"Weren't you going to throw us out by our hair? Screw that, come on, throw us out now!" Fatty stretched out his neck, offering his head to the middle-aged man, chirping defiantly.
Fatty has never been a paragon of virtue, nor has he been groomed since childhood as what one might call 'cultured' or, to put it plainly, an elite aristocrat with enough cunning and strategy.
In fact, nobody should expect a child who lost his parents at the age of six and faced the world alone, to possess any noble ethics of repaying grievances with virtue. He had no adult guidance, no adult protection. He didn't even know what was right or wrong. All his experiences were learned from getting sidelong glances and beatings.
