America achieves both fame and fortune

Chapter 1 House of the Wild Things

With the conclusion of the Cornelian Cherry Festival, Atlanta's 2003 spring carnival has officially come to an end.

In a neighborhood in Marietta, a satellite city on the outskirts of the city, Martin Davis limped into the living room, his injured knee protesting with pain.

He had only been in North America for a week and was still adjusting.

On the bare wooden wall of the living room, there were two yellowed posters.

One of them is the cover of a certain edition of "Gone with the Wind".

The other one is the T1000 from Terminator 2.

Martin sat on the fabric sofa, the swirling dust tickling his nose. A sneeze was about to erupt, but it was averted by a hard object poking his buttocks.

The rusty, broken spring punctured the discolored sponge and non-woven fabric.

Martin grumbled and shifted to the other side, the damaged foam cushion collapsing into a crater, soft like a giant balloon of some Dani, enveloping the crucial area.

He suddenly felt a pang of heartache.

It represents not only a balloon, but also a future forged through hardship.

Martin spent many years working in Beijing and Hengdian, honing his acting skills and learning related abilities step by step. He even worked as a stunt double for a few years. Finally, through hard work and scheming, he managed to get some minor supporting roles.

At the start of the new year, Martin secured a supporting role with screen time that would rank among the top five in the cast.

If the TV series airs smoothly, and I can persevere for another five or six years, I might be able to earn the title of a veteran actor.

Martin, a heavy drinker, went on a wild celebration, drank several homemade cocktails, and then fell asleep inside two oversized balloons. It is possible that breathing difficulties led to the tragedy.

When I woke up again, I was in Georgia in 2003.

Martin Davis, the predecessor of Martin Davis, was in dire straits. His most recent job was as a home repairman. A week ago, he fell from the roof and injured his leg and head.

Martin seized the opportunity and became 22-year-old Martin Davis, but his memories of his predecessor in America were like a program that needed to be decoded, and his operation was temporarily relatively slow.

This week, Martin spent most of his time getting used to the language and gradually became able to communicate normally.

The door opened from the outside, and Elena Carter, with her brown hair tied in a ponytail, came in holding a key, followed by her brother Harris Carter, who was carrying a paper bag.

Elena had delicate features and a tall, slender figure. Her smooth face lacked the freckles commonly seen on Caucasians. As soon as she entered, she said, "Your mind is better now? You can speak normally?"

Martin responded with the middle finger, as if he'd done it countless times: "What do you know? A headbutt doubles your IQ."

Elena stood tall and proud, her faded hoodie billowing out dramatically: "Great, hurry up and find a job. I don't want to deliver meals to a lazybones for another week. I have two little brats to support, I can't afford to support you."

During the week Martin was injured, his neighbors Elena and her three siblings brought him meals.

"According to Dr. Bill, you have a 70% chance of recovering in a week," Harris-Carter said, placing the paper bag on the low wooden table. "It's free bread from the church, and this time there's fried chicken too."

He turned and left: "Bill has been practicing for two months, and he has cured twenty sheep and thirty-five cows without making a single mistake."

Just before leaving, Harris turned back and said, "The bicycle is mine today. I'm going to tutor someone."

"You two idiots, take me to the vet!" Martin cursed, grabbing the paper bag without hesitation.

Elena plopped down next to Martin, rubbing her sore butt, and said, "You don't have any shitty health insurance, and I don't have the money to take you to a proper clinic. Bill used to live on this street, and he didn't charge us for consultations."

Martin took out a loaf of bread and ate it with fried chicken. Recalling his injury and his previous job, he said, "The home repairman owes me two weeks' wages, and then there's this injury. I'll try to find a way to get more money."

His pockets were emptier than his face; he was so poor that certain thoughts would automatically pop into his head.

"You'd better make more money!" Elena snatched a piece of bread and took a big bite. "I won't hold you accountable for what you've eaten this week, or for the food and drinks you've been sponging off me for the past few months. But your good-for-nothing father hasn't paid the rent for this house in six months."

She glared at me, her eyes sharper than towering mountains: "The worst thing you've ever done is that this Monday your dad ran off with my mom, eloping in the name of true love and freedom!"

These words reminded Martin that he was searching his memory and sadly discovered that he was not just a poor wretch.

A month before Jack Davis took Emma Carter away, he had his predecessor, Martin Davis, borrow $6,000 at high interest from the owner of the House of the Beasts.

The two of them dusted themselves off and happily went on a round-the-world trip, leaving behind two messes.

Martin said in a low voice, "The first installment of the loan with high interest rates, which was supposed to be paid off in installments, is due soon."

"Go pray to God." Elena shrugged; there's no cheap sympathy among the poor.

Martin shook his head and said, "God doesn't bless the poor."

"The disability benefits review day is coming up soon. My uncle James's benefits have been collected by Jack for years. Jack has photos of him, but now he's eloped with Emma, ​​and the benefits are going to be gone." Elena, now distressed and frantic, exclaimed, "How the hell are we going to survive without money?"

Martin was about to ask a question when he remembered that this house belonged to James Carter, and said, "Your uncle died eight years ago from eating the wrong kind of flour."

"I'm sure now that you haven't damaged your brain," Elena said nonchalantly, pointing to the grove of trees behind the house. "James is buried there."

Just a few days ago, she was worried that Martin had gone from being penniless to being both mentally challenged and penniless, and that she would have to support another one in the future. But now, her mood had calmed down, and she said casually, "James is lucky to have escaped the pain of being penniless. It was you and me who dug the hole that buried him."

"Damn it!" Martin had a headache. The poor people in hell had an incurable disease.

Elena pulled out her chipped phone, glanced at the time, stood up, and said, "I should go to the mall to work as a temporary sales promoter."

Martin casually offered a word of comfort: "Don't worry, we'll always find a way out."

Elena, however, looked at the T1000 poster and said, "Don't go back to that damn theater company to work for free. He's never been back to the Marietta Theater after he became famous."

Martin's immediate concern was solving his basic living problems, so he replied, "Don't worry, I won't work for someone for free."

Because Martin Davis had a criminal record, Elena warned him again before leaving: "You poor bastard, if you can't do it, I'll do the math with you. I'll calculate how many times you slapped me and how much you owe me! Also, I'll call the House of the Beasts club and tell them you're willing to work as a gigolo to pay off your debts! Think about why they'd lend you money at exorbitant interest rates!"

"Shouldn't you pay for applause? I give you hundreds of millions of dollars worth of goods every time!" Martin said matter-of-factly.

Elena raised both hands above her head and extended two middle fingers.

After Martin finished eating bread and fried chicken, his stomach felt full, and his legs seemed to stop hurting.

After quickly tidying up, he went outside and stood in the sunlight, taking a brief look around.

Marietta is a sparsely populated suburban town in the south. Even in Clayton, the dilapidated neighborhood where Martin lives, each detached wooden house has a small yard in front of it.

In the neighboring yard, where broken barbed wire was tangled, a boy was digging a hole in the ground, with cardboard at his feet.

This is Elena's ten-year-old brother.

An old Dodge pickup truck drove along the cracked road, painted with images of dancing men and the words "House of the Beasts" below.

The car pulled over to the side of the road, and the muscular man in the jacket got out, looked at Martin, and asked, "Martin Davis?"

My new book is out! Please support me with your collections, monthly tickets, and investments. It's an entertainment and business novel set in the United States, and I plan to write it from a fresh perspective.

(End of this chapter)