American comics farmer: start by adopting the villain savior.

Chapter 106 A man who looks like a donut.

Dio Kent —

Or perhaps we should call him Diego at this moment.

He is standing in the center of the stage under the spotlight.

His crimson eyes swept coldly over the frenzied crowd below, his brain racing with calculations:
The third bottle of Bordeaux, the fifth bottle of champagne, the twelfth glass of whisky.
Gee.
Tonight's earnings will barely exceed ten thousand, far less than the grand occasion when that madwoman, Lady Elana, was around last time.

If this continues, I'll have to come back again next week to make up the $100,000.

"boring."

He scoffed lightly and casually flicked his blond hair.

But this simple action was like a pebble thrown into a calm lake, instantly stirring up a wave of screams from the ladies in the audience.

A diamond-encrusted handbag was excitedly tossed into the air, and a woman in a fishtail skirt even shouted excitedly:

Spit it in my mouth, Diego!

"."

Even the waiters in the waiting area were stunned by what they saw.

“I heard that Mr. Ogilvy demoted all the ‘kings’ to male escorts.”

A young waiter whispered to his companion, "It seemed a bit exaggerated to leave only Mr. Diego with the title of 'King'."

“Now that I see it, it’s more than just exaggerated,” his companion said, staring at the endless stream of expensive drinks being brought to the stage. “It’s surreal. This guy was supposedly like this last week too, standing on stage for three hours and barely saying ten words.”

"That's more money I made in half a year."

"Who says otherwise? Hello?"

The waiter was suddenly tapped on the shoulder and turned to see three young people who seemed out of place among their surroundings.

The blonde girl at the head of the group pointed at the stage and asked, "Excuse me, who is that person up there?"

Before he could answer, the waiter carefully examined the three of them for a while.

Um.
A beautiful blonde girl, a handsome young man, and one.
An ordinary passerby.

Enraged by the waiter's sizing-up look at him, Pete roared, "What kind of look is that? I'm asking you what the guy on stage's name is!"

"Excuse me, excuse me," the waiter quickly dropped his dismissive tone, "That's our club's 'King,' Mr. Diego. The three of you."

"Shall we order a drink for Mr. Diego?"

"No need, we just came here..."

Chloe waved her hand, but before she could finish speaking, she was interrupted by a sudden shout from the audience.

"You two over there! Quickly, bring wine for Lord Diego!" A bejeweled noblewoman waved her feather fan impatiently. "Open my most prized bottle of Petrus!"

"Come here!"

Upon receiving the instruction, the waiter quickly gave the three of them an apologetic smile and jogged away.

The three left behind looked at each other in bewilderment.

“Diego?” Chloe’s shoulders trembled as she tried to suppress a laugh. “He actually named himself Diego?”

Looking at the dazzling blonde, arrogant figure on the stage, she felt that this adventure was absolutely worthwhile.

Pete couldn't help but grin: "Now I think that seventy-three dollars for gas was totally worth it."

Clark smiled helplessly, but he also felt a sense of relief.

At least Dior wasn't doing anything dangerous; he was just a model on stage.

Just
Looking at the wealthy ladies in the audience who seemed to want to stuff banknotes into Dior's belt, he felt that Uncle Locke still couldn't find out about this.

"Three."

A waitress dressed as a catwoman suddenly appeared carrying a tray of drinks.

She walked with cat-like steps to the three of them, her eyes sweeping over them with seductive allure.
Clark?
"Want a drink, handsome?"

Her gaze lingered on Clark's well-defined pectoral muscles for a few seconds longer, and she chuckled as she watched the young man's body suddenly stiffen and his ear tips flush instantly, "Our new tequila is quite good~"

Swallowed.

Clark made a silent vow in his heart.

We absolutely cannot let Uncle Locke and Dad know they were here!
The old-fashioned kerosene lamp under the eaves swayed gently in the cool night breeze, casting a warm and soft glow on the wooden floor of the porch.

Night had fallen, and all around was quiet, with only the occasional chirping of insects in the distance.

It's almost ten o'clock.

Jonathan Kent paced back and forth anxiously, his rough hands unconsciously rubbing the mottled paint on the railing.

"Those two kids haven't come back yet. Could they have sneaked off to some bar in the metropolis to dance?"

Locke leaned back leisurely in the old rocking chair beside him.

His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest in a rhythm known only to himself, seemingly enjoying the night breeze on his face.

“The kids are all grown up, Jonathan. You can’t expect them to be waiting at the door for dinner as soon as it gets dark, like they were when they were little. It’s unrealistic to keep them on your toes every day.”

"How can I not worry?" Jonathan turned around abruptly, the light from the kerosene lamp emphasizing the deep wrinkles on his forehead caused by anxiety. "I don't care about Dio, but Clark is..."

His words suddenly stopped, as if he had bitten his own tongue.

He swallowed back the second half of his sentence, which might have mentioned the special circumstances of the adopted son.

"Jonathan."

Locke's voice deepened, the rocking chair stopped swaying, and his gaze toward his brother was filled with unwavering seriousness.

Trust is essential among family members. You have to learn to let go.

"you……"

The old farmer stood there, stunned, seemingly not expecting to be lectured by his younger brother instead.

He chuckled and shook his head, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice, "Well, now it's your turn to lecture me?"

He slumped heavily into the wicker chair opposite Locke, the wicker creaking under the strain.

"It's true that the older you get, the more you regress."

"Hmph~"

Locke rocked back and forth in his rocking chair with a smug look on his face. "What can I do? My brother's getting dementia."

"You're still hung up on this, aren't you?" Jonathan said with a laugh, making a move to get up and grab Locke's rocking chair.

The two middle-aged men, whose combined age was over a hundred, seemed to have returned to their youth, laughing and shoving each other on the porch.

finally.
It ended with Jonathan being forced to beg for mercy with his head down.

"I give up."

Jonathan, panting, straightened his collar, which had been pulled askew.

“Me too.” Locke chuckled and sat back in his rocking chair.

The night breeze carried the rustling sound of cornfields in the distance.

"Let's get down to business first."

Jonathan's smile slowly faded, and his expression became serious. "This year, our Kent family is once again Smallwell's 'Community Model Family,' for the seventh consecutive year."

“But look at the weather this year, that awful frost came at the worst possible time,” he gestured to a pitifully small pumpkin, “the biggest one is only this big. What are we going to do about the pumpkin contest at next week’s harvest festival?”

"I'm also hoping to attract some tourists from the surrounding towns and raise some money for the town library."

"."

"Pumpkin..."

Locke murmured, his gaze fixed on the undulating outline of the fields shrouded in night outside the window.

He had come up with a solution, but he didn't know if it would work.

After a moment of silence, he suddenly laughed and offered a new idea:

"If all else fails, we can try a different project. How about organizing a scarecrow design competition? Or..."

"Let Martha lead the apple pie contest; it'll be more popular than pumpkins."

“That’s a good idea. That way, we might attract even more tourists and develop the town’s tourism industry,” Jonathan’s eyes lit up. “Actually, I think Smallwell could also develop its tourism industry.”

"After all, Lex really did shut down the chemical plant."

“There’s still a sign outside that says ‘Environmental Upgrade and Renovation’.”

He lowered his voice, a hint of disbelief in it:

"I also heard that he gave each unemployed worker a transitional allowance of $3000 per month until the factory was renovated and reopened."

"pretty good."

Locke nodded without surprise, his tone appreciative.

“Like his father, he always keeps his word. He promised you and Salafir something, and he did it immediately.”

“But not exactly the same.” Jonathan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “In that child’s eyes… there seems to be something that his father, Lionel, didn’t have?”

"normal."

Locke said softly, his gaze gently falling on his brother.

Under the moonlight, he could also clearly see the glaring white hair at Jonathan's temples.

"After all these years..."

Time flies.

When exactly did it begin that the young man who could once run through the barn carrying a whole bundle of hay was silently etched with such deep marks by the years?

"yes…"

Jonathan responded with a murmur, his gaze also sweeping over Locke.
"You're still the same as before!" Jonathan complained. "Are you some kind of ageless god? What if we have a grandson and you're younger than Clark and Dior by now?!"

"Maybe."

Locke feigned a sigh and comforted him, "Jonathan, don't worry, even if you really are old..."

"Whoa~ Whoa~"

He didn't finish his sentence.

A sudden, violent, and unusual shaking sound came from the dense grass by the roadside, interrupting their conversation.

The two immediately dropped their relaxed expressions and turned their sharp gazes toward the source of the sound, but neither of them seemed too nervous.

Bear? Coyote?

Which animal has come to repay a debt of gratitude this time?

Um.
neither.

What emerged from the swaying grass was not a wild beast or a suspicious person, but a...
A young man, about the same height as Locke, wearing a thin but stylish floral shirt?
Even his hairstyle was extremely eye-catching—

Her hair was meticulously styled into three perfectly symmetrical round buns, securely fixed on top of her head; the style was simply...

Jonathan:
Where did this donut-loving alien come from?!

"Ciao~"

The young man bowed gracefully, his hair remaining perfectly in place.

"Grandpa Locke, it's been a long time. And..."

He turned to Jonathan, a mysterious smile playing on his lips. "This must be Grandpa Jonathan, right?"

The glow of the kerosene lamp danced in his pupils, and his obviously expensive clothes were adorned with a few bits of grass, making him look like a supermodel who had just wandered from the fashion week runway into a farm.

"Hey! Who's your grandpa?"

Jonathan snapped out of his surprise and muttered in annoyance, "Don't yell at me, you little brat."

"Are you lost?"

“Jonathan…”

but.
Locke's expression turned extremely strange. He carefully examined the oddly styled young man and said helplessly:

“He didn’t call me by the wrong name. This kid really is our grandson.”

"?!"

Jonathan abruptly turned his head and stared wide-eyed at Locke, his face filled with shock, as if to say, "Are you kidding me?"

"Locke! You still dare to say you don't have Alzheimer's?!"

(End of this chapter)