America Tycoon: The Wolf of Showbiz

As the Cornus Fruit Festival came to an end, Atlanta's spring carnival for the year 2003 officially drew to a close.

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

He had been in North America for just a week and was still adapting.

The bare wooden planks on the living room walls were adorned with two yellowed posters.

One was a cover of "Gone with the Wind."

The other was the T1000 from "Terminator 2."

Martin sat down on the cloth sofa, and the dancing dust made his nose itch, a sneeze about to erupt, only to be dissipated by something hard poking his buttocks.

Rusted broken springs pierced through the discolored foam and non-woven fabric.

Martin cursed as he shifted to another spot; the damaged foam cushion collapsed into a pit, as soft as some Danielle's oversized balloon-like breast, enveloping the critical part.

He suddenly felt heartache.

Both for the sofa and for the hard-fought future he had eked out.

Before transmigration, as a young Chinese actor, Martin has been working hard in this industry for many years, drifted from one place to another, honing his acting skills, learning relevant abilities, and even working as a stunt double for a few years, until he clawed his way to some minor roles by sharp-witted strategies.

Although these all are unknown minor supporting roles, Martin still cherishes these opportunities and hopes to become a big star one day.

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At the beginning of the new year, he secured a supporting role—significant enough to be among the top five in the cast list.

If the TV series was successful, after another five or six years, he might even make a name for himself as a seasoned actor.

The drink-loving Martin celebrated wildly with others, drank several self-mixed cocktails, buried his head between two extra-large balloon-like breast, and fell asleep, which might have led to tragedy due to breathing difficulty.

When he awoke again, he was in Georgia in the year 2003.

The former Martin Davis was not faring well; his most recent job was as a house repairman, and a week ago, he had fallen from the roof, injuring his leg and head.

Martin seized the opportunity and became the 22-year-old Martin Davis, but part of the former self's memory in America was like a program needing decoding, operating relatively slowly for the time being.

That week, Martin spent most of his time familiarizing himself with the language, and he was gradually able to communicate normally.

The front door was then opened from the outside, and Elena-Carter, with her brown hair tied into a ponytail, came in hooking her keys, followed by her brother Harris Carter holding a paper bag.

Elena's features were delicate and she was tall; her smooth face was free of the freckles common among white people, and as soon as she entered, she asked, "Is your brain working now? Can you speak normally?"

Martin replied with a middle finger as though he had done it countless times before, "What do you know? When you slam your head, your IQ doubles."

Elena stood tall and proud, her white hoodie pushed up to an exaggerated height, "Good, hurry and find a job. I don't want to deliver food to a lazy bum for another week. I have two kids to support and can't afford you."

During the week of Martin's injury, it was Elena and her three siblings from next door who brought him meals.

"According to Doctor Bill, you have a seventy percent chance of healing within a week," said Harris Carter, placing the paper bag on the low wooden table. "It's church-donated bread, and this time there's fried chicken."

He turned and left, "Bill has been in practice for two months, cured twenty sheep and thirty-five cattle, without a single mistake."

Before leaving, Harris turned back, "The bicycle is mine today; I'm off to tutor someone."

"You two dimwits, take me to the vet!" Martin burst out with an expletive, unabashedly grabbing the paper bag.

Elena plopped down next to Martin and, after touching the spot that poked her, she said, "You don't have a dog-shit medical insurance, and I damn well can't afford to take you to a proper clinic. Bill used to live on this street and doesn't charge us for medical treatment."

Martin pulled out bread, took a big bite along with the fried chicken, and recalled the injury and his previous job, saying, "The house repair guy owes me two weeks' salary, and with this injury, I need to think of a way to make some more money."

His pockets were cleaner than his face, utterly destitute, and certain thoughts involuntarily jumped out.

"You'd better make some more money!" Elena snatched a piece of bread and bit into it fiercely, "All the stuff you've eaten this week, and the sponging off me these past few months, I've not held it against you, you poor wretch. But the rent for this house hasn't been paid by your no-good father for half a year."

Her eyes glared, more ferocious than towering mountains, "The shittiest thing is that this Monday your old man eloped with my mom in the name of true love and freedom!"

This reminder made Martin search his memories, and he sorrowfully realized that he was not simply destitute.

A month before Jack Davis took Emma-Carter away, he had the former Martin Davis borrow six thousand US Dollars in high-interest loans from the owner of the House of Beast.

The two of them dusted off their hands, left in high spirits to travel the world, leaving behind two messes.

Martin said quietly, "The installment for the high-interest loan is due soon."

"Pray to God then," Elena shrugged, there was no cheap sympathy among the destitute.

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

"The audit day for this year's disability benefits is coming up soon. My uncle James's benefits have been collected by Jack all these years. Jack left a video behind, and now that he's eloped with Emma, the benefits are doomed." Elena became frantically anxious, "How are we going to maintain this damned life without money?"

Martin was about to ask, then he remembered, the house belonged to James Carter. He said, "Your uncle died eight years ago after eating the wrong kind of flour."

"I'm sure now that your head wasn't damaged in the fall," Elena said without a care, pointing toward the small woods behind the house, "James is buried there."

She was worried a few days earlier that Martin had turned from a penniless man into a mindless, penniless man, someone else she'd have to support. Now her mood softened, and she spoke lightly, "James was lucky to be freed from the misery of the destitute. You and I were the ones who dug his grave."

"Hell!" Martin's head throbbed, the poor in hell suffering from incurable diseases.

Elena pulled out her peeling cell phone, checked the time, and stood up to say, "I have to go to the mall for some temp work."

"Don't worry," Martin comforted her, "we'll always find a way out."

But Elena, looking at a "Terminator 2" poster, said, "Stop doing those damn free gigs at the theatre. He's never returned to the Marietta Theatre Company since he got famous."

Right now, Martin was thinking about solving the basic problems of everyday life. He replied, "Don't worry, I won't work for free."

Because Martin Davis had a history, Elena warned again before leaving, "You poor wretch, if you can't pull it off, I'm going to settle a score with you, calculate how often you've applauded me, how much you owe me! And I'll call the House of Beast Club, tell them you're willing to dance to pay off the debt! Think about why they were willing to lend you the money at such high interest rates!"

"Clapping is something you should be paying for, isn't it? I give you billions worth every time!" Martin argued, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Elena raised both hands above her head, flipping him double middle fingers.

Martin finished the bread and fried chicken; with food lining his stomach, his legs didn't seem to hurt anymore.

He tidied up a bit and stood outside in the sunlight, looking around briefly.

Marietta belonged to the sparsely populated southern suburbs, and even in Clayton, the rundown neighborhood where Martin lived, each detached wooden house had a small yard at the front.

In the neighboring yard encircled by broken wire fence, a boy was digging a hole in the ground with a piece of cardboard at his feet.

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

An old Dodge pickup truck drove along the cracked road, the sides painted with the image of a dancing man and "House of Beast" written below.

The truck stopped at the side of the road, and the muscular man in a jacket who got out turned to Martin and asked, "Martin Davis?"