Wang Congjian’s mother in Bozhou sat idly at home this day, a fine drizzle pattering outside, the light fading into twilight.

A Thunder God, wielding his divine hammer, his wings beating softly behind him, strode into the room.

The mother, aghast, snatched up the chamber pot and hurled its contents—every last drop of urine—directly onto the Thunder God.

Drenched in filth, as if struck by blade and axe, the Thunder God wheeled about in a desperate attempt to flee. He leaped again and again, struggling to ascend, yet failing each time. Finally, utterly spent, he collapsed into the courtyard, his roar shaking the air like thunder.

At that very moment, the black clouds above descended low, pressing down toward the eaves of the house. A gale howled within the mass, sounding like ten thousand charging horses. In an instant, the deluge broke, rain pouring down like an open sluice, washing all the foulness from the Thunder God’s body. Flashing lightning encircled him as he finally took flight and vanished.