Taoist priest goes to America

Screams came from the television.

Inside the fried chicken shop, the middle-aged man in the plaid shirt, who was about to go out for a smoke, stopped in his tracks, turned around abruptly, and even flung the cigarette out of his mouth.

The bald man stared blankly at the TV, his mouth half-open, the fork slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor.

The black guy's smile vanished, and he squeezed out some ketchup and poured it onto the table next to the fries.

The Mexican man braced himself on the table with both hands, straightened up from his chair, and stared wide-eyed.

The young Asian man's hand stopped on the tablet screen, and he looked up at the chaotic images on the television screen with a blank expression.

The television screen was shaking violently. Five or six burly men in black suits formed a circle, completely obscuring the speaker, and the human wall slowly moved towards the back of the stage.

The television screen was shaking violently. The camera was jostled, the lens was tilted, and the screen was filled with people's backs and arms.

Someone was shouting "Get down!", someone was shouting "Doctor!", and someone was shouting "Go, go, go!" Then the scene stabilized, the cameraman found an angle through the gaps in the crowd, and the lens refocused on the podium.

Six or seven agents formed a human wall, their black suits folded together, completely obscuring the speaker. The human wall slowly moved towards the back of the stage.

Then a hand appeared from within the human wall.

A hand emerged from the human wall, covered in blood, the cuffs of its white shirt soaked through. The hand pushed aside the agent blocking its path, causing the agent to stumble.

The human wall split open, and he stood up. The Frenchman stood up on his own, his entire left cheek, from his forehead to his chin, covered in blood.

Blood trickled down his hair and into his left eye. He closed his left eye, leaving his right eye open, looking utterly disheveled, but his face held an almost manic expression, as if something had been proven true.

Farrand raised his right hand, gesturing for the agents to step back. The agents did not retreat. He waved his hand again, then turned and firmly ordered them to back off.

He took a breath, took the handkerchief handed to him by the bodyguard, wiped his face, and diluted the blood on his face a little.

"God help me," Farron said, his voice louder than before, "it seems my brain dodged the bullet." He smiled.

The tens of thousands of people present fell silent, followed by an explosion of cheers. Many people started laughing with tears still on their faces. Laughter was mixed with sobs, and sobs were mixed with the slogan "USA".

The entire square was like a boiling pot, with everyone running around excitedly like ants.

Inside the fried chicken shop, the mouths of those middle-aged men never stopped moving. The Asian youth pulled the hoodie off his head, and the Black guy ignored the ketchup that had spilled onto the table.

They swarmed around the television, watching this incredible scene unfold.

The crowd on TV was incredibly frenzied, kneeling down to pray for America, hugging and crying, and even screaming at the camera.

The blond man gestured for them to be quiet, and the crowd quickly obeyed his command, falling silent to resume listening to his speech.

"They want me to stand here and read a bunch of empty platitudes and clichés that are in their favor, from a teleprompter."

"Those words are useless; they are empty promises that are harmful to you and only bring benefits to them."

Faroni braced himself on both sides of the podium, seemingly struggling to hold on.

"I suffered because I rejected them."

He pointed to where the bullet had hit, on the left side of his head, near his temple, where a little blood was splattering.

"But—" Franny clenched his right fist and slammed it onto the podium. "They absolutely cannot defeat me!"

"Do you want to know why?" Franni leaned down and scanned the restless supporters below the stage.

"Yes—!" the supporters below the stage shouted in unison, responding to their Franco.

"We Americans also have our values."

"And most importantly—" Faroni lowered his hand, signaling the crowd below to calm down.

"Faith! This is the value of America!"

"It is because I have faith! It is because I have faith in our Lord that I was able to survive this attack and continue to live up to your expectations."

Faroni's gaze swept from the left to the right of the stage, like a shepherd counting his flock.

"Because I believe that God wants me to stand up and expose the despicable bastards hiding behind the scenes! That's why I'm standing here and being chosen by you."

"No matter where they are hiding, we must find them and let them face God's judgment."

"This is what I should do, this is what every American should do! This is the right thing to do!"

Franco suddenly spread his arms wide, straightening them, his posture resembling that of Jesus nailed to the cross.

"Some people say I'm arrogant. Some say I'm dangerous. Some say I shouldn't have so much power." A smile appeared on his face.

"I'm telling you, you're right. I shouldn't have so much power, and I shouldn't enjoy the Lord's favor all to myself. You are the ones who should have it."

He suddenly pointed to the audience seats.

"You should have the right to walk down the street without looking back."

"You should have the right to watch the news without feeling like you're watching a comedy."

"You should have the right to sit on your own balcony, sipping a cup of coffee, without worrying about what this country will become tomorrow!"

His voice grew louder and louder, and he waved his hands like a fledgling bird learning to take flight.

"But they don't give you these powers, they give you fear, they give you division, they tell you to vote for the other side."

"They are not your compatriots, they are your enemies!"

Franco stopped and slowly shook his head.

"And I," his voice suddenly softened, "am someone who has been given a mission by the Lord to help you cleanse these wicked people."

"My mission wasn't written by those suit-wearing men in Congress!"

"It was given to me by God!"

"Am I not the chosen one, destined to save all living beings?!"

Tens of thousands of hands rose simultaneously from the audience. The elderly and children, men and women, people in suits, T-shirts, and uniforms all raised their hands above their heads, cheering and shouting in response to him.

Although you could see their mouths were open, you could no longer hear what they were shouting.

The television feed switched back to the studio. The anchor's voice trembled as he delivered the latest news with the tone of someone witnessing history.

Ang Lee sat down in the chair, put down the Coke cup in his hand, and picked up a napkin to wipe his hands.

He understood what was in the spot where Franni had been shot; that area contained the hippocampus, as well as the auditory and language comprehension centers…

If a normal person's brain is hit by a bullet, even if nothing else is injured, the brain tissue will be shattered by the shockwave, and they will immediately fall to the ground, lose consciousness, and fall into a coma.

This person couldn't possibly stand up on their own and then say such a long thing.

Unless he's not a normal person at all.

Ang Lee watched the blond figure being led into the armored car on TV. He didn't know how Faroni had done it, but he was now certain of one thing.

This world is not the America he used to know; it's a world with different circumstances.

In the fried chicken shop, the uncles finally shut their mouths.

The man in the plaid shirt shakily pulled out another cigarette and was about to leave when the bald man called out to him in a trembling voice.

"Wait... I want to... come too." The bald man and the man in the plaid shirt exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with fervor.

The Mexican man glanced down at his unfinished single meal on the table, then suddenly grabbed his beer and downed the rest in one gulp.

His expression was no longer numb; it was as if hope had been rekindled.

The young Black man sat back down, but he didn't touch the plate of fries again. His eyes remained fixed on the television.

The Asian youth expressionlessly put on the hoodie, put his laptop into his backpack, zipped it up, and walked out of the store with his hands and feet clasped together.

Ang Lee felt he didn't need to look at the polls anymore; he could tell the result just by looking at the way these people looked at each other.