Chapter 1: The House of Beasts

With the Dogwood Festival over, Atlanta's 2003 spring carnival officially came to an end.

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

He had just arrived in North America a week ago and was still adjusting.

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

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

The other was T1000 from *Terminator 2*.

Martin sat on the cloth sofa, the swirling dust making his nose itch, and the imminent sneeze was thwarted by a hard object poking his butt.

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

Martin cursed, shifting his butt to sit on the other side. The damaged foam cushion had collapsed into a pit, soft like a certain Danni's oversized balloon, enveloping a critical area.

He suddenly felt a pang of heartache.

For the balloon and for the hard-won future.

Martin had drifted aimlessly for many years, honing his acting skills step by step, learning relevant abilities, even working as a stunt double for a few years, and finally scraping by to secure some small roles.

At the start of the new year, Martin landed a supporting role substantial enough to rank in the top five of the cast.

If the TV drama aired smoothly, after another five or six years, he might earn the title of a seasoned actor.

The hard-drinking Martin found people to celebrate wildly, drank a few self-made cocktails, and fell asleep among two oversized balloons, which might have caused breathing difficulties leading to a tragedy.

When he woke up again, he found himself in Georgia in 2003.

The previous Martin Davis was in a bad situation, with his last job being a house repairman, and a week ago, he fell off a roof, injuring his leg and head.

Martin took advantage of the situation and became the 22-year-old Martin Davis, but part of his predecessor's memories about America felt like coded programs, running relatively slowly for now.

Over the past week, Martin spent most of his time familiarizing himself with the language and gradually being able to communicate normally.

At that moment, the door opened from outside, and Elena Carter entered with her brown hair tied into a ponytail, followed by her brother Harris Carter carrying a paper bag.

Elena, with her exquisite facial features and tall figure, had a smooth face devoid of any freckles. As she stepped in, she said, "Has your brain healed? Can you speak normally now?"

Martin directly responded with a middle finger, as if he had done it countless times, "What do you know? A fall on the head doubles your IQ."

Elena stood tall, the faded hoodie she wore propped up to an exaggerated height. "Good, now hurry and find a job. I don't want to bring food to a lazy bum for another week. I have two kids to raise, I can't support you too."

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

"According to Dr. Bill, there's a 70% chance you'll recover this week," Harris Carter said, placing the paper bag on the low wooden table. "The free bread from the church, this time with fried chicken."

He then turned to leave: "Bill has been practicing for two months and has cured twenty sheep and thirty-five cows without making a mistake."

Before stepping out, Harris turned back, "The bike's mine today. I'm going to tutor someone."

"You two idiots, take me to see a vet!" Martin cursed, unceremoniously taking the paper bag.

Elena sat down next to Martin, feeling something hard under her butt, saying, "You don't have crap medical insurance, and I'm broke to take you to a proper clinic. Bill used to live on this street and doesn't charge us for treatment."

Martin took out the bread, eating it with the fried chicken, recalling his injury and his last job: "The housing repair company owes me two weeks' wages, and for this injury, I'll come up with a way to get more money."

His pockets were as dry as his face, poverty at its extreme, and certain thoughts automatically jumped out.

"You better come up with more money!" Elena snatched a piece of bread, taking a fierce bite: "This week's food you ate, and the past few months of freeloading, I won't hold it against you, but the rent for this house hasn't been paid for half a year, thanks to your deadbeat dad."

Her eyes widened, more menacing than towering peaks: "The shittiest thing is, on Monday your dad eloped with my mom in the name of true love and freedom!"

This reminded Martin as he searched his memory and sadly realized he was not just a poor wretch.

A month before Jack Davis took Emma Carter, the previous Martin Davis had borrowed $6,000 in high-interest loans from the owner of the House of Beasts.

The two then wiped their hands clean and gleefully went on a world tour, leaving behind two messes.

Martin said softly, "The installment loan is about to have its first repayment."

"Go pray to God for blessings," Elena shrugged; there is no cheap sympathy among poor folks.

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

"Soon it will be this year's disability subsidy review day. My uncle James's subsidy has been collected by Jack all these years. Jack left a footprint, and now that he has eloped with Emma, the subsidy is doomed," Elena ranted in frustration: "How are we supposed to maintain this damned life without money?"

Martin was about to ask but then remembered the house belonged to James Carter, saying, "Your uncle died eight years ago from eating the wrong flour."

"I'm now sure your head wasn't injured," Elena didn't care, pointing towards the small woods behind the house, "James is buried there."

She had been worried a few days ago that Martin had turned from a poor wretch into a fool plus a poor wretch, adding another mouth to feed. Feeling relieved now, she said nonchalantly, "James was lucky to be freed from the pain of poverty. You and I dug his grave."

"Damn it!" Martin felt a headache, feeling like a poor bum in hell afflicted with an incurable disease.

Elena took out her old, chipped cell phone, glanced at the time, and stood up, saying, "I need to go to the mall to work as a temporary promoter."

Martin casually comforted, "Don't worry, you'll find a way out."

Elena looked at the T1000 poster, saying, "Stop going to that damn theater troupe to work for free. He never came back to the Marietta troupe after he became famous."

Martin was thinking about solving basic life problems first and responded, "Don't worry, I won't do free labor."

Because Martin Davis had a criminal record, Elena gave a warning before leaving: "Poor wretch, if you fail, I'll settle scores with you, calculating how many times we've cheered for you and how much you owe! I'll also call the House of Beasts Club, tell them you're willing to be a male dancer to repay the debt! Ever wonder why they're willing to lend you a high-interest loan!"

"Clapping is your job, isn't it? I always deliver billions of goods each time!" Martin said with a matter-of-fact tone.

Elena raised both hands above her head, sending out two middle fingers.

After finishing the bread and fried chicken, Martin felt his belly full, leg pain seemed to ease.

After a quick tidying up, he stepped outside into the sunshine, surveying his surroundings.

Marietta was a sparsely populated southern suburban town. Even in Martin's rundown community of Clayton, each single-family wooden house had a small yard in front.

In the yard next door, wrapped in old barbed wire, a boy dug a dirt hole, with cardboard at his feet.

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

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

The truck stopped by the roadside. A muscular man in a jacket looked at Martin and asked, "Martin Davis?"

*****

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