You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 249 The Complaints Meeting (6k)

Camry turned into a narrow alley two blocks from his apartment in Lyon.

Lyon, in the car, stuffed his hat, mask, and gray waterproof jacket into the back seat, then flipped down the sun visor and took out his usual dark blue jacket from the glove compartment.

The reading light inside the car wasn't on; the only light coming from the streetlights at the intersection was a dim yellow glow, which reflected the rain stains that had dried and then reappeared on the car window.

He zipped his jacket up to his chest and swapped his baseball cap for a regular dark-colored flat cap.

After doing all that, Leon opened the car door, locked the car with the remote, and then walked along the alley to the side door of the apartment.

The night wind blew into his collar, so he tightened his coat.

The corridor was as quiet as usual, so quiet that you could only hear the sound of your own shoes hitting the floor tiles.

Lyon pushed open the door and turned on the living room floor lamp.

He closed the door behind him, locked it again, then walked to the sofa, sat down, and placed the two books he had been carrying under his arm on the coffee table.

He stared at the words on that old anthology for a long time.

I've joined the Party.

He mentally went over those three words several times.

Starting today, many things will be different.

The oaths I just recited weren't just fancy platitudes.

When he uttered the words, "Be ready at any time to sacrifice everything for the Party and the people," his right fist was clenched so tightly that even now, when he opens his fingers, he can still feel a slight ache.

Lyon leaned back on the sofa, raised his right hand, and looked at it under the light.

With his fingers together, there was no injury on his palm, except that when he raised his fist to swear, his fingernails had pressed a few white marks into his skin, which had not yet faded.

Leon put the hand back on his knee, a thought swirling in his mind.

He used to be someone who "needed care," and the organization said, "Don't worry, we won't treat you unfairly," so he just waited to be assigned a role.

But now that he is part of the organization, the logic has to be reversed. He has to take the initiative to think about what he can do for the organization.

He had said long ago that he would stay.

Stay in this decaying neighborhood of Seattle, rife with gangs and an increasing number of homeless people.

It's not about continuing to be some damn American hero.

It's simply because there are things he can do here.

Leon sat up straight and picked up the anthology from the coffee table; it was the Chinese version.

He flipped through a few pages, not rushing to find a specific passage, but simply immersing himself in reading, letting the boiling emotions from the oath he had just sworn out gradually settle down, replaced by calm reflection.

There are two most important things to do right now.

The first thing is related to the organization and ideology of the homeless people at the Psychedelic Cat Outpost.

These people now call themselves "bosses" and are afraid that they will listen to them, but deep down they are still Americans.

It's not about nationality, it's about mindset, liberalism, individualism, anti-government sentiment, and anti-collectivism. These things can't be changed overnight.

But unless this problem is solved, Psychedelic Cat will forever remain a part-time job paid on a daily wage basis, and will never be able to form an organization.

He doesn't need them to believe in communism, as Comrade Zhou just made clear. However, Comrade Zhou also said that he needs to adjust and regulate the community's organizational structure.

He needs to make these lower-class Americans—those who have gone bankrupt, divorced, or kicked out of the system—understand:

You are no longer wandering ghosts; you are a collective.

The people in this group support each other and share responsibilities; they wouldn't sell out their base for an extra twenty dollars.

The second thing is work.

The renovation will eventually be finished.

Psychedelic Cat is currently surviving by stealing electricity and water. The internal renovations can only last for another month at most. Once the dance floor is converted into a canteen and the private rooms into dormitories, if these people have no work to do and just sit in the stronghold eating and drinking for free every day, they will start to degenerate before long.

He'd seen too much alcoholism, addiction, and gambling on this street.

When people have too much free time, problems tend to arise.

Lyon put the two questions in his mind and looked at them side by side.

The work issue can be put on hold for now, after all, the psychedelic cat project is still under construction, and the workload for this month will keep them busy enough.

But the issue of mindset cannot wait.

He opened the book, paused his finger on the table of contents, and then flipped directly to a section of Volume 4.

He read with his head down for about ten minutes. When he got to a certain page, his finger stopped and tapped lightly twice under that paragraph.

"Because of the correct conduct of complaining (complaining about the suffering inflicted on the working people by the old society and the reactionaries) — the consciousness of — has been greatly enhanced."

That's the sentence.

He closed the book, placed it on the coffee table, leaned back, and stared at the lampshade on the ceiling.

To put it bluntly, my current control over the psychedelic cat is simply a matter of personal authoritarianism.

Old Han listened to him because on that night at Psychedelic Cat, he said that the place belonged to him and that he would pay them wages, so no one dared to say anything.

This kind of control, built on fear and money, is extremely fragile.

If something happens to me one day, or I run out of money, or my superiors suddenly come to investigate, the entire base will fall apart immediately.

Lyon took his hand off the armrest and rubbed his temples.

A grievance-sharing session is a great way to boost team cohesion.

He also had some recollection of this, having heard how captured soldiers were reformed in the past.

Those seasoned soldiers who had spent several years in the army of a certain party—those who smoked opium, abducted women, and cowered in battle—were given a grievance session when they came to our side.

Let them stand up and speak one by one.

Tell me how your father died.

Tell me who drove your mother to her death.

Tell me who did that tragedy in your village.

Then there's no need for political cadres to lecture anymore.

When one person started crying, everyone in the row lowered their heads.

Once a group of people started talking, their class consciousness began to emerge.

From another perspective, isn't the suffering of these homeless people also a form of class oppression?

Why did a former Milwaukee scaffolder go bankrupt?

Because he had a cold, he failed to notice the incorrect cement grade, which led to the collapse of the scaffolding. The contractor and the insurance company then colluded to shift the blame.

Why did a former Amazon warehouse worker lose his job?

He was fired for falling asleep on the shelf three times.

Why sleep on the shelf instead of at home? Is it because it's more comfortable to sleep on the shelf?

What about used car sales?

My unscrupulous boss registered me as deceased in the social security system, so I lost my status as a living person and couldn't find any formal employment.

The old welder is a special case. He seems to be the most stable now, but how could he not know how much he has been deprived of in the process? He has been a senior welder for more than ten years and can weld the structural parts of Boeing passenger planes.

But the political awareness of lower-class Americans—

Lyon estimated that if he directly asked them, "Don't you hate capitalism?", these homeless people would probably answer, "I think hamburgers should have No. 27 concrete."

Let them gather together and tell us in detail how they ended up on the streets.

After one person finishes recounting their experience of being kicked out of their home, a second person will chime in, and a third person will fall silent.

After a period of silence, they will realize: it wasn't that I didn't try hard enough, and I wasn't the only one who was deceived.

Once this shared anger is formed, it becomes a rope.

It doesn't need to be very sturdy, but it should at least be able to bind everyone together.

Lyon picked up the book from the coffee table again, turned to another chapter, "Correcting Erroneous Ideas within the Party," and after reading it, he opened the book again. He leaned back on the sofa, resting his left hand on the armrest and his right hand hanging naturally on his knee.

The rectification of erroneous ideas within the Party included many points about eliminating absolute egalitarianism and avoiding extreme democratization, which had a targeted effect on the People's Army in many aspects.

Although Lyon is not currently reforming the military, as the Psychedelic Cat develops, disputes arising from extreme democracy, salary disputes, and unequal work distribution are inevitable.

It would be too late to personally intervene and mediate each case by then.

You need to set up mechanisms in advance to avoid problems.

For example, schedule a 15-minute group standing meeting every day.

Everyone should clearly explain what they did today, what problems they encountered, and where they need help from others.

If everyone stands and listens, lazy people will feel the pressure, and those who make mistakes won't have to hide them; the problems will be laid bare.

Once it becomes a habit, this meeting will become the prototype of "we manage ourselves".

Leon went over the people and events of the psychedelic cat in his mind again and felt that he had found a direction.

In the future, people who undermine morale will definitely emerge one after another.

There will definitely be drunkards, people who just want to coast through life, and people who make sarcastic remarks.

But it doesn't matter, the union has a picket line, the farmers have a poor peasants' group, and he only needs to find a few activists in the psychedelic cat.

Old welder counts as one.

He was skilled, prestigious, and that night he was the first person to accept being hired.

MacArthur is one of them.

Although the old madman's speech was incoherent, his military-style thinking was spot on, just perhaps a bit American.

Let's talk to these two people first.

Tell them that Psychedelic Cat wants more than just a place to work.

What we need is an organization that can establish itself in the West District.

People in the organization must be responsible, understand why they were kicked out of society, and know whether there will be another Psychedelic Cat outside if they leave one day.

With these things in place, and after working together and getting to know each other, this group of people won't be like scattered sand.

Leon gathered the books, got up and walked to the bedroom. He put the books on the bedside table, then took off his coat, draped it over the back of a chair, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

The next day, I need to go to Psychedelic Cat first and talk to Old Han and MacArthur about these ideas.

Let's start with the people at the top.

one by one.

Then, take the English version of the anthology to Pastor Thomas. As a priest, if his thinking undergoes a transformation, it might have a greater impact than if it were to gradually rot away in that St. Jude Church.

At exactly six o'clock in the morning, at the Psychedelic Cat Nightclub.

MacArthur stood at the very front of the dance floor in the spot that was originally used for DJ turntables. The hem of his old camouflage military coat hung down to his thighs, and the two rows of beer caps on his chest were reflected by the light.

He had his left hand behind his back and his right hand gripping an aluminum pipe that he had broken off from somewhere, which he tapped on the ground a few times.

"Everyone—assemble!"

The sound echoed a few times in the empty dance floor, seeping into every corner of the first floor.

The sound of a mattress scraping against the floor came from the private room on the second floor, followed by the sound of footsteps on the iron staircase.

The first to arrive were a few who had slept on the floor on the first floor.

The former Milwaukee scaffolder, his reflective vest unbuttoned, moved toward MacArthur while pulling up his trousers.

The former Amazon deliveryman, a man in a hoodie with the hood still pulled up over his head, eyes half-open, muttering something unintelligible.

The short, stout Black man walked as if he were still sleepwalking, only snapping back to reality after bumping his shoulder against the stair railing.

When the old welder came down from the second-floor private room, he was already dressed neatly, with the zipper of his work clothes zipped up to his chin.

He walked up to MacArthur, stopped, and put his hands down by his sides.

MacArthur glanced down.

"Report the numbers."

"One," the scaffolder spoke first.

"Two." The man in the hoodie yawned.

"Three." The short, stout black man scratched the back of his head.

The screwdriver guy walked out from the kitchen, his hands still covered in flour, followed by the trash can philosopher, who was still wearing his apron. The two of them took turns calling out four and five.

Next came the people from the second floor: Jarvis, Elton, Cole, and Louis, four construction workers who walked down the stairs, each of them consciously cutting into the back of the line after landing.

Finally, there's the old welder.

MacArthur slammed the aluminum pipe to the ground again.

"New recruits are being assigned; roll call."

He pulled out half a pencil from the inner pocket of his military overcoat, then tore off a neatly folded piece of lined paper, squinting as he looked down.

"Maintenance Company, Wot."

No one answered.

"Maintenance Company, Walter Thompson," MacArthur raised his voice slightly.

A muffled thud came from the stairwell, followed by the sound of shoes scraping against the floor.

A man nearing forty leaned half his body out from the second floor. He had his hair shaved very short, wore a dark green T-shirt, held onto the stair railing with his right hand, and carried an old tool bag in his left.

"Here it is." His voice was a little hoarse; he hadn't even had a sip of water since waking up that morning.

"Lei brought him over from the mosque last night in the middle of the night, saying he was assigned to my place."

MacArthur flipped the lined paper over.

"Former sergeant, maintenance battalion of the 3rd Armored Division?"

Walter paused for a moment as he went down the stairs.

He stood on the stairs and looked up at the old man.

An old camouflage military overcoat, a beer cap pinned to his chest, and an aluminum tube used as a baton.

He watched for a while, then continued walking down, his left foot dragging a little, much like Lei's walking posture, but his movements were very nimble.

"Yes." Walter walked to the edge of the dance floor, not joining the ranks, but simply placing his toolbox aside. "Former Marine Corps 3rd Armored Division, Maintenance Battalion, Heavy Equipment Maintenance Technician, Sergeant First Class, Walter Thompson."

MacArthur looked down at him from the platform.

What happened to your leg?

"Afghanistan, Kandahar, has arthritis," Water said.

"Before retirement?"

Walter glanced at him.

"Yes, the Department of Veterans Affairs later said that my knee injury was not caused by combat."

"They said I wasn't responsible for driving combat vehicles, so it didn't count as a combat injury."

"If it's not considered a combat injury, there's no compensation. Then the arthritis and cartilage wear get worse and worse, and eventually even standing up to tighten bolts becomes difficult."

He patted the toolbox.

"After repairing tanks for twenty years, I was finally rendered obsolete by my knees."

MacArthur didn't respond, but simply shifted his gaze from Walter's knees back to the lined paper.

"Maintenance Company, Walter Thompson, take your positions."

Walter picked up his toolbox again and walked over to the old welder.

MacArthur finished reading the remaining names, registered two new construction workers transferred from the mosque, and then folded the lined paper and stuffed it back into his inner pocket.

"Dismissed." He tapped the ground with an aluminum pipe.

"Each company shall continue construction according to yesterday's tasks. Veteran welder and maintenance company commander Wotter will remain."

The crowd dispersed, the scaffolder grabbed the plasterboard leaning against the corner and dragged it up to the second floor, and the man in the hoodie rubbed his eyes and went to get some water.

Old Welder took two steps forward and stood next to Walter.

"Is it a problem with the circuit?" the old welder asked.

"Yes," MacArthur said. "Have Walter take another look at that cable you ran from the streetlights the other day."

Old Welder nodded and turned to walk towards the back door.

"Come with me," he beckoned to Walter, "the power distribution is under that access cover on the right-hand side of the door."

Walter followed him across the dance floor and pushed open the back door of the Psychedelic Cat.

The streets were wet in the early morning.

The two men quickly pried open the cover of the access panel and leaned it against the wall, revealing a tangled mess inside.

The orange extension wire peeked into the streetlight inspection port and was then bound together with tape, wire, and several cable ties.

The insulating tape wrapped around the joint was a little loose, exposing a bit of the copper core.

Walter squatted down next to the access panel and stared at the tangled wire for more than ten seconds.

Then he sighed.

"You did this?"

The old welder, standing behind him, crossed his arms and asked, "Is there a problem?"

Walter pointed to the exposed copper wire at the connector.

"The connection you made, the live wire and the neutral wire joints are not properly aligned and secured, and the wire is only wrapped with one and a half layers of cloth."

"And another thing." He crouched down and took half a step forward, pointing with his fingertip to a branch line that split directly from the streetlight cable. "This line, you didn't install a junction box, you just stripped the insulation and brought it out directly."

"Then all the branch circuits in the Magic Cat are connected in parallel to the same line, without any branch circuit overload protection."

Walter looked back at the old welder.

"Trying to do electrical work with your welding skills—your operation is like—"

"So, when you're soldering, do you dare to go without a mask?"

The old welder remained silent for a while.

"I welded it once before I had a face mask."

"And what about the eyes?"

"The welding point went blind," the old welder said, "but it recovered later."

Walter rubbed his head, then shook it, sighed, and decided not to say anything more.

He opened his toolbox and pulled out a roll of insulating tape, an old plastic junction box, and a pair of wire strippers.

"I once saw a second lieutenant in the armored vehicle maintenance unit who used a tank telephone line to charge his cell phone directly from the tank's battery. He burned out the engine control board of an M1A1 Abrams main battle tank. The entire motherboard cost $48,000."

He started by dismantling the old welded ant.

"Later, that lieutenant was transferred to manage a gas station."

Old Han didn't refute, but just squatted down next to Qiao, watching Walter's fingers move between the wires, first disassembling the cable, then pulling all the wire ends out of the cable and straightening them one by one.

When peeling off the old hai sash, he pinched the edge of the hai sash with his fingers and then pulled it off with just the right amount of force to break the hai sash without damaging the skin.

When connecting the wires, he twisted the copper wires together, then used the jaws of the wire strippers to press the joint tightly, and then wrapped it with a new wire.

The first layer presses the copper wire tightly, the second layer covers the entire exposed part, and the third layer extends half an inch from the connector to cover the junction of the live and neutral wires.

Finally, use cable ties to secure each branch point in double layers.

When MacArthur came out of the door, Walter had already reconnected all the wires.

"Maintenance crew." MacArthur stood behind Chowell, looking down at him as he operated the equipment.

Please report the scope of your repair work.

Walter didn't even turn his head.

"The engines, transmissions, chassis, and electrical systems of the M1 series main battle tanks, M2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicles, and M109 self-propelled howitzers are all within the main scope of the maintenance battalion of my 3rd Armored Division."

Then he paused, tightened the last ant, and stood up.

"I've also repaired Hummers, Strykers, and MRAP mine-resistant vehicles, but heavy-duty chassis are my specialty."

MacArthur's eyebrows twitched.

Who is your instructor?

"Main Sergeant Major Miller of the Maintenance Battalion, an old guy from West Germany during the Cold War, was an instructor who was transferred directly from Germany to Benningburg after the Berlin Wall fell."

"Where is Miller's instructor?" MacArthur pressed.

Water received the tools.

"I heard Miller say that his mentor was a member of the 2nd Panzer Division during World War II, who repaired Shermans from the Kasselin Pass all the way to Berlin during the North African campaign."

Walter, holding his toolkit, stood up and turned to look at MacArthur.

"I'm not sure about anything beyond that."

"As for me, I'm worse than Afghanistan."

"I spent fourteen months with the Marine Expeditionary Brigade."

"The main task is frontline maintenance. Damaged vehicles are towed back, and if they are repaired within 24 hours, they are sent back for repair. If they cannot be repaired, parts are disassembled."

MacArthur put his hands behind his back and raised his chin slightly.

"You've even handled self-propelled artillery."

"The M109 Paladin uses the same engine as the M2, and the electrical system is different, but the chassis structure is quite similar."

After saying this, Walter was a little surprised himself. Why did he speak more and more fluently, as if he were back in the repair shop in Qiaokandaha, reporting the progress of the mission to his superior?

He sized up the old man in front of him, who was wearing an old military overcoat.

"You—you really served in the military? Or are you just having fun?" Walter asked.

MacArthur did not answer his question.

"Will it be a tank?"

Wot pointed out, "One part of the maintenance process is dynamic testing. The engine is started, the transmission is engaged, the turret rotates twice, and a shot is fired when the main gun needs to be test-fired."

"The tank is fine, but I'm not a regular crew member. I know nothing about tactical maneuvering and coordination. All I know is how to take the vehicle from the repair shop to the testing range and back."

MacArthur glanced at the end of the street, then turned his gaze back to the entrance of the Psychedelic Cat.

"The outpost's defenses are currently severely lacking in heavy firepower," he said, his tone serious.

"This position only has brick walls, iron gates and a fire ladder. My forces currently consist mainly of a maintenance company, a construction company and a logistics platoon. The only armed force is the security chief's kitchen knife."

MacArthur slammed the aluminum tube to the ground.

"Perhaps the commander can get his hands on an M4 Sherman," he said. "It doesn't need to be too new, one from the World War II era will do."

"That way, the enemy will definitely think twice before trying to outmaneuver us."

Walter paused for a moment, then opened his mouth wide and slowly turned his head to look at MacArthur.

"Are you serious?"

I think so.

""

Walter's mouth closed slightly, but no sound came out. He remained silent for a while. The commander, whom he had only met a few times by chance at the mutton soup stall, was already very mysterious. Now that this old man had said this, the commander seemed to have become even more mysterious and unimaginable.

Finally, he seemed to agree with the commander's ability to acquire tanks, and finally regained his composure, continuing, "—Sherman parts can only be found in museums and private collections; engine piston rings and track pins are also difficult to match."

"However, if the car isn't in terrible condition, give me two weeks, and I can get it up to the point where it can start."

MacArthur looked at Walter, his eyes flickering, and finally patted Walter on the shoulder.

"Alright, Waters, on behalf of the Psychedelic Cat War Insight Staff, I verbally promote you to the rank of Repair Company Commander."

"Now, your first task is to thoroughly inspect the electrical circuits in this building. I don't want my command post to be burned to a crisp because of an electrical leak."

Walter instinctively straightened up a bit.

"Yes, sir."

Only after he finished speaking did he realize what he had just said. He opened his mouth slightly, but didn't say anything more. He simply picked up his tool bag, turned around, and walked back to the back door of the psychedelic cat.

MacArthur stood still, watching Walter disappear into the shadows behind the door, then put his hands behind his back, tucked the aluminum tube under his armpits, and slowly drifted back towards the dance floor.

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