Old Wang has been a bit excited recently because he has finally saved enough "sleep coins."
In this era, sleep is no longer a simple rest, but a tradable resource. Technology has advanced to the point where sleep duration can be accurately measured and extracted, and then converted into "sleep coins." People with sufficient sleep can sell their excess sleep to those who are sleep-deprived, at a significant price, of course.
Old Wang has been feeling particularly upbeat recently, as he figured he was about to take a big advantage of the government for the first time in his life. What advantage? National subsidy! The national subsidy for new energy vehicles!
He had saved half his life's money, plus his son's contribution, and finally gritted his teeth and ordered a new energy car before the New Year. The salesman, Xiao Li, patted his chest and guaranteed, "Uncle Wang, don't worry, this national subsidy will definitely come through. All the procedures are complete. Before the Spring Festival, you can drive your new car home for the New Year and show off!" Old Wang listened, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. He imagined driving his new car, the envious looks from the villagers, and how glorious he'd feel.
Old Wang, or rather, former Old Wang, is now "Glass King." Ever since he was sued by Haidilao, this nickname has spread throughout his neighborhood. Old Wang wasn't angry; instead, he thought the name was kind of artistic, like a performance artist.
His "artistic" career began last month when he discovered a secret: Haidilao's free snacks occasionally contained broken glass. This wasn't some conspiracy theory but rather a low-probability event on the production line. However, Old Wang seized this "low probability." He began his performance, biting down, spitting out glass shards while the staff watched in horror, and then demanding "emotional distress compensation" with a look of deep suffering.
Old Wang, wearing his somewhat dated baseball cap, squinted at the computer screen under the dim yellow lamp. In front of him, densely packed numbers filled the screen, lines of posts from online forums, arranged as if silently summoning something.
These past few days, a peculiar wave had swept through the internet—Chinese and American netizens were reconciling accounts online. It all started when someone accidentally discovered some "peculiar" differences in prices between the two countries. So someone proposed that everyone conduct an online reconciliation to see who was “fleecing” whom. At first, Old Wang was disdainful, finding it utterly boring, but when he saw the comparisons of “one jin of pork” and “one gallon of gasoline” in the posts, he suddenly felt like he should do something too.
Li Wei’s room was like a deep well, the only window facing the towering gray wall of the next building. Every morning, she would get up in the dark, put on makeup under the pale light of her desk lamp, and then rush to her cubicle in a downtown office building.
Lately, Li Wei had become fascinated by a strange pastime: in the afternoon, while others were resting or napping, she would set up a huge reflector, letting it, like a giant mirror, reflect the sparse sunlight from the rooftop into her room.
Old Wang sat on his creaky office chair, staring at the constantly refreshing "cat tax" payment records on his screen. This was the third time he had hit the refresh button, and the numbers were climbing like crazy weeds, each one higher than the last. Just a few months ago, who would have thought that this previously obscure Xiaohongshu account would become wildly popular because of a bunch of American netizens paying "cat tax"?
Initially, Old Wang just wanted to post photos of his tabby cat named "Tuanzi", mundane things like "Tuanzi slept all day again," and "Tuanzi ate half my bread." Until one day, an American netizen commented, saying that seeing Tuanzi reminded them of their cat that had recently passed away and they felt healed, adding in broken Chinese, "This cat, I want to pay tax."
Old Wang opened a "Fortune Recycling Station" in a corner of a waste recycling center on the edge of the city. To put it nicely, it's recycling, but in reality, it's just reselling. Reselling what? Certainly not bottles and cans, but the "Five Blessings" that Alipay promotes every Spring Festival.
These days, who cares about those few yuan in red envelopes? Old Wang knows that people collect blessings for the sake of the excitement and the sense of ritual. But Old Wang doesn't think that way. He thinks it's a big business.