The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

The roar of engines echoed through the narrow streets.

The tires crunched over the gravel.

The air in this city is always hazy.

A cheap filter obscured the view, revealing years of weariness.

Arthur Morgan parked his car next to a row of rusty scaffolding.

He looked ahead through the windshield.

It was a sprawling construction site.

Under a leaden sky, a massive steel frame stood against the backdrop of concrete mixers emitting a low, guttural roar. The entire construction site resembled the dismembered remains of an ancient behemoth.

The concrete mixer emitted a deep roar.

Sparks flew from the cutting machine, and bloodstains traced blinding arcs in the dim evening light.

The entire construction site was filled with a mixture of dust, rust, diesel fuel, and sweat.

A raw and suppressed life force struggles here.

He opened the car door.

A cold, metallic smell mixed with an indescribable stench of decay hit him, and he frowned.

He knew this taste.

It is the unique, decaying atmosphere of life in the lowest, most hidden corners of this city.

"Murphy Callahan," he murmured the name.

My thoughts were pulled away from pointless sentimentality.

Selena's handwriting came to mind.

The mundane daily life of ordinary workers is like a thin veil, attempting to conceal the truth buried beneath.

He looked around, searching for the area where Murphy might work.

The scene before me was a chaotic maze, completely confusing.

Clay sculptures shaped by workers' sweat and dust.

They moved around the huge machines with their backs hunched over, wearing overalls worn down to the point of exposing the fibers.

Their faces were numb, their eyes vacant.

The machine mechanically repeats the same actions, becoming an extension of itself.

Arthur habitually reached into his pocket.

His fingertips touched the roll of banknotes that Selena had given him to pay his reward.

The heavy weight reminded him of the purpose of his trip.

He walked toward the nearest group of workers.

They sat silently around a bucket of steaming food, eating their rice.

No one was talking; there were only the sounds of chewing and swallowing.

"Hey," he said.

The sound was faint and abrupt amidst the noise of the construction site.

Several workers looked up.

The eyes of a wild beast trapped in a cage are filled with wariness and hostility.

They looked Arthur up and down.

That old but well-tailored trench coat and those leather shoes seemed out of place with them.

"Murphy Callahan," Arthur repeated the name.

Do you know him?

No one answered.

More somber gazes came from the crowd.

A burly man pushed through the crowd and walked toward Arthur.

He had a shaved head, and large patches of faded tattoos were visible on his neck.

He was wearing a work vest stained with oil.

His bronze skin was covered with old scars, and the muscles in his arms were as hard as stone.

This is the foreman.

no doubt.

"Who are you looking for?" the foreman's voice was rough.

An unquestionable sense of oppression from those in power.

There was no numbness in his eyes.

Instead, there is a cold scrutiny and evaluation.

"Murphy Callahan." Arthur looked directly at the foreman without looking away.

"He works here, and I haven't seen him for a while."

The foreman grinned.

The smile revealed teeth stained yellow by tobacco, as well as two missing front teeth on the right side.

It exudes a malicious and mercenary air.

"There are plenty of brothers here, which one is the Murphy you mentioned?" The foreman shrugged, pretending not to know.

"You know, there's a lot of turnover on our construction site, people come and go, who remembers that many details?"

The foreman's words were clearly a test.

He knew Arthur was looking for someone and didn't want to reveal information easily.

"His name is Murphy Callaghan." Arthur pulled out a somewhat worn photograph.

That's a photo of Murphy and Selena together; Murphy is smiling憨厚ly in the picture.

The foreman took the photo and glanced at it briefly.

The photos were returned to Arthur like trash.

"In this place, if you want to get information, you have to follow the rules," the foreman said with a grin, pointing to a smoke-filled shed not far away.

"Want to know the news? Easy. Come in, sit down, and win me a hundred dollars first."

The door to the workers' shed was open.

A mixture of sweat, smoke, and cheap alcohol wafted out.

Arthur glanced at the work shed, then at the foreman's greasy, smiling face.

He knew this was no simple gamble, but a psychological war against outsiders.

He has been to countless places like this.

In every place I go, there's always a set of "rules" that aren't written into any laws.

This is the survival philosophy of the lower classes.

A brutal and direct method of dividing territory and establishing hierarchy through rituals.

The foreman is the king here; the workers' shed is his little kingdom.

Giving up means losing all authority in this place.

They will be seen as weak and easily bullied, making it even more difficult for them to obtain any information in the future.

He cannot leave.

Murphy's daughter Selena's face appeared before his eyes.

The light in the girl's eyes, a mixture of despair and hope, made it impossible for him to back down.

The truths that have been covered up.

It always leaks out from these inconspicuous cracks.

He took a deep breath.

The air smelled even stronger of a sour, musty odor from a mixture of rust, sweat, and cheap alcohol.

He recalled the case file of a serial murder case from five years ago.

That was his shame, but also his motivation to start anew.

This is the only entrance.

Arthur's steps were firm.

They walked step by step toward the makeshift sheds that swallowed the workers' sweat and hope.

He pushed open the half-closed door of the workers' shed.

It creaked.

The air inside the shed was even more polluted.

A pungent mixture of tobacco, sweat, beer, and cheap perfume.

A dim incandescent light bulb hangs from the ceiling.

It emitted a flickering, precarious light, and everything inside the shed was shrouded in a sickly yellow glow.

A makeshift gambling table pieced together from discarded wooden planks sits in the center.

The tabletop was covered with a layer of greasy green cloth.

Five or six men sat around.

Their eyes, illuminated by the incandescent light, the playing cards on the table, and the mountain of banknotes, were filled with extraordinary excitement.

They are not gambling.

They are burning their lives in an attempt to salvage a sliver of false hope from the depths of despair.

This is a game of Texas Hold'em.

The air was thick with tension and fervor, and everyone was breathing heavily and rapidly.

In the center of the gambling table, chips and cash are scattered.

Some of the banknotes were tattered and stained, bearing an unspeakable curse.

Most of the gamblers were workers.

They wore dirty overalls similar to those worn by the foreman.

His hands were large and rough, with black dirt embedded in his fingernails, yet he skillfully manipulated the chips.

There are also one or two construction site foremen.

Their clothes were fairly neat, but their eyes revealed nothing but greed and exhaustion.

The foreman was already seated in the main seat.

He held a worn deck of cards in his hand, shuffling them skillfully.

His gaze lingered on Arthur for less than a second when he entered.

"Looks like the customer's willing to play a few rounds." The foreman lightly scraped the back of the cards with his thumb.

His voice carried a hint of nonchalance.

Arthur ignored him.

He walked to the table and found an empty seat.

Unbutton the trench coat to reveal a slightly worn-out shirt.

He placed his hands on the table, interlacing his fingers.

Calmly observe everything on the table and everyone's expression.

A pale, thin young worker was clutching a thin stack of banknotes in his hand.

That was a week's wages, his hope for survival in the coming week.

Another burly man, with veins bulging on his forehead.

He lost his last hand and was angrily throwing a chip onto the table.

The foreman distributed the cards.

Each person's movements carried a ritualistic heaviness.

Arthur picked up the two cards he had been dealt.

I glanced at it and saw two Kings, a decent starting hand.

"The rules are simple." The foreman looked at Arthur with a hint of provocation in his eyes.

"A game starts at $100, with no upper limit. Cash only; if you lose all your money, you have to pawn something."

He ran his greasy thumb along the edge of the card and said softly.

"Welcome to Hell, sir. The rules are simple: there can only be one winner."

Arthur nodded without saying anything more.

He knew that the purpose of this gamble was not money, but a contest of power.

Here, money is just a shell.

Power is the bargaining chip.

The foreman is both the farmer and the predator here.

He observed the other gamblers.

Sitting opposite Arthur was a man wearing a worn-out woolen hat.

Half of his face was visible under the brim of his hat, his skin eroded by wind, sand, and alcohol, and cracked with dry mud.

His eyes were cloudy.

Yet, a glimpse of the shrewdness and madness characteristic of gamblers would occasionally flash through his eyes.

On the right is a short, middle-aged man with a dull expression.

His hands were nervously rubbing together under the card table, revealing his inner struggle and unease.

On the left is a young man.

He was wearing obviously ill-fitting work clothes, and his face was covered in acne.

His eyes, however, were already filled with desire and exhaustion.

They are both victims of this rusty belt and defenders of these rules.

The foreman started distributing public signs.

"Flip the cards." He revealed his three cards.

Ace of Hearts, 10 of Spades, Jack of Diamonds.

Arthur raised an eyebrow slightly.

His two Kings formed a pair, and the Ace on the table made him wary.

This means that someone might get a bigger pair or straight.

The foreman scanned each and every one of them with his eyes.

They can see through their cards.

The first man to place a bet was the one wearing a wool hat.

He tossed out a few tattered dollar bills, his voice hoarse.

"one hundred."

The foreman didn't say anything.

He merely raised the corners of his mouth slightly, indicating that he would follow suit.

Arthur glanced at the hole cards in his hand, as well as the community cards.

Instead of blindly increasing his bet, he chose to keep the odds.

He chose to observe.

The focus of this game is not the cards, but the opponent.

The second community card is dealt.

King of Spades.

Arthur's pupils contracted slightly.

He has two Kings in his hand, plus a King from the community cards, making a set of three Kings.

This is a very strong hand.

This is enough to give him the upper hand in this game.

He remained calm.

He showed no sign of excitement.

The foreman once again scanned everyone on the table with his sharp eyes.

Finally, it stopped on Arthur's face.

What did he see?

Arthur didn't know.

But he knew that the foreman must have seen something.

In this round, the foreman started adding fuel.

He threw a heavy chip onto the table with a dull thud.

"three hundred."

Someone at the table hesitated.

The young man's face turned ashen.

He stared at the thin stack of banknotes in front of him; it was his only hope.

He ultimately chose to fold.

He helplessly slammed his cards face down on the table.

The man in the wool hat glanced at her.

They also chose to fold.

Now only Arthur and the foreman remain.

Arthur's lips curled into a barely perceptible smile.

He picked up the chips in front of him and immediately doubled the foreman's bet.

"Six hundred." His voice was calm.

The lake surface was calm, without a ripple.

The foreman narrowed his eyes.

He scrutinized Arthur, trying to catch any trace of emotion on his face.

Arthur's arm muscles tensed slightly.

But he did not tremble; his gaze was firm, like two bottomless lakes.

This is not a game of skill; it's a psychological battle.

Both sides are testing each other's bottom line.

The foreman has yet to take any action.

He seemed to be hesitating, weighing his options; this seasoned gambler was going through his own inner struggle.

He picked up his hole card, put it back on the table, and then picked it up again, repeating this several times.

Finally, he let out a short, cold snort and placed his trump card face down on the table.

"You're ruthless, newbie," the foreman said.

His tone was tinged with resentment, but he knew he had lost this round.

Arthur pushed aside his hole cards, revealing the three Kings on the table.

His expression remained indifferent; the matter was insignificant.

The chips piled up in front of him were enough to cover the price demanded by the foreman.

He had no intention of continuing the game.

The foreman rudely gathered the chips and cash scattered on the table for himself.

He didn't give Arthur an answer right away, but instead lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

The swirling smoke obscured his shrewd eyes.

"You want to know about Murphy Callahan?" The foreman slowly exhaled a puff of smoke, his voice low.

"I told you, rules are rules. I gave you a chance to win a hundred dollars, and you seized it."

Arthur waited quietly, without urging him.

The foreman turned his gaze to Arthur and looked him up and down.

"That old bastard Murphy hasn't shown up in a long time," he finally said, his tone tinged with impatience.

"If you count it, it must be..." He thought for a moment, his eyes glancing at a yellowed calendar hanging deep inside the shed.

"It's been at least two weeks. He's not the type to slack off; something must have happened."

"What happened?" Arthur pressed.

The foreman took a deep drag on his cigarette and then crushed the butt into the metal bucket next to him.

"Who knows? In this godforsaken place, people disappear every day, and people rot in some stinking ditch every day." He shrugged.

"Maybe he drank too much, or maybe he offended someone he shouldn't have."

The foreman's eyes swept over the workers in the shed.

They all lowered their heads, avoiding eye contact with the foreman.

Arthur could tell he was holding back, but that was all he could get from this source.

He then took out a few more banknotes from his pocket and placed them on the table.

"I don't know much. But I've heard some rumors." A voice suddenly sounded behind Arthur.

A pale, thin white man walked over.

He was wearing equally filthy work clothes, but a few traces of cleanliness could be seen at the hem.

"My name is Jason." He extended his hand, his movements hesitant, but his eyes were firm.

"What can you offer?" Arthur shook his hand.

Jason's hands were thin and bony, yet surprisingly strong.

"Murphy... I know about him, but the foreman didn't tell you on purpose to avoid getting into trouble," Jason said in a low voice.

"Do you know what it is?" Arthur's eyes lit up.

Jason shook his head, then nodded.

Jason's gaze wandered somewhat.

"This news... is worth a hundred dollars," he said suddenly, his eyes falling on the banknote in Arthur's hand.

Arthur simply pulled out two fifty-yuan bills and handed them over.

"These are yours," Arthur said.

Jason didn't take it; a look of struggle appeared on his face.

"No...that's not my rule." Jason shook his head.

"It's a deal. Unless you're willing to... pay me a hundred dollars to sleep with my wife." His voice was hoarse as he glanced around the shed to make sure no one was watching.

Arthur frowned as he looked at Jason.

He knew this was a tragedy of the lower class, but he never imagined it would be presented to him in this way.

"Mr. Jason, I can give you the money directly," Arthur said, trying to persuade him to accept the money.

"I don't want to take advantage of you." Jason's voice was stubborn, with a certain dignity.

"I only make deals."

Arthur knew that in these places, rules were more important than money.

"Okay, deal." Arthur finally compromised, agreeing first and then discussing the details later. Anyway, he had given the money to Jason and received the news.

"take me."

Jason nodded.

He stepped out of the shadows of the shed and gestured for Arthur to follow.

Night had completely fallen, and only a few lights flickered on the construction site.

The two walked out of the shed, leaving the noisy machinery behind.

The air was fresher than in the workers' shed, but it still carried a lingering dampness and rusty smell.

"Why are you so insistent on making this kind of deal?" Arthur asked on the way.

Jason paused for a moment, but did not turn around.

"Live on." He uttered two words, his voice calm and hollow.

"This is the only way. She's willing, we have no other choice."

He continued walking forward without saying another word.

Arthur followed in silence, understanding what Jason meant.

At the bottom of Emerald Dream City, one often has to choose between dignity and physical well-being.

Or, in the face of unfathomable despair, even the power of choice is stripped away.

The road became increasingly remote, and the streetlights grew sparse.

Their figures gradually disappeared into the depths of the night.