While in America, the system says Roosevelt was an emperor.

Tom walked onto the stage and began his performance.

He didn't rush to speak, but stood quietly in front of the microphone, his gaze sweeping over the dense crowd below the stage.

Among the tens of thousands of people present, many were members of the Corleone family or other gangs.

The "crowd" began to maintain order and help quiet the crowd down.

After a moment of silence, Tom stepped forward to the microphone and said in a firm and clear voice:

"My name is Tom Smith."

"Fellow Brooklyn residents, does any of you know me?"

"You may not have heard of my name, but you've all heard of Smith Clinic, right?"

"My father is Dr. Leonard at the Smith Clinic."

Tom stopped talking and left the time to the audience.

"Is he Dr. Leonard's son?"

"Leonard doesn't even deserve to be called a doctor. He's just an unlicensed quack."

"What's wrong with unlicensed doctors?"

"If it weren't for Dr. Leonard, I would be dead long ago."

Leonard has been running his clinic for decades and is already quite well-known.

With the added reminder from well-meaning "crowds," everyone present was reminded of Smith's Clinic.

The way she looked at Tom softened considerably, after all, they were "neighbors" who had grown up together.

Tom spoke into the microphone again:

"I'm here today to ask you a question."

"How many hours of sunshine does your house get each day?"

The audience was stunned for a moment.

This is such a strange question—not a campaign promise, not a political slogan, but the sun?

Tom then began interacting with the audience, passing the microphone around and letting different people answer questions.

The first person to receive the microphone was a middle-aged man, probably around thirty-five years old, who answered:

"One or two hours, I haven't counted."

"I go to work as soon as I get up in the morning and don't get home until dark, so I don't know what my home is like."

Tom nodded and responded from the stage:

"Then you are just like my father, he also leaves early and returns late."

"The last time I had breakfast with my father was last Christmas."

Many middle-aged men present had tears welling up in their eyes as they listened.

They haven't had breakfast with their children and family in a long time.

Immediately afterwards, the microphone was passed to a woman who was not yet thirty years old, and she said:

"My house is in the basement, and there's no sunlight all day."

"The child is always sick. The shaman said it's because the basement lacks sunlight and is haunted by ghosts."

"But I have no choice. If we rent a normal apartment, my husband and I won't even be able to afford food with our salaries."

This time, Tom didn't speak, but silently looked at the other person.

Everyone present could feel the coldness emanating from Tom.

Helplessness, pity, anger...

Tom conveyed all of these emotions without saying a word or making any gestures.

The third person was a boy wearing blue overalls. He looked much younger than Tom, barely fifteen years old.

The boy said:

"I live in a factory shed, which has no windows at all, so where does the sunlight come from?"

"The foreman said, 'Why do we need windows to sleep? Having a place to lie down is good enough.'"

The fourth person was an elderly man over fifty years old. After receiving the microphone, he said somewhat excitedly:

"My home is a bit better; it's an apartment on the third floor, and we still get three hours of sunshine every day."

"My old woman looks forward to those three hours every day, so she can take the blankets out to air them..."

The old man's voice choked for a moment, then he continued:

"She left last year. The sunlight still shines in, but no one airs out the blankets anymore."

The answers from the next dozen or so listeners were largely the same.

One hour, two hours, three hours, or none at all.

Their answers were not just a brief mention of time; their words also included details of their lives.

They all live the way of the lowest class, the way of living in the shadows.

Tom spoke again:

"I'm pretty much the same as you, living with my parents in a small, west-facing apartment."

"The entire apartment has only one bedroom, which receives a pitiful few hours of weak sunlight in the afternoon."

Under Tom's guidance, everyone was now discussing the amount of sunlight in their own homes.

And they were completely unaware that, in their conversation,

They had already tacitly accepted that Tom, dressed in a suit and tie, on the podium, was one of their "own people".

Tom cleared his throat, and everyone quieted down and looked at him.

Tom knew the time was right and said:

"Cough cough~"

"Do you know how long the sun shines each day in Manhattan's affluent areas?"

"I'm telling you, it's available all day long."

"From sunrise to sunset, the houses in the affluent neighborhood are always bathed in sunlight."

Many people were already blushing, ready to speak out to the rich.

But Tom didn't give them time to think, and spoke faster, angrily saying:

"On what grounds?"

"Why should the rich be allowed to live on land under the sun?"

"And we, we can only live on land without sunlight!"

This sparked a huge controversy, with many people cursing the rich, believing that they had robbed the poor of their sunshine.

The crowd's emotions were stirred up, and shouts and curses continued.

As the crowd reached their climax, Tom raised both hands, clenched his fists in the air, and roared into the microphone in an almost furious voice:

"Everyone, I am just like you, one of the poor in New York."

"Please vote for me in the upcoming city council election."

"I will reclaim for you everything that rightfully belongs to us poor people."

"Sunlight!"

"food!"

"Welfare!"

"money!"

Tom swung his fist every time he shouted a word.

The crowd below the stage also pumped their fists and roared.

"Everything, everything—"

Tom took a deep breath, as if using the last of his strength, and burst out:

"If you vote for me, I will help you win it back!"

The roar subsided.

The stadium was silent.

A dozen seconds later, the audience erupted in a chaotic roar:

"Damn rich politicians!"

"Tom Smith!"

"Please take back our sunshine!"

"Tom! Tom!"

Carl, standing in the crowd, held his camera and kept snapping photos of Tom.

Tom's silence and his final outburst, in particular, made for excellent photo choices for newspaper publication.

The excited Carl was completely unaware that the film roll, which usually held only twenty photos, had already taken more than thirty photos today.

Anna stood backstage, completely at a loss for what to do or say.

She never imagined that the people at the bottom of society could be so miserable.

They can't even tolerate normal sunlight.

Tom looked at everything before him and knew that his plan had succeeded.

In 1941, candidates' speeches were mostly election promises.

He promised what he would do for his constituency if elected.

But Tom doesn't play any election promises. Can identity recognition win votes faster?

American politicians, come and see the vote-buying tactics of eighty years from now!