Chapter 1 Hulk Mansion

With the conclusion of the Dogwood Festival, Atlanta's 2003 Spring Carnival officially came to an end. 

In a suburban community on the outskirts of Marietta, Martin Davis gingerly manoeuvred his legs into the living room, wincing in pain from his injured knee.

It has only been a week since he transmigrated in this body and have yet to adapt to this absurd situation.

Two yellowed posters adorned the bare wooden wall of the living room.

One featuring the cover of a particular edition of "Gone with the Wind." The other depicted the T1000 from "Terminator 2."

As Martin settled onto the cloth sofa, the swirling dust tickled his nose. Just as a sneeze was about to erupt, an unexpected hard object jabbed him in the rear.

Rusty, broken springs protruded through discoloured sponges and non-woven fabrics. Martin let out a curse and shifted his weight to the other side of the couch. The damaged sponge cushion collapsed into a hollow abyss.

Suddenly, a pang of sadness gripped his heart. Like a deflated balloon, the future seemed even more navigate than previously thought.

For years, Martin roamed around the world, meticulously honing his acting skills, acquiring related talents, and even serving in the military for a while before quitting. Ultimately, it was his dedication to perfecting his craft that led him to secure modest supporting roles.

As the new year dawned, Martin landed a supporting role in a major TV series ranking among the top five in the cast.

Should the TV series enjoy a smooth run, enduring for another five or six years, it might evolve into a well-seasoned drama.

Martin, known for his capacity to hold his liquor, sought out someone to celebrate with fervour. He indulged in a few homemade cocktails and eventually drifted off to sleep with a woman he met aat the bar amidst her two oversized balloons. It's possible that his impaired breathing played a role in the ensuing tragedy.

When I woke up again, I came to Georgia in 2003.

The former Martin Davis found himself in a dire situation. His most recent occupation had been that of a house maintenance worker, and a week ago, he suffered a fall from the roof, resulting in a broken leg and head injury.

Seizing the opportunity, Martin assumed the identity of the 22-year-old Martin Davis. However, some remnants of his predecessor's memories in the body seemed to run slowly, akin to a program in need of decryption.

Throughout the week, Martin dedicated most of his time to acquainting himself with the predecessor's linguistics, gradually regaining the ability to communicate normally.

Just as he was immersed in this effort, the door swung open from outside, revealing Elena Carter, her brown hair tied in a ponytail, and her brother Harris Carter carrying a paper bag.

Elena possessed striking features, a tall stature, and a smooth, freckle-free face, unlike common characteristics among white people. As she entered, she quipped, "Is your brain functioning properly now? Can you speak like a normal person?" In response, Martin raised his middle finger, a gesture he'd seemingly perfected over time.

Elena held her head high, her chest puffed out in her white hoodie, and declared, "Very well, hurry up and find a job. I won't be feeding lazy folks for another week. I have two young kids to care for, and I can't afford to support you."

During the week of Martin's injury, Elena, the neighbour's fourth sister, and her brother had been delivering meals.

"Dr. Bill says there's a 70% chance you'll recover within a week," Harris-Carter announced as he placed a paper bag on the low wooden table. "The church is giving out free bread, and this time there's fried chicken."

He turned and headed out, adding, "Bill's been working for two months, cured twenty sheep, and thirty-five cows without a single mistake."

Before leaving, Harris turned back and declared, "I'm taking the bike today. I've got homework to do."

"You two morons got me to the vet!" Martin swore and grabbed the paper bag without ceremony.

Elena sat down beside Martin, patted her rear, and said, "You don't have any darn health insurance, and I can't afford a regular clinic. Bill used to live on this street, and he won't charge us for medical fees."

Martin unwrapped the bread and started on the fried chicken. Memories of his injury and his previous job flooded back as he spoke, "The house repairman owes me two weeks' salary, and I've got to figure out how to make some money with this injury."

His pockets were emptier than his face. He was so broke that certain thoughts had crossed his mind.

"You better find a way to make money!" Elena snatched a piece of bread and took a hearty bite. "What you've eaten this week and what you've consumed in the past few months, I can't afford to feed a poor guy like you. But your dad hasn't paid the rent for this house in six months."

She scowled, fiercer than the mountains, and continued, "The most ridiculous part is that your dad kidnapped my mom this Monday, claiming it was for true love and freedom!"

These words jogged Martin's memory. He realized that he wasn't as simple as a penniless man.

A month before Jack Davis took Emma Carter away, his predecessor, Martin Davis, had borrowed $6,000 from the owner of "Hulk Mention" at a high interest rate.

The two of them had gleefully travelled the world, leaving behind two messes.

Martin muttered, "I need to start repaying the instalment loan soon."

"Go ask for divine intervention," Elena shrugged, showing no sympathy for the financially challenged.

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

"It's almost time for this year's disability subsidy review. My jack has been receiving the subsidy on ucle james behalf all these years. Jack has left, and now he and Emma are eloping. The subsidy will stop," Elena fretted, nearly frantic. "How are you going to survive without money?"

Martin was about to ask when he remembered that James Carter owned this house. He replied, "Your uncle passed away eight years ago from eating contaminated flour."

"I'm sure your brain is intact now," Elena said, pointing to the woods behind the house. "James is buried there."

She had been worried for days that Martin would go from being poor to being an idiot, and then back to being poor, and she'd have to take care of another child. Now, her mood lightened as she said, "James is lucky he's free from the misery of being poor. You and I are the ones left to dig his grave."

"Damn it!" Martin had a headache. Being poor was an incurable disease in hell.

Elena grabbed her peeling-paint cell phone, checked the time, stood up, and said, "I need to make a quick trip to the mall."

Martin reassured her casually, "Don't worry, we'll figure something out."

Elena, however, gazed at the T1000 poster and said, "Stop working for that theatre company for free. Once he became famous, he never returned to the Marietta Theater Company."

Martin's immediate concern was solving basic life problems. He responded, "Don't worry, I won't work for free."

Since Martin Davis had a criminal record, Elena issued another warning before leaving, "If you can't handle it, I'll calculate how much you and I owe each other. And I'll call the Hulk Mansion Club and tell them you're willing to work as a stripper to pay off your debts. Think about why they were willing to lend you money in the first place!"

"That's not how it works; they're supposed to pay me," Martin said matter-of-factly. "I make them millions every time!"

Elena raised both middle fingers above her head.

After consuming bread and fried chicken, Martin felt his stomach full and less pain in his legs. After a quick cleanup, he stepped outside into the sunlight, taking in his surroundings.

Marietta was a sparsely populated southern suburban town. Even in Clayton, the rundown community where Martin resided, every single-family wooden house had a small front yard.

In the yard next door, enclosed by broken barbed wire, a boy was digging a hole in the ground using a piece of cardboard.

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

An old Dodge pickup truck pulled up on the cracked road, adorned with an image of dancing figures and the words "Hulk mansion" spray-painted underneath.

The car parked by the side of the road, and a burly man in a jacket stepped out, eying Martin and asking, "Martin Davis? So you're here."