America 2009: Survival of the Underclass

"You fucking think you can jump rope like a little girl?"

"So you can come and go as you please?"

The rifle butt slammed heavily onto the brown-red wooden stairs, the dull thud making my eardrums ache.

Li Ang covered his bleeding forehead and nodded mechanically.

"Once you join, it's for life, you beast!"

"So you'd better get to the delivery location tomorrow! The sunfish of Lake Michigan are waiting for you, don't do anything stupid, you idiot."

The burly black man in the beanie had a fierce look in his eyes, clutching the Glock 17 in his palm. He turned and got into the black Chevrolet parked by the roadside and drove away.

Li Ang only slowly straightened up after the taillights disappeared.

crossed.

Leon Smith, who was arrested for smuggling goods but did not bite anyone, was taken in by the GD gang after his release from prison.

Yesterday, while selling goods on the street, I witnessed my companion being shot and killed. I wanted to leave the gang, and that was his upline just now.

He turned around expressionlessly, walked a few steps down the brown wooden stairs to the door, and pushed it open to enter.

This is the only legacy left behind by the original owner's parents after they were cremated—a single-story red brick house on South Homan Street in Chicago's South Side.

He walked through the living room with its broken sofa, took a bottle of beer from the kitchen refrigerator, lay back on the living room sofa and gulped it down, then closed his eyes and began to think about how to survive.

Quit? Impossible.

In his past life, he dreamed of coming to America to make a fortune, to make a huge profit, and to fiercely criticize the evil capitalist world.

Ultimately, the dream did not come true, partly due to skin color and partly due to gang affiliation.

So he specifically researched these American gangs. Joining was easy; you just had to sell goods on the streets for a while and deliver a few shipments. But leaving meant betrayal.

The price of betrayal is certain death.

A few minutes later, he suddenly got up and rushed into the bedroom, forcefully moving the wardrobe, which was as tall as a person, away from the bed.

The photo frame of the poisonous couple was violently smashed to the ground.

Behind the wardrobe lies most of the original owner's wealth.

He ripped open the tape behind the wardrobe, grabbed the plastic bag, took a few steps to the bedside table, picked up the canvas bag, grabbed a few clothes, slung it over his shoulder, and left.

Getting entangled with gangs is like playing mind games. It's not like dancing on a tightrope; it's like bungee jumping without a rope.

Besides, GD and BP are about to begin a bloody battle that will last for 10 years, and he doesn't want to be a filler character.

Benefits - Costs - Risks = Negative. He miscalculated like this in his past life and messed things up.

Run away!

Right now he's just a low-level henchman; at most, the gang will come and smash up his dilapidated house.

Continuing to entangle yourself in this mess is far more risky than running away. Even if you manage to make it big, you'll still end up being punished by the heavens.

Although he is now a nobody, the door to charity that he only dared to dream about in his previous life has opened a crack for him.

Is this a case of worshipping foreign things and fawning on foreigners?

Black guys have become charity ambassadors in China!

Can you handle it?

One reason.

Not to mention America, where there is no distinction between black and white, only between black and white; some things are destined to be done by white people!

Other ethnic groups?

I'm very sorry, your application was not approved.

He closed the door that was destined to be smashed, walked to the roadside, and was about to open the car door when a familiar shout came from the porch of a two-story detached house across the street.

"Leon!"

Fiona leaned against the doorframe with a smile, clutching a crumpled canvas bag in one hand. When she saw him looking at her, she waved a small piece of paper in her other hand.

"Mrs. Jessica from 22nd Street has met her maker! Dead people get freebies?!"

Leon steadied himself, sighed, and said with annoyance, "I have urgent business in the West District today, Fiona."

Upon hearing this, Fiona didn't press the matter; she simply nodded casually and waved for him to leave.

Li Ang nodded slightly in acknowledgment, and without further delay, climbed into the old Ford pickup truck that the original owner had bought from the car theft yard, roared the engine, and headed towards Chicago International Airport.

With $3621 plus an old flip phone, he had enough money to settle down in Los Angeles, the City of Angels.

Arriving at the airport parking lot, he casually tossed his old pickup truck key into a nearby trash can.

With a loud "clang".

Congratulations on completing your first good deed after time travel—releasing animals back to life.

Merit +1.

The plane broke free of the runway, its engines whirring as it bid farewell to Chicago.

Only when he held the 99 yuan special offer ticket in his hand did he dare to lean back in his chair, and the heavy feeling in his chest suddenly eased.

One step away, and I would have repeated the fate of being shot in my past life.

Whether or not he was shot or not was not really Mr. Li's concern; what mattered was that he couldn't criticize capitalism in either of his two lifetimes, which would be a great pity.

No one can be infallible. Getting entangled with gangs means that trouble is inevitable, not a coincidence.

Just like the inevitable Judgment Day in Christianity.

The plane landed at Los Angeles International Airport. Without hesitation, Li Ang walked out of the airport, hailed a taxi, and headed towards San Pedro Street in the city center.

This name may be unfamiliar, but its other name, "Poor Street," is probably known to everyone.

The largest homeless community in the United States, where tens of thousands of homeless people thrive every year.

Because it is located in the city center, even though gangs are concentrated there, they dare not openly cause large-scale violent incidents!

At most, they would just shoot one person and leave the body to establish their authority.

Or it could be the National Guard! Move out!

If Los Angeles, the City of Angels, is the birthplace of charitable organizations, then Poor Street is Jerusalem.

"Hiss~" The taxi stopped at the intersection of 7th Street and Poor Street.

This is the starting point at the southern end of Poor Street. If you walk north, it's only a few kilometers to the city center.

"How much."

"$55, sir," the driver quoted a fixed price.

He looked up, carrying his canvas bag, and immediately a smile crept onto his face.

The streets were covered with graffiti and countless tents. Homeless people dressed in West Coast style gathered in twos and threes, looking relaxed and content.

After all, it was only 2009. The United States at that time still had a trace of the unity of the golden age, and was not the atomized Cthulhu that would later become completely indistinguishable from black and white.

He was playing the "Don't Step on the Homeless" game along the sidewalk when he stopped next to a Black homeless man lying on an open cardboard box, smoking.

"Hey buddy, can you sell me one?"

The Black homeless man's eyes darted around, and he grinned: "OK! One knife! Dude!"

"Two dollars, and give me the lighter." Li Ang stared into his cloudy eyes and pulled out a handful of change.

"Sure, buddy!"

The homeless man was overjoyed and carefully pulled a cigarette without a filter from the crumpled Pall Mall cigarette box, handing it over along with a lighter.

Li Ang took it, counted out two one-dollar bills and handed them over, then turned and walked towards a deserted corner.

I lit a cigarette and took two deep drags.

"Let's do it, guys!"

He gave a low shout to bolster his courage, then gritted his teeth and pressed the bright red cigarette butt from the tip of his left finger hard against the small six-pointed star tattoo on the web of his right hand.

"Hiss—fuck you! I'll fucking kill you…"

He couldn't help but curse, fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and the smell of roasted meat filled his nostrils.

Ten seconds later, he exhaled, sweating profusely, threw the cigarette butt on the ground, carefully examined the dark, calloused area between his thumb and forefinger, and breathed a sigh of relief.

The six-pointed star tattoo representing the GD gang on the tiger's mouth was charred black and completely ruined.

He dared not go to a tattoo shop to remove his tattoos, as most of these shops were associated with local gangs.

If a Los Angeles gang discovers that a member of the Chicago Gang has come to their largest underground warehouse, he'll be dead without even knowing how he died.

"GD, you fucking made me suffer like this, don't let me recover."

"Otherwise, I'd blow up your graveyards and feed your ashes to the sunfish."

"Damn it—"

Li Ang, still grumbling, calmed down, took out his flip phone from his canvas bag, removed the back cover and battery, and pulled out the phone card with the Chicago area code 312.

I burned the SIM card with a lighter and watched the plastic block turn into black ash at my feet.

In 2009, BP's Odee Perry had not yet been shot, and the infamous O Block had not even been named yet.

The two giant gangs, GD and BP, had not yet entered a decade-long bloody battle, nor had they experienced the later situation of being jointly besieged by law enforcement agencies and having their power greatly reduced.

At this time, they were deeply rooted in Chicago and even held a large portion of the votes from the lower classes.

Who knows if GD might suddenly decide to use his inside connections in the law enforcement system to locate his cell phone signal?

Although Li Ang was just a low-level henchman and the possibility of this was slim, he didn't want to leave any risk unresolved.

This could be fatal, so we must be careful.

The canvas shoes stomped on the black plastic block, sending up clouds of black dust.

A true man formally embraces his unpredictable future.