was an Underworld Dou Dizhu rule—if the landlord won without letting the peasants play a card, it was a "Spring," and the score doubled. The Judge scribbled two red marks on the scoreboard and adjusted his glasses. "The 'Ma-Ye Bomb-Through Team' loses 10 points!"

Old Zhou’s face went pale. His hands shook so hard the cards rattled, and tears welled in his eyes. "I... I’m sorry..."

"It’s okay, we’ll win it back next round," Meng Po said, handing him a bowl of sweet soup. "Drink this, don't panic."

Wang Er-Ma said nothing, staring at the four crumpled 2s in Old Zhou’s hand. The edges were worn fuzzy; it was clear he had been clutching them since the deal, his fingerprints etched into the surface. He was reminded of Old Lady Zhang from his neighborhood, who would always hold onto the "One Chicken" tile in Mahjong, waiting for a "flower after a kong," only to die with the tiles still in her hand.

In the second round, Old Zhou was the landlord. His hands shook even worse during the deal. He took the cards from the Judge as if they were gold bars, laying them on the table one by one, counting them three times. "Seventeen cards... that’s right, isn't it?"

"It’s right!" the Judge waved impatiently.

Wang Er-Ma peeked—good grief, this hand was insanely good: three bombs (four 3s, four 5s, four Aces), two Jokers, and only one single 7.

"This one is a lock!" Wang Er-Ma patted his shoulder. "Play boldly! If you have a bomb, use it!"

But Old Zhou tucked all three bombs to the back of his hand, placing the singles and pairs on top like a blanket. He cautiously threw out a 3. Meng Po quickly followed with a 9. Just as Old Li was about to play a Jack, Old Zhou shouted, "W-wait! I’ll use a 4!" He forced Meng Po’s 9 back and played a single 4.

"Why are you covering your own teammate?" Wang Er-Ma asked, laughing in frustration.

"I’m afraid... afraid you guys won't be able to cover it..." Old Zhou’s voice was like a mosquito’s buzz.

Following this, Old Li played a 10, the Bookkeeper Ghost followed with a Queen, and the Peddler Ghost threw down a pair of Aces. Old Zhou clutched the four 3s, his fingers digging into the cards, his face turning red, but he refused to play them.

"Bomb them!" Wang Er-Ma slammed the table. "Bomb them with the four 3s!"

Old Zhou gritted his teeth, lifting the four 3s toward the table before jerking them back. "W-wait! Maybe they have a bomb too..."

"How could they have that many bombs!" Meng Po was getting anxious, too. "Look at Old Li’s hand, he’s almost out!"

Sure enough, Old Li played a 6, the Bookkeeper Ghost played an 8, and in a moment, they were down to their last two cards. Only then did Old Zhou panic, trembling as he placed the four 3s on the table, his voice a tiny squeak: "B-bomb..."

But it was too late. Old Li slapped down a pair of Kings: "Out! Another Spring!"

The Judge added three more red marks to the scoreboard and sighed. "Another 15 points deducted! One more loss and you’ll have to drink Meng Po’s 'Sobriety Soup'!"

"Sobriety Soup" was a bitter decoction brewed by Meng Po, ten times worse than cilantro soup. Any ghost who drank it would feel a bitter taste in their mouth for three days. Hearing this, Old Zhou burst into tears, his tears dripping onto the cards, making the four 3s even more wrinkled. "I didn't mean to... I was just afraid of wasting them..."

He wept as he rummaged through his cloth bag, pulling out an oil-paper parcel containing a few roasted seeds and two crumpled underworld coins. "I’ve saved these coins for half a year. If they’re all deducted, I won't even be able to afford sunflower seeds..."

Wang Er-Ma’s anger faded as he looked at the pathetic sight. He squatted down and picked up the four 2s and four 3s Old Zhou had dropped. Both sets of cards were deformed, the edges frayed—just like Old Zhou himself, timid and shrinking, treating everything like a treasure to be hoarded.

"Old Zhou," Wang Er-Ma said, softening his voice as he handed the cards back. "These bombs aren't for saving; they’re for blowing things up."

Old Zhou sobbed as he took them. "B-but if I use them, they’re gone..."

"If they’re gone, you win more!" Wang Er-Ma tapped his own cards, pointing at the four 6s. "Look at my four 6s. If I keep them and never use them, and the opponent clears their hand, they’re just four scraps of paper. What is a bomb? It’s 'hard currency'! You have to use it when the time comes. It’s not like saving coins—coins can buy seeds, but saving bombs... saving bombs only lets your opponent win!"

Meng Po chimed in, "Exactly! Look at that last round. If you had bombed with those 3s earlier, we would have won. Winning doubles the pot; we could have bought two bags of seeds!"

Old Zhou blinked, tears still hanging from his lashes, but he stopped crying. He clutched the four 3s and felt the coins in his bag. "C-can we really win two bags?"

"Guaranteed!" Wang Er-Ma promised. "Next round, if you have a bomb, you blow it! If you win, I’ll treat you to Meng Po’s osmanthus seeds!"

In the third round, Old Zhou’s hands still shook, but he didn't tuck the bombs to the bottom of his hand. Wang Er-Ma noticed he placed his four 10s neatly at the very front. Although he still gripped the corners, he didn't crush them.

This time, Old Li was the peasant, and his luck was poor. He led with a 2, and Old Zhou suddenly slapped the table—not to play, but just a sharp, crisp sound.

"I-I’m bombing!" He threw the four 10s onto the table. His voice still shook, but he didn't pull back.

A puff of black smoke erupted from the table, brighter than the previous two times. The ghostly phantoms that emerged were startled back by the sudden blast. Old Li was stunned. "Why aren't you playing by your usual routine?"

"You have to bomb when it's time to bomb!" Old Zhou stood his ground. His face was still red, but he straightened his back. It was his first time initiating a bomb. His hands were still trembling, but the corners of his mouth curled up in a secret smile.

Wang Er-Ma followed up with a straight, Meng Po played a pair of Kings, and in a moment, Old Li was blocked. Finally, Old Zhou threw down his last pair of 9s, clearing his hand.

"We won!" Meng Po cheered.

The Judge drew a green mark on the scoreboard. "The 'Ma-Ye Bomb-Through Team' gains 5 points!"

Old Zhou stared at the green mark for a long time, then suddenly chuckled—a sound sweeter than Meng Po’s soup. He hurriedly picked up the four 10s, folded them carefully, and instead of hiding them, he placed them at the very top of his hand, as if afraid someone might miss them.

"See? If you bomb, you win," Wang Er-Ma said, handing him some seeds. "Do that again next time you have a bomb!"

Old Zhou grabbed the seeds, tucking half into his bag and holding the rest in his hand like a treasure. A breeze blew through the City God Temple, making the cards on the table rustle. In the distance, the Judge was calling for the next round. Meng Po was scattering osmanthus into her bucket. Old Zhou kept the four 10s at the top of his hand, his fingers gently touching the crumpled corners—this time, he didn't squeeze them tight.

"Next round... next round if I have a bomb, I’ll bomb again!" Old Zhou whispered, his voice quiet, yet firm.

(Chapter 4 End)