Volume One: The Outsiders of Atlanta

Chapter One: House of Beasts

With the end of the Dogwood Festival, Atlanta’s 2003 spring carnival officially came to a close.

In a neighborhood of the outer satellite city Marietta, Martin-Davis hobbled 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, two yellowed posters were taped up.

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

The other was the T-1000 from "Terminator 2."

Martin sat down on the fabric sofa, the swirling dust making his nose itch. Just as he was about to sneeze, a hard object poked his butt and interrupted it.

A rusty broken spring had pierced through the discolored foam and non-woven fabric.

Cursing, Martin shifted to the other side. The damaged cushion had collapsed into a pit, as soft as some oversized balloon of a certain Danny, wrapping around his vital parts.

Suddenly, he felt a pang in his heart.

For the balloon, yes, but even more for the hard-won future.

Martin had spent years drifting between Beijing and Hengdian, honing his acting skills step by step, learning related abilities, even working as a stunt double for a few years. In the end, he managed to land some minor supporting roles through sheer persistence and networking.

At the start of the new year, Martin managed to secure a supporting role with enough screen time to rank in the top five of the cast.

If the TV series aired smoothly, and he endured another five or six years, maybe he could earn the title of a seasoned actor.

A lover of good drink, Martin found people to celebrate wildly, had a few self-mixed cocktails, and fell asleep buried between two extra-large balloons—possibly suffocating himself and causing the tragedy.

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

His predecessor, Martin-Davis, was not in good shape. His most recent job was as a house repairman, and a week ago he had fallen off a roof, injuring his leg and head.

Martin took advantage of the situation and became the 22-year-old Martin-Davis, but some of his predecessor’s memories in America were like encrypted programs, running sluggishly for now.

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

At this moment, the door opened from the outside. Eleanor Carter, her brown hair tied in a ponytail, came in twirling her keys, followed by her younger brother Harris-Carter carrying a paper bag.

Eleanor had delicate features and a tall figure. Her smooth face lacked the freckles common among white people. As soon as she entered, she said, "Your head’s better? Can you talk normally now?"

Martin shot her the middle finger, as if he’d done it countless times. "What do you know? One knock on the head, and my IQ doubled."

Eleanor held her head high, her faded hoodie puffed up to an exaggerated height. "Great, hurry up and find a job. I don’t want to feed a lazy bum for another week. I still have two little brats to raise—I can’t afford you."

During the week Martin was injured, it was the four siblings next door, the Eleanor family, who brought him food.

"According to Dr. Bill, you have a seventy percent chance of recovering in a week." Harris-Carter put the paper bag on the low wooden table and said, "Free bread from the church. There’s fried chicken this time."

He turned to leave. "Bill’s been in practice for two months. He’s cured twenty sheep and thirty-five cows, never made a mistake."

Before going out, Harris looked back. "The bike’s mine today. I’m going to tutor someone."

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

Eleanor plopped down next to Martin, rubbed her sore butt, and said, "You don’t have dog-shit medical insurance, and I sure as hell don’t have money to take you to a real clinic. Bill used to live on this street—he doesn’t charge us for treatment."

Martin took out the bread and ate it with big bites of fried chicken, recalling his injury and previous job. He said, "The repair company owes me two weeks’ wages, and for this injury too. I’ll figure something out, try to get more money."

His pockets were emptier than his face, broke to the extreme, and certain thoughts kept popping up.

"You’d better get more money!" Eleanor snatched a piece of bread and took a fierce bite. "Everything you’ve eaten this week, and the months before freeloading—I won’t hold it against you, you broke bastard. But the rent for this house, your deadbeat dad hasn’t paid for half a year."

She glared, fiercer than a mountain peak. "The shittiest thing is, this Monday your dad ran off with my mom, eloping in the name of true love and freedom!"

This reminded Martin. He searched his memory and sadly realized he was more than just broke.

A month before Jack Davis took away Emma Carter, he had the predecessor Martin-Davis borrow six thousand dollars in high-interest loans from the boss of House of Beasts.

The two of them patted their butts and happily went off on a world tour, leaving behind two messes.

Martin said in a low voice, "The first installment of the high-interest loan is due soon."

"Go pray for God’s blessing," Eleanor shrugged. There’s no cheap sympathy among the poor.

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