Taoist priest goes to America

Ang Lee chewed on the last few chicken legs while watching the television hanging from the ceiling playing a holiday program.

Just then, the sound of a news broadcast came from the television.

"...A campaign rally is underway in Butler, Pennsylvania. Republican presidential candidate and former president Franny Trentey is giving a speech."

Ang Lee took a bite of fried chicken and watched the TV screen with great interest.

The scene shows an outdoor open-air venue packed with people. Flags flutter in the wind, most of them red signs with white lettering that read "Make America Great Again."

The stage was set up in the center of the venue, with a huge American flag as a backdrop. High-powered lights shone on it, illuminating the night as if it were daytime.

A man stands on the podium.

He wore a dark blue suit with a bright red tie. His long, tousled blond hair cascaded over his shoulders, gleaming like a lion's mane under the light.

His skin was a honey color from sun exposure, his features were sharply defined, and his sharp chin and prominent nose outlined a typical American face. His eyes were an extremely light blue that were frighteningly bright under the lights.

His broad frame and shoulders accentuated the lines of his dark blue suit, yet his figure was not bulky, exuding a solid and powerful presence.

He leaned forward slightly as he spoke, his hands resting on the table, pressing against the edge of the podium.

He is one of the current candidates vying for the presidency of the United States, Franny Trentey.

"They say this country is declining," Faronni's voice came through the television speakers.

He raised his hand from the podium and drew an arc in the air.

"They say our golden age is over. They say we can only accept decline, compromise, and being forgotten by the world."

The audience was chanting slogans, so loud that the TV speakers were making noise.

"They're wrong." Faroni paused, his gaze sweeping across the crowd.

"They were wrong every single time. They said I couldn't win, but I definitely could."

"They said I couldn't revive the economy, and I did. They said I couldn't get this country back on its feet—look around you."

Faroni pointed to the back of the crowd, where there were endless rows of spectators.

A huge roar erupted from the audience, mixed with whistles and screams.

The camera pans across the front row, where a middle-aged man is wiping away tears. Next to him, a woman is holding up a sign that reads "God Bless America." The sign is being blown askew by the wind, but she is holding it high, her hands trembling.

"You stand here. You didn't hide in your homes, you didn't bow to those media elites, you didn't abandon your faith in this country!"

"The fact that you are standing here proves that they are always wrong."

Ang Lee took a sip of his cola and ate with even greater relish.

At the next table sat two middle-aged white men, around 30 or 40 years old, with beer and half-eaten chicken wings in front of them.

One of the bald men frowned and poked at the cabbage salad on his plate with his fork. The other, wearing a plaid shirt, rested his elbows on the table and propped his chin on his hand.

"Here we go again," the bald man muttered. "He always says the same thing, the factory still closes, and wages still don't go up."

The guy in the plaid shirt next to me didn't say anything, but took a bite of his chicken leg.

Near the kitchen door sat a Mexican man in overalls who looked very tired. In front of him was a single meal. While eating, he would occasionally look up at the TV, his lips pursed, his expression full of indifference and disdain.

A young Black man, wearing a baseball cap, was sitting by the window, squeezing ketchup onto his fries and grinning as he mocked the performance on TV.

"Terrence is streaming? Really?"

A young Asian man sat at the bar. He wore glasses and a hoodie, and a laptop was spread out in front of him, displaying a densely packed academic paper on the screen.

He could hear the television, but he would only glance up every now and then before continuing to write his paper. Every time a loud scream came from the television, he would frown, then pull up his hoodie and continue studying.

The waiter carried a plate of fried chicken out of the kitchen, glanced up at the TV as he passed by, shrugged, and went back to serving other customers.

The speech on television continued. The man's voice grew louder and louder, his gestures more and more forceful, and his body swayed slightly behind the podium, like a wild beast that had been caged for a long time and was finally released.

"They say we need to change course. I tell you, this country doesn't need to change course. This country needs to go back to where we stood, back to where the world looked up to America!"

"Yes! Yes! That's right!!" The supporters in the audience stood up and responded.

The middle-aged man in the plaid shirt tossed the chicken bones onto the plate and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Here we go again," he muttered.

"It's always the same old stuff: what about high-speed rail? What about medical insurance? Nothing has changed in four years."

The bald man shook his head helplessly, but eventually turned his attention to the cabbage salad, took another bite and stuffed it into his mouth before continuing to fiddle with the salad.

The Asian youth pulled the hoodie's hood even tighter.

The speech on TV entered a more intense phase—the blond man loosened his tie and raised his voice another notch.

"...They tell you to trust the media, trust the experts, trust those who have never created a job, never negotiated a deal, and never shed a drop of sweat for this country!"

I don't believe them. You don't believe them either. We only believe one thing—"

Franni bent down and brought the microphone closer.

"America is number one in the world!"

He spoke slowly, and the crowd below seemed to be ignited again, their chants shaking the television screen slightly. "USA! USA! USA!" It was like a heartbeat, one after another.

The Mexican man slammed his beer mug on the table, splashing beer everywhere. "Not again? First place? What? First place has nothing to do with me!"

The black guy's lips twitched, it was hard to tell whether he wanted to laugh or say something, but in the end he didn't say anything and continued eating his fries.

Ang Lee tossed the bone from the tenth chicken wing into the paper bucket, licked the sauce off his fingers, picked up his Coke, and took a sip. Half the ice had melted; the taste was just right.

The speaker on television reached his climax. His voice grew louder, his gestures more forceful, his body swayed slightly behind the podium, and sweat streamed down his face.

"They say we need to change course. I tell you, this country doesn't need to change course. What this country needs is to go back to where we used to stand. Where the world looked up to America."

"Faloni! Faroni! Faroni!" the crowd began to shout in unison, the shouts growing louder and more synchronized.

An old soldier in military uniform stood up and saluted, tears streaming down his face behind his sunglasses.

The man in the plaid shirt shook his head, finished the last sip of his beer, muttered, "I can't take it anymore, I'm going outside for a smoke," then stood up, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door.

His bald companion hesitated for a moment and did not follow him out.

Just then, a muffled thud came from the television.

In the video, the blond man's head suddenly tilted to the right, his hands slid off the podium, his body tilted to the right, and he fell down.

Blood gushed from the left side of his head. Dark red liquid splattered on the collar and shoulders of his white shirt, and on the huge American flag behind him.