America: From a Fallen Child Star to the Head of the University of the West

The Q&A session after the speech went more smoothly than I had expected.

With Musk's almost tailor-made presentation and Sean's own speech, he displayed a unique temperament of martyr and avenger on the stage.

He then effortlessly answered several questions from reporters regarding the details of the Avalon Foundation, and, as agreed, naturally praised Musk's business concept of "Starlink's significance for education in remote areas."

Although deep down he felt these were just packaged rubbish, on this stage he had to act like a like-minded comrade.

"One last question," Sean said with a smile into the microphone, "I'll keep updating the evidence on my personal channel. Now, I think I need some private time."

Amidst a flurry of flashing lights, Sean stepped off the stage, walked past a group of reporters with complex expressions, declined an invitation to lunch with Musk, and headed straight for a restroom inside the base.

He needs to urinate right now.

After closing the heavy soundproof door to the bathroom, the noise outside was instantly shut out.

Sean stood in front of the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. His body was somewhat pale from years of alcohol abuse, but his pupils now shone with an unprecedented light.

He turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face.

This was a good start. He successfully transformed himself from a simple conman into a tragic hero who challenged the system.

However, just as he was about to unbuckle his belt to urinate, he heard footsteps outside the bathroom.

The footsteps were steady and rhythmic. At this time, in an area heavily monitored by Musk's security team, there shouldn't be such menacing footsteps.

Sean's hand stopped on the belt buckle. Should he pee now or not?

The footsteps grew closer and closer, finally stopping behind him.

He caught a glimpse of a man out of the corner of his eye in the mirror. The man, dressed in unremarkable gray overalls, was standing by the sink washing his hands. He was washing them very carefully, as if he hadn't missed a single crevice.

It seems to be a maintenance worker at the base.

"It was just a false alarm."

Sean breathed a slight sigh of relief and was preparing to continue his actions.

However, after washing his hands, the man didn't leave, nor did he reach for a tissue. He slowly turned around and walked behind Sean.

A cold, hard object pressed against Sean's back; if he wasn't mistaken, it was a gun.

Fortunately, he didn't pull out his own gun before the man pointed it at him, otherwise his sense of security would have been greatly reduced.

"Don't move, Mr. Sean." The man's voice was completely emotionless.

"Are all assassins like this? Meticulous and never showing their emotions?" Sean raised his hands helplessly, his eyes still fixed on the man in the mirror.

The man looked to be around forty years old, with an extremely ordinary appearance—the kind of person you would never notice in a crowd.

And his favorability rating towards me is a whopping 70!?

"Whose side are you on?" Sean asked calmly. "Senator Crane? Or one of the rats behind Avalon?"

"Names don't matter; they're just symbols," the man said calmly. "But like you said, I'm an assassin. Someone paid me to finish your long speech, which is no less impressive than the Gettysburg Address, right here. They think you've lived too long and said too much."

Sean felt the gun barrel being pressed slightly harder.

"But I must say, your performance on stage just now was truly spectacular." The assassin's tone made no attempt to hide his admiration. "I've heard many politicians give speeches; they talk about freedom and democracy all the time, but their eyes are full of greed. You're different; there's fire in your eyes."

"Damn it, it's fire!"

"No, who upset him again? Why is he so easily startled?" Sean muttered to himself, but at the same time, he also keenly noticed the emotional fluctuation.

"Since you're moved, it means you're also one of those people abandoned by the system. Let me go, buddy. Kill me, and those big shots will just have another glass of champagne to celebrate, while you'll still be stuck in the shadows. But if I live, I can flip those bastards' table."

"Let you go? You must be joking right now!"

"Mr. Sean, I am not one of those civilians you've incited. I don't trust human words; I only trust logic. How much of what you just said was true? How much was just a fabricated script to save your own life? You know the answer yourself!"

He stared at the back of Sean's head and threw out a series of extremely tricky questions:

"How do you plan to run? You have no party support, no funding, and not even a legitimate campaign team. You're just a card in Musk's hand. What will you do once you're no longer useful?"

Clearly, this is a life-or-death debate.

“I won’t join the Democrats, nor the Republicans. Those two parties are part of the system.” Sean quickly organized his thoughts, his political knowledge racing. “I’m going to run as an independent candidate. California is too competitive, and it’s establishment stronghold.”

"I will go back to my hometown, back to Pennsylvania, back to those rust belts, I love it there."

"There, people don't need to listen to complicated policy analyses; they just need to see someone who is just as bad as them, yet still dares to stand up and fight back."

"I will use social media to bypass the blockade of traditional media, and I will turn every vote into a vote of protest against the status quo."

"What about ethnic minorities?" the assassin asked again. "You, a white celebrity from the Rust Belt, how do you plan to handle those sensitive ethnic issues?"

"In this country, other conflicts have long surpassed those between ethnic groups," Sean answered without hesitation. "Black children in the slums and unemployed white workers face the same enemy."

"I won't talk about skin color; I'll talk about bread, about dignity. I'll tell them that those big shots are using race to make us fight amongst ourselves so we'll forget who's emptying our pockets."

The assassin fell silent.

The only sound in the bathroom was the occasional dripping of water from the faucet.

"You're very confident, Sean. But forgive my bluntness, you're too young and naive compared to those political elites."

In his view, Sean had neither a rich family background nor profound political experience; all he had was a face that wasn't completely disabled, which could help him swindle and deceive.

"Political elites? What elites?" Sean suddenly couldn't help but laugh out loud, which puzzled the assassin.

"Don't you believe that an ordinary person can change everything?"

Should I believe it?

"Hmph! Let me tell you what those elites in Washington do every day. In the morning, they discuss the stock market in the toilet stalls on Capitol Hill, and at night they kneel by the pool of Wall Street fat men, embracing 18th-tier celebrities while arguing about which state's pension fund should be emptied."

The faucet dripped again, and Sean tilted his head:

"Do you consider those guys who can't even recite gas station prices but dare to decide energy policy to be elites? Or do you consider those Harvard idiots whose only experience with steel is a golf club, yet they talk to laid-off workers about the revival of manufacturing to be elites?"

"I never understood this world before. But it only took me two days to figure things out. Drug abuse, gun control, the gap between rich and poor—we have more important issues to discuss, yet Congress is endlessly debating whether or not a woman who identifies as a man should be allowed into this men's restroom we're in right now?"

"Damn it, how did the country become like this? How could you let these bastards continue to control this country?"

"you……"

"Me? What?" Sean got more and more excited as he spoke. "I'm more handsome than Reagan, younger than Theodore Roosevelt, smarter than George W. Bush, well, smarter than everyone else. If those elites can become senators and representatives, then I could practically be the Emperor of America!"

"Let those people go eat shit!"

After a long and rambling speech, he actually left the other person stunned. The numbers above his head even continued to rise, which was why Sean spoke so recklessly.

My goodness, he said so much...

After a long while, Sean felt the pressure on his back slowly disappear. He then turned around to face the man directly.

The man had already put away his gun and was looking him up and down with a gaze Sean had never seen before.

"You're a madman, Sean Penn," the assassin laughed. "But I like madmen. This country has been stagnant for too long; it really needs a madman to set things ablaze."

He pulled a bright yellow bullet from his pocket and placed it on the washbasin.

"This bullet is what you owe me. It was supposed to stay in your head." The assassin walked towards the door, waving his hand behind Sean. "I'll vote for you in Pennsylvania. But remember, don't let your people down, don't become one of those bastards you talk about. Otherwise, for the next bullet, I won't listen to your nonsense."

The man pushed open the door and disappeared from his sight.

Sean looked at the bullet gleaming coldly on the table, then walked to the mirror, fastened his belt again, picked up the bullet, and put it in his pocket.

"I have absolutely no urge to urinate."

"Mr. Pan?" came the voice of Musk's security personnel from the doorway. "You've been inside for quite a while. Is there anything I can help you with?"

Sean remained silent for a few seconds, then spoke to the people outside:

"It's nothing, I was just thinking about how I can save myself next."