If there's anything interesting in this world, I think the lottery must be counted as one. A small piece of paper ticket, several sets of interesting numbers, and a jackpot falling from the sky. Fight big with small, get rich overnight, and even reverse your fate. What could be more exciting.

Although the probability of winning the first prize is only 1 in 17 million, people still enjoy it. The huge prize money accumulated in each period, and the legend of winning the jackpot and the dream of coming true, continue to tease people's nerves. Even the occasional little sweetness can make people happy.

People ignore the way the industry works, the negligible probability, and the almost impossible investment. Instead, they all took it very seriously and believed that they were all chosen by God. All you have to do is wait for the time to come and soar.

Lust is the best catalyst, it is strong enough, and it has too many devout believers. And the best way to counter the probability is to make up for it with quantity. If you put two dollars per bet, then you only need more than 30 million to get the jackpot. Of course, this is a loss-making business.

If the package is really like a lottery ticket, even if the probability of wanting it is not as good as the jackpot. But if you want to get it as soon as possible, the best way is to keep taking orders. Complete orders quickly and collect packages.

I took a deep breath, which meant that the package itself was more of a poison than a high murder fee. I think there really be anyone who believes so devoutly? The old man's answer to me was: Anyone who is desperate is willing to believe in some illusory possibility. And people always need to be supported to survive.

If that's the case, even if the organization is completely hidden, just a small package can turn the whole killer business. It's really scary to be able to manipulate desires. For a moment I suddenly regretted it, and I was a little unsure if I would fall into this package with painted eyes and keep killing.

The old man looked at my uncertain expression and asked me, "What?

I nodded seriously: "Of course, this inexplicable and wonderful thing is the most bluffing." ”

The old man lit a cigarette and continued to ask me, "Do you know why there are so many killers with personalities in the stories I tell you?"

I shook my head, this is a human business, I never bother to wonder: "Is it because this is cool, people know that he killed people as soon as they see it?"

The old man shook his head: "Saying that you are stupid is that you give up on yourself, they are trying to create their own style, not to make others easy to recognize, but they don't want to forget themselves." Too much killing will make people forget themselves, and over time they will not be able to do such a business. Seeing too much death will numb, and tense nerves will collapse. In the end, I may not even be interested in living. The killer profession does not mean stimulation for the killer itself, and people are a species that is easily bored, so it is especially important to keep it fresh and preserve its will in this environment shrouded in desire. If you have to be a killer for a long time, find your own fun quickly. ”

After listening to this old man's words, I muttered in my heart: "Isn't this perverted, the killer is perverted enough, and I still have to find fun, thinking about it, I'm a little disgusting." Although I thought so, I still asked, "Then what is your style?" ”

The old man threw the cigarette butt on the ground, got up and got out of bed, and said as he walked with his slippers: "Of course it is clean, and it has never disappeared in my place." Looking at his swaying back, I glanced at the cigarette butts all over the floor and scolded in a low voice: "I really didn't see where you were clean at all." ”

He seemed to hear my voice and replied to me at the door: "I'm not dead. ”

It wasn't until later that I found my own joy in this profession, and I think he would have scolded me for looking for death if he lived.

It seems like it's been a long time since I've remembered these things. Before I knew it, the night was already deep, and time was wasted on these bits and pieces of the past. The cigarette in the cigarette case also bottomed out, and the iron was still lying on the bed with a wooden face. I smiled wryly and tossed around, what I didn't know was still not what I didn't know, all I could think of was bitterness.

Life is really interesting, and the things that you originally put down always force you to remember. And then the cycle starts again and again, and it's distressing. We're not inherently gloomy, but we're all suffocating from the past. I miss the poor old man with the cigarette in his mouth.