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

Time flies. It's the third Monday of January, Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Winter still lingers over this young nation, and all those troubled by the cold await its departure.

An old warehouse in North Philadelphia.

This used to be a newspaper printing plant, but now it serves as Sean Penn's temporary campaign office.

Sean sat behind the desk he'd bought from a secondhand market, buried in a thick stack of legal documents and film and television copyright contracts. He planned to sell the remaining copyrights to the soap operas the original owner had starred in in his early years, as well as shares in several independent films that had never been released.

"Even a mosquito's leg is still meat," he muttered.

It's worth mentioning that there was a check on the table in front of him, which Musk had sent a few days ago. While the amount on it wasn't enough to make most politicians sell their souls or bodies, it was enough for Sean to squander for a while.

But Sean didn't touch it.

While this money could certainly solve his immediate crisis, if he wanted to solidify his image as a grassroots hero abandoned by the system, Musk's money would be like a hot piece of coal—something to look at but not to touch.

Unless he really can't help it.

Just then, a representative from Netflix emailed him, inviting him to film a documentary called "Sean Penn: The Last Show or the First Manifesto".

The advance payment was substantial, but on the condition that they filmed the entire process. If he does eventually enter the White House, this documentary could become a significant source of historical anecdotes and historical tales.

"These streaming giants really do flock to wherever there's traffic," Sean remarked with a laugh.

He had just finished mocking Netflix when the door to his campaign office was pushed open, and Matthew Chen walked in carrying his old backpack with the Penn logo. He was holding several thick forms and looked rather grim.

"Mr. Pan, I suggest you use the money from selling the rights to buy a few cases of Red Bull first." Matthew threw the form on the table. "Because for the next few months, we might not need to sleep."

Sean looked up, put down the contract in his hand, and asked, "What's wrong? What's our 'historian' thinking now?"

Their collaboration had been going smoothly for a week. At first, Sean was trying to persuade the guy not to give up his promising future to come and mess around with him, but after considering his own situation, he accepted this stubborn goodwill.

After all, he did need a strategist, but his favorability system showed that Matthew Chen's favorability towards him had not changed much.

At this moment, he pulled up a chair, sat down, and began to speak:

"I have carefully studied the ballot admission systems of each state. As an independent candidate, if you want your name to appear on the November election ballot, you can't just do it by shouting a few slogans on Twitter."

"Can you explain this to me?"

Sean leaned back in his chair. He had been reading for the past few days and had picked up his business management studies from college. After all, you can't run a campaign with just passion; you need a concrete plan.

However, he hasn't started studying the American system yet.

"Simply put, the US election isn't a single race, but rather fifty obstacle courses running simultaneously," Matthew said, pointing to the form. "Each state has its own rules. In Pennsylvania, you need to collect at least five thousand signatures. In California, that number is over a hundred thousand. If you want to be on the list in all fifty states, you need at least a million valid signatures."

"One million? That does sound like a lot."

"And that's not all," Matthew continued. "The Donalds and Elephants have planted countless landmines in these rules. They'll hire specialized legal teams to scrutinize your signature. If even one person's address in your signature is wrong, or if that voter isn't registered, they'll sue to invalidate your signature. Many independent candidates are dragged down by legal battles before even reaching election day."

"Is this what they call democracy?"

"That's what they call the rules of the game," Matthew shrugged. "You don't have a political party machine, you don't have thousands of grassroots volunteers; just collecting signatures alone can bankrupt you."

Sean looked at Musk's check, then at the copyright contracts.

"So, you think I should give up?"

"I think you should be more realistic," Matthew said, looking at him. "My suggestion is that we treat this as a test. Use your reputation to get qualified in a few key swing states, make a splash, and lay the groundwork for the next time, or for a future career as a political commentator."

"After all, no independent candidate in history has ever actually made it to the White House. The most outstanding one, Ross Perot, only managed to disrupt George H.W. Bush's plans."

"Or it could be preparation for joining the Donald Party or the Elephant Party later, but it's no use joining them now. It's worth mentioning that the Elephant Party held its primary election in Iowa today. The Donald Party should have held its primary election in January, but for some reason it was postponed to February and moved to South Carolina."

"Getting back to the main point, I believe we can always wait."

They can certainly wait, because they are still young.

All of human wisdom lies in the words "waiting" and "hope".

But Sean didn't say anything. He first picked up the copyright contract, and then shamelessly said:

"Matthew, do you think I'm just dabbling in this?"

"To be honest, I haven't figured you out yet," Matthew replied truthfully. "You act like a gambler, but the bets you place are frighteningly large."

"You're right, this is indeed a war of attrition." Sean stood up and walked to the window. Outside was the Martin Luther King Jr. Day parade, with people chanting slogans about dreams.

"But I have a card in my hand that none of them have."

"What brand? Musk's checks?"

"No." Sean turned around and pointed to his head. "It's anger."

"I know, but why are you pointing to your head?" Matthew frowned, then said:

"Don't be angry, anger will impair your judgment."

"...Let me finish."

"This country has too much pent-up anger. In Scranton, in Philadelphia's West Side, in those factory ruins. They don't need a perfect candidate, they need someone who can flip the table for them."

"As for the signatures..." Sean paused, "If I told those voters that by signing their names they would see the ugliest secrets of Hollywood and Washington exposed, do you think they would sign?"

Matthew paused, then said, "You mean, you're going to use that list to get signatures?"

"This is just one of my ideas; I call it crowdfunding justice," Sean smiled.

"You're playing with fire," Matthew said in a low voice. "You're turning the election into some kind of big reality show or some form of blackmail."

"Politics itself is the highest form of performing art, Matthew." Sean walked back to his desk, picked up the Musk check, and, in front of Matthew, stuffed it into the shredder.

The sound of the paper tearing was clear in the quiet office.

Matthew looked at the paper shredder. "That's millions of dollars."

"I'm sorry, I got carried away with my emotions."

"..."

"Alright! It's okay, I can get Boss Ma to open another one, but the important thing is we must understand: these are all capitalist shackles." Sean clapped his hands. "Now, I'm going to draft a statement. Tell Netflix that documentaries can be made, but the copyright belongs to me, those damn copyright trolls!"

Sean sat back in his chair, his expression turning calm.

"We're not going to try, Matthew. We're going to drain the whole pond."

Matthew looked at Sean and sensed an unusual atmosphere in the room. This man seemed genuinely intent on using a self-destructive method to shatter the seemingly unbreakable system.

"Alright." Matthew sighed, taking his laptop out of his bag. "Since you're not afraid of going bankrupt, then I, as your employee, have nothing to worry about. But let's make this clear first: if the FBI comes to raid this place tomorrow, I'll definitely escape through the window immediately."

"Don't worry," Sean laughed, "I'll remember to leave you a back door."

Just as Matthew was about to start typing, the office phone suddenly rang.

Sean answered the phone, listened for a few minutes, and his relaxed expression gradually faded.

"I understand." He hung up the phone and looked at Matthew.

"What's wrong?" Matthew stopped what he was doing.

"The news came from Attorney General Harrison," Sean said softly. "The original copy of that crucial agreement concerning me went missing as soon as it entered Philadelphia, after being sent from California to the handwriting analysis center."

Matthew stopped breathing.

"Missing? Under police escort?"

"Not only that," Sean said, looking out the window. "The two officers escorting the documents were in a car accident and are still in critical condition. And the witness who was supposed to testify against me was found dead in his bathtub half an hour ago."

"I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing."