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

"Before that, I'd like to ask a personal question, Mr. Miller." Sean didn't rush to begin his speech, but leaned back slightly. "When was the last time you voted?"

"Does that matter?"

“Of course,” Sean insisted. “Answer me, it’s important. You’re a federal agent, one of the most loyal cogs in this national machine. You shouldn’t have missed a vote, right?”

Miller hesitated for a moment, then let out a snort from his nose.

"I never vote in general elections, but I have voted for local councilors," Miller said. "Four years ago, I voted for a guy who promised to raise law enforcement salaries."

"And the result?"

"As a result, my salary didn't increase, but my overtime hours doubled," Miller grinned. "But that guy is currently being prosecuted for embezzlement in Virginia."

"See, that's the problem."

Sean spread his hands as if displaying some irrefutable truth.

"In this country, voting is like choosing the one with fewer worms from two rotten apples. You go into that little cubicle, pull the curtain, tick the ballot, and then walk out, praying that you won't be cheated too badly this time. It's a helpless compromise based on the principle of 'choosing the lesser of two evils.'"

He observed Miller's expression. The number [45] hovering above his head remained perfectly stable, indicating that Miller agreed with what he had said.

"What are you trying to say?" Miller asked. "Are you saying you're not a rotten apple?"

"No, I am."

Sean smiled, this time without the pretense, and with a more genuine expression.

"I am not just a rotten apple, I am that completely rotten apple, oozing pus, and even stinking. I am Sean Penn, I am an outcast of Hollywood, I am a drug addict, and I am a potential fraudster. I represent the ugliest darkest side of the American Dream."

Miller frowned. He didn't understand why Sean would belittle himself like that; perhaps it was some kind of image building.

"But that's exactly why you'll vote for me."

"Think about it, Mr. Miller. When you stand in that polling station, looking at those names on the ballot. One is a career politician who's been lying all his life, spent thirty years in Washington doing nothing but filling his own pockets; the other is a bastard like me, I don't hide my greed, I don't hide my sins, but I promise you one thing—"

Sean remained unfazed by his "lie" and instead looked directly into Miller's eyes.

"I'll flip the table!"

He said in a trembling voice, "Those politicians, they maintain this system because it benefits them. They make the rules, and then they exploit them."

"And me? I don't care about this system, because this system wants me dead. If I'm elected, I won't try to fix this broken machine; I'll take a sledgehammer and smash it to pieces."

Sean then pointed to himself.

"Throw it to me. Not because I'm a good person, but because I'm the one who can avenge you. I'm a brick in your hand; you can use me to smash any window you want."

Miller looked at Sean as if he were meeting him for the first time.

This is the ultimate expression of populism. Sean knows very well that in this era, anger is more powerful than hope.

People no longer believe "tomorrow will be better," but they are absolutely willing to believe "those bastards will pay the price."

The numbers above Miller's head began to jump.

[45]...[48]...[52]...

Finally, it stopped at [61].

"I know, this is called a lose-lose situation rather than a lose-lose situation, right?" Miller looked at Sean.

"We won't lose, we'll win!" Sean said solemnly. "But the revolution itself is more important than the second day of the revolution."

"You're a madman," Miller said softly, but his tone lacked the hostility he had shown before.

"Maybe," Sean shrugged. "But I'm a useful madman."

Miller looked down at his watch.

The clock has struck midnight.

He stood up, picked up the folder on the table—it contained all the materials related to the charges against Sean. He patted the files lightly, then made a decision.

To be honest, his nonsense just now didn't impress Miller.

But at least it has a certain imposing presence.

He served this country for decades, and after retiring, he joined the FBI along with several comrades. But did the federal government really give them the corresponding rewards?

Perhaps to those in positions of power, this land has the greatest government in the world.

But it wasn't the same for his comrades who lost their lives dealing with terrorist attacks. They served their country for many years, only to have others take their pensions, sleep with their wives, and beat their children.

"That time discrepancy," Miller said, "while it doesn't completely clear you of suspicion, it's enough to make the judge hesitate. Since there's no evidence of your direct involvement in money laundering, and the timing of that key contract's signing is questionable..."

Miller paused, then looked at Sean.

"You can leave now."

Sean didn't show excessive joy; he simply nodded slightly, as if it were all expected.

“However,” Miller added, “that doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods. You’ll be restricted from leaving the country and will have to be available at any time. And if all that campaign nonsense you just spouted was just to fool me…”

"I'm serious," Sean interrupted him. "You'll see."

He may not actually need to become president to get out of the crisis, but he must believe it. It's a world where loudest voices get the most benefits, and he has to make sure his voice is loud enough that his opponents have to think twice before taking action.

Miller walked to the door and pulled open the heavy metal door.

The corridor outside was empty, except for a few police officers on duty drinking coffee.

A cold wind blew in along the corridor, carrying the chill unique to a winter night.

Sean stood up and straightened his wrinkled suit. This suit was custom-made at a high price by the original owner, but now it hung on him like a rag.

He walked to the door and stopped as he passed Miller.

"Thank you," Sean said.

"Don't thank me," Miller said expressionlessly. "I just didn't want to work overtime on Christmas to process your detention paperwork."

Sean paused for a moment, then looked at the window at the end of the corridor.

It turns out that the first day after I transmigrated was Christmas Eve.

This is about two or three days different from the time he traveled from.

For the original owner, it was a hellish night; reputation, wealth, and even the future were all lost on that night. But for the current Sean, it was a night of rebirth.

He turned his head and looked at the tired middle-aged detective.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Miller," Sean said.

Miller looked at him, and a slight smile finally appeared on his usually tense face.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. President," Miller replied with a hint of sarcasm.

Sean smiled and then strode out.

"Oh, right! Sean Penn!"

He called out to Sean again, which left Sean, who had just been smiling, somewhat at a loss. "What is it, sir?"

"Whoever you are," Miller thought for a moment that Sean was possessed, "save Sean Penn, my daughter loves him. Don't let him fall into depravity."

Then Miller turned his face away and closed the iron gate.

Sean gave a wry smile, and then walked alone through the corridor.

He felt his pockets; all he found were a few Washington bills and a dead cell phone.

But he didn't panic.

Because he had just seen something in Miller's eyes. Something more important than money, more powerful than evidence.

That is "expectation".

Even if it was just a little bit, even if he was just watching with a spectator's mindset, Miller began to look forward to what Sean would do next.

This is the first lesson in politics: you don't need everyone to like you, you just need to keep them interested in you. As long as they're still watching you, you still have a chance.

He may not become president, but he cannot be forgotten.

Sean pushed open the glass door of the FBI building, and a gust of cold wind rushed in.

The streets were nearly deserted, and the GG sign in the distance was still flashing its Christmas promotional neon lights. At the same time, he could almost hear Mariah Carey's voice echoing through the streets:

"I don't want a lot for Christmas. There's just one thing I need..."

It seemed like an auditory hallucination, or perhaps it was the city's own ramblings.