Both the tough man and Zhang Heng were very efficient. A quarter of an hour later, the two walked into the woods with shotguns in hand.
When the tough man squatted down to study the animal tracks on the ground, Zhang Heng asked, "Why me? Is it because I chose to be popular? "
"I don't care about that kind of boring thing," the tough man shook his head. "The reason why I chose you is that you look different from the nerds in the novel. You should know how to use a gun, and hunting requires a gun."
It was hard for Zhang Heng to refute this reason, but after a pause, he asked, "The first pilot should know how to use a gun too. Why not him?"
"Him? I don't like him, just like I can see that he doesn't like me. To be precise, he doesn't like all adults. And don't be fooled by his warm stories. He has a serious problem here, "the tough man pointed to his head.
"Of course, if it weren't for his depression, he wouldn't have been able to write the kind of words that can heal people's hearts. Talent is sometimes a kind of torture, especially for people in our line of work. Most people have some mental problems, and I'm no exception. If I stay with him for too long, I'm afraid I'll blow my head off with the shotgun in my hand."
The tough man pulled his boots out of the mud and continued, "Besides, you are a newcomer here. I guess you will accept my invitation."
"…"
The tough man was implying that anyone who stayed in this villa for a long time would not accept his hunting invitation.
But when he thought about it, it made sense. No lunatic would come out to hunt at night, not to mention that there had just been a rainstorm today, and the forest was muddy.
The two walked on a trail, following the tracks left by an elk. At this time, Zhang Heng could already determine the tough man's identity.
It was not difficult to guess, especially for someone with excellent observation skills.
— Ernest Miller Hemingway!
As an author who lived in the 20th century, Hemingway had left behind a lot of photos. Although he had changed his hairstyle and shaved his beard in the villa, he still had a strong sense of individuality.
As a person who had personally experienced the First World War, he had many military marks on him. In addition, he had also been a war reporter, a boxer, a bullfighter, and was even rumored to have been recruited by the KGB as a spy. Unfortunately, he really did not have any talent in this field, and no valuable information had been passed on.
He had survived several disasters in his life, including a plane crash. In a sense, his life was even more legendary than the stories he wrote. In the end, this alcoholic man who had been through several wives chose to commit suicide at the age of 62.
Zhang Heng could find evidence of many of his experiences on him, such as the scars left by the plane crash, the influence of military and spy training on him, and the wedding ring on his hand …
If Zhang Heng still couldn't figure it out, he would have lived with Holmes at 221 Baker Street for nothing.
Hemingway held a bunch of twigs and carefully looked at the bite marks on them. There was a rare hint of excitement in his eyes. He then drank the whiskey he carried with him and lowered his voice. "It's nearby."
But just as he was about to move forward under the moonlight, he heard Zhang Heng's voice behind him. "I'm here to accompany you to hunt. How are you going to repay me?"
"Repay?" Hemingway was taken aback. "What reward? The two of us hunted together. Didn't you get to enjoy it as well?"
"I'm here for serious business, not to accompany you to hunt. And to be honest, I'm not very interested in hunting."
"Is it because your level is too low and you can't hunt any valuable prey?"
"No, it's the opposite. It's because I'm so good at shooting. It's not difficult to hunt anything," Zhang Heng said.
Hemingway did not speak, but his eyes betrayed his thoughts.
Zhang Heng couldn't be bothered to talk nonsense with him. He used his actions to prove himself, raising the shotgun in his hand.
Hemingway looked at the place he was aiming at, but he didn't see anything. Although there was moonlight that night, the moonlight was sparse in the forest. The visibility was not good. Hemingway wanted to look again, but the next moment, a gunshot rang out.
Then, Hemingway saw something moving in the grass.
When the two of them walked up, the tough American noticed the elk that had fallen in the grass.
Having been on the battlefield more than once, he thought that nothing in this world could surprise him. After all, other than life and death, everything else in this world was trivial. But when he saw the scene in front of him, he could not help but open his mouth wide.
Hemingway was also a sharpshooter, and it was because of this that he knew how difficult Zhang Heng's shot was.
Under this kind of visibility, and from such a distance, it was a one-shot kill.
"This … how did you do it? Don't tell me you're the same as that housekeeper, someone's character, a lone sharpshooter? Or are you a bionic created by the guy who wrote the Three Laws of Robotics? "
"Unfortunately, I'm just a new author who just accepted an invitation to come to the villa."
"Really? I've heard so many stories today, but it's not as eye-opening as your shot just now."
The tough man squatted down as he spoke, carefully admiring the muzzle on the elk's head. At the same time, he muttered something like this was incredible.
"You teach me how to write, and I will teach you how to hunt. How about that?" Zhang Heng put away the shotgun when he saw that he had successfully piqued Hemingway's interest.
However, the tough man shook his head when he heard what Zhang Heng said. "I can't teach you how to write." After a pause, he added, "Don't get me wrong. I'm not discriminating against your trend-oriented creative style. After all, my own style is quite popular. But to be honest, I really don't know why it's popular. I'm just writing according to my own will."
"Maybe it's because humans have a lot of emotions in common," Zhang Heng said.
"You're right. For example, loneliness. Whether rich or poor, from the nobles to the poor, no one in the world can avoid it," Hemingway said. "I often feel that I'm too f * cking lonely. That's why I've been drinking. I used to desperately want to receive a letter, no matter who it was, just to make sure that I'm not alone in this world. That's why I don't want you to become a second me, young man."
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