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

The luxury car smoothly glided through the streets of Emerald Dream City.

Inside the car, the rich scent of leather mingled with the faint fragrance of Professor Finch's perfume.

Lin Zheng sat in the back seat, his gaze passing through the bulletproof glass, letting the scenery outside rush past.

It begins with meticulously manicured university lawns and classical Gothic buildings, every brick and tile bearing the weight of history and the solemnity of academia.

Next came the middle-class residential area, with rows of townhouses in neat rows, pumpkin lanterns on the porches still flickering in the afterglow of Halloween, and the sounds of children playing were indistinct.

Then, the city's skin began to lose its luster.

The towering financial buildings were gradually replaced by low, dilapidated industrial buildings, and the air was filled with the smell of diesel and rust.

The number of pedestrians on the roadside has decreased, and their figures appear increasingly tired.

Neon signs are no longer exquisitely designed; instead, they are rickety neon tubes flashing broken words.

The iron gates of the shops along the street were locked, and the graffiti on the streets was an ugly scar covering every inch of the exposed walls.

The vehicle drove into an increasingly narrow alleyway.

Piles of garbage filled the air, which became murky and heavy with the smells of decay, sewage, and fortifiers.

"Look, Lin."

Professor Finch's voice carried the calmness of a scholar as he explained a paper to his students.

"This is the evolution of an ecosystem."

"From the rationality of the ivory tower to the hustle and bustle of the city, and then to the chaos of this 'wasteland'."

His index finger tapped lightly on the windowpane, pointing to the figures huddled in the corner outside the window.

"Sociologists always like to use various models to explain all this, such as macroeconomics, cultural conflict, and historical legacy."

"But in my vision of the 'ideal state,' there is only one essence."

Finch turned his gaze to Lin Zheng, his eyes deep and devoid of any warmth.

"A ranch."

Lin Zheng silently repeated the word.

Waiting for Finch's "teachings".

"Human society is a complex but highly efficient energy conversion device."

"It's like a pyramid, with a clear hierarchy, and each level has its specific function and its assigned 'fate'."

Professor Finch's tone was deep and magnetic, each word like a nail hammering into Lin Zheng's mind.

"And this country is a pyramid-shaped company called 'The American Dream'."

"And at the top of this pyramid are the 'deep sleepers'."

"They are the behind-the-scenes controllers of the country, descendants of the founding families, and elites who control the pinnacle of politics, economics, culture, and technology."

"They know the truth about the world and live in secluded manor houses or on top of skyscrapers."

"For them, the lower classes are nothing more than 'livestock' to maintain their dream, an absolute relationship of domination and herding."

"They are ranch owners."

Lin Zheng nodded slightly; a student was listening attentively to the teacher's lecture.

"Secondly, there are the 'dream builders'."

Professor Finch kept talking, but his eyes were fixed on the cuffs of his suit, straightening out non-existent wrinkles.

"We are the 'Dream Builders'."

"Senior corporate executives, top researchers, media moguls, politicians. We acquire wealth and power by executing the will of the 'Deep Sleepers'."

"We have a vague understanding of the truth, but in order to maintain our own position, we will choose to ignore it and defend it."

"Our lives are filled with high pressure and paranoia, oppressing the 'sleepwalkers' and harvesting 'nightmare fuel' while being enslaved and monitored by the 'deep sleepers'."

"We are the ranch managers, responsible for maintaining the ranch's daily operations and output."

Professor Finch chuckled to himself.

Apart from the sleepers, all other classes are objects to be killed or fall from grace in this country and this society.

Looking at Finch's tired face, Lin Zheng felt a strange and unpredictable emotion welling up inside him.

He forcibly suppressed these emotions.

"Further down, the majority of the population are 'sleepwalkers'."

"They are middle-class and working-class people, the most loyal believers in the 'American Dream'."

"They work hard, consume entertainment, are manipulated by media narratives, and struggle to survive in a designed fear."

"Their hopes and disappointments are the ranch's primary source of energy."

"We call them the 'meat sheep' and 'dairy cows' of the ranch."

Finch's tone grew increasingly flat.

"Lin, you were one of them, weren't you?"

Finch's gaze turned to Lin Zheng again.

"You came here with dreams of distant places, studied hard, and longed to integrate."

"But you see, after your dreams were shattered, you didn't fall into the abyss; instead, you saw through the facade."

"You have become a special existence."

Lin Zheng did not respond.

He recalled those painful and humiliating moments, and how he learned to become numb.

His former will to survive became something "special" in Finch's words.

"At the very bottom of the pyramid is 'Nightmare Fuel'."

Professor Finch's voice grew even lower.

"Homeless people, serious criminals, and marginalized groups who have been completely abandoned by society."

"They no longer generate 'hope' or generate very little of it, and are therefore regarded as purely physical resources."

"They are the source of 'flesh and blood,' systematically 'harvested,' and their existence is completely ignored and erased by mainstream society."

"They are the 'sick and weak' on the ranch, the 'waste' that needs to be cleaned up regularly to maintain the healthy operation of the entire ecosystem."

The wheels finally stopped turning, pulling Lin Zheng's thoughts back to reality.

The driver quickly got out of the car and respectfully opened the back door.

A stench, a mixture of urine, rotting food, musty smells, and pungent garbage, hit you, creating a stark contrast to the elegant fragrance inside the car.

The combination makes one want to vomit.

"Welcome to our 'Sociology Practice Classroom,' Lin."

Professor Finch stepped out of the carriage first, a knowing smile on his face.

The sunlight was dazzling, gilding the street in the slum with a golden edge.

The streets were lined with dilapidated tents and makeshift shacks made of cardboard boxes.

People dressed in rags sat or lay down, their eyes vacant and their skin pale.

Some people swayed unsteadily, like walking corpses; others folded their bodies, like marionettes.

They are what Professor Finch calls "nightmare fuel".

This is a barren land, where poverty, disease, and despair grow rampant like weeds.

"Our job today is to observe this perfect laboratory of energy flow at all levels."

As soon as Professor Finch finished speaking, the piercing sound of sirens shattered the brief silence as they grew closer.

Several black vans painted with federal police markings roared in, their doors suddenly flung open.

Armed guards, dressed in black riot gear and carrying batons and shields, filed out.

Their steps were synchronized, their eyes cold.

"Clear the area!"

The lead officer's voice was booming.

The homeless people wandering the streets were terrified by this sudden turn of events.

Some people tried to escape, but were precisely stopped by the guards, whose batons struck their bodies dully.

"Get out! This is not a place for you!"

The guards pushed and kicked them mercilessly, hurling highly insulting words at them.

A thin homeless man was pinned to the ground by two guards and his batons fell heavily as he resisted.

His head slammed violently into the ground with a dull thud.

The bloodstains spread rapidly, and a flower of evil bloomed on this filthy land.

"Look, this is the cost of order."

Professor Finch's voice rang in his ears, as calm as ever, even tinged with appreciation.

"In order to ensure high-quality 'emotional output,' unstable interference must be eliminated first."

"These remnants of 'nightmare fuel' have long lost their value; they can only bring chaos and negative energy, polluting the ranch's environment."

"Clearing them out is to make room for more 'valuable' energy."

Professor Finch's eyes held no respect for life, only cold calculation.

Lin Zheng forced himself to look away. His throat was dry, and he tried hard to suppress the urge to rush forward.

He knew all too well that at this moment, any emotional action would only kill him.

He must continue to play his role.

He nodded slightly, indicating that he understood.

The clearing operation was swift and efficient.

In less than ten minutes, the entire neighborhood was completely "purified," and the homeless were driven into deeper, darker alleyways.

Several large trucks slowly drove in, their bodies white and bearing the logo of the "Hope Foundation".

The truck was loaded with food, clothing, and all sorts of supplies, piled up like a mountain; materials from another world had intruded into this place.

They stand out starkly against their dilapidated surroundings. Look, a magnificent rainbow arches across the sky, falling upon this decaying swamp.

Immediately afterwards, several television broadcast vans roared in and came to a steady stop at the street corner.

A group of well-dressed reporters and cameramen, each with a Starbucks in hand, jumped out of the car chatting and laughing, and began setting up their cameras.

Their faces beamed with professional smiles, for what was about to unfold was not a charitable aid event, but a grand awards ceremony.

The air was thick with the mixed scents of hairspray and perfume, creating a new clash with the stench of the slums.

The harsh realities of life have become a meticulously constructed stage, awaiting the appearance of the leading actors.

Lin Zheng stood beside Professor Finch, feeling the stark contrast.

A line of black luxury cars slowly drove up, escorted by police cars.

The mayor, councilors, and some local celebrities stepped out of the car, their faces beaming with standard, friendly smiles.

They shook hands warmly with the reporters, and the flashbulbs of cameras illuminated the slum as if it were daytime.

The mayor took the microphone and began to speak eloquently in front of the camera, spouting empty rhetoric about hope, aid, and the "American Dream."

The mayor and councilors made promises, and the people cheered.

Behind the cordon a few dozen meters away, the homeless people who had been driven outside the fence watched with hungry and numb eyes this grand performance that was related to them, yet also had nothing to do with them.

Big shots need applause, and so applause is given.

"Pat pat, pat pat—"