America 2009: Survival of the Underclass

"The only thing left to clear out in Los Angeles is the poorest neighborhoods, Regent," the man in the beanie said in a deep voice, looking at the Regent behind the desk.

The Regent touched the worn-out coding area on the Glock 17 and nodded slightly: "Have the brothers work harder. Whoever gets the information, transfer them back to Chicago and give them a street."

"Yes, Regent."

On the left side of the Sixth Street junkyard, there is a single-story Salvation Army charity secondhand store of about 200 square meters.

The store's goods are all donated by the community, and the prices are ridiculously low. Even so, compared to the dilapidated market next door, this place is still considered a "luxury area" by the lower class.

The three pushed open the glass door and entered the store. At this time, the special offer section with items priced under three dollars had already been swept clean by low-income people who were reselling them to make a profit.

Only a few customers, on the verge of bankruptcy, pushed their overflowing shopping carts, looking exhausted, and idly rummaged through the remaining scraps of goods on the shelves.

Behind the cashier on the right side of the entrance, two white volunteers leaned back lazily in their chairs, casually glancing at the two people walking ahead who were wearing masks and hats, before looking away.

The two of them, along with John, headed straight to the appliance section at the back to choose the washing machine they had agreed upon beforehand.

"Which one, Ms. Smith?" He asked, turning his head as he stared at the two twin-tub washing machines on the floor.

Karen pointed directly to the one on the left, her tone crisp and decisive: "It's from General Electric. The one I had at home lasted for many years without breaking down. It's reliable."

"Sure, both are in excellent condition and the price is the same." He nodded in agreement, then turned to John beside him and coldly ordered, "Lazybones, go find a volunteer to test the machines."

John responded and strode towards the cashier.

The two wandered around the store again, and on a shelf in the corner on the right, they found a random pile of old cameras and camcorders. They squatted on the floor for several minutes, picking out a Sony handheld camera that looked usable.

The nearly new GE washing machine worked perfectly without any problems after being tested, while the Sony portable TV could barely be turned on. Li Ang readily paid the $175 bill, silently thanking the guy who gave him the money.

Karen clutched the precious washing machine in her hand, and together with John, they carried it back towards the warehouse on Seventh Street.

As they leisurely walked to the warehouse door and put the washing machine down, a sharp, loud engine roar suddenly drew their attention.

Across the street, next to a small recycling station and under a pedestrian traffic light, a young Latino man wearing a graffiti hoodie and a green baseball cap was making noise by twisting the throttle of his beat-up mountain bike.

Noticing the three looking over, he raised an eyebrow smugly and provocatively. The accelerator, which was originally twisted to the floor, suddenly started to move back and forth rapidly like a DJ spinning a record, with the engine sound rising and falling rapidly, so piercing that it made people's eardrums tighten.

Karen and he exchanged a glance, their eyes meeting instantly. He turned around, took out his keys, opened the warehouse door, and together with John, lifted the washing machine from the ground. The three of them walked into the warehouse amidst the deafening noise.

"Ms. Smith, we're running out of food. Go to the supermarket and buy some. Lazybones and I will stay here to load the washing machine." He whispered in Karen's ear, then casually stuffed all the remaining change from his hoodie pocket into her pocket.

Karen glanced at John discreetly, nodded knowingly, and went out of the warehouse to buy food.

Li Ang walked up to John and shouted, "Lazybones! Come on over here and help install the washing machine!"

The Latin youths outside had clearly set their sights on them and were having a great time. Even after the three entered the warehouse, the ear-piercing engine noise did not subside at all.

Without exchanging many words, the two silently carried the washing machine into the bathroom and completed the installation in just a few minutes.

The already cramped toilet was mostly taken up by the washing machine, and to get to the sink and toilet, you had to squeeze in sideways.

Not long after, Karen returned carrying two large bags of food. The engine noise across the street was still going strong, and she wondered how much gas money she had wasted in the past half day. But then she thought, with soldiers in the Middle East helping America steal oil, this little bit of gas money was nothing to these low-level thugs!

"Jesus~ Finally, we can have some peace and quiet. I told you Latinos are the scariest! This is some kind of random attack on our eardrums." Karen nestled in his arms, swallowed a bite of her hamburger, and joked.

Li Ang took a sip of the cola in her hand, then ate a few bites of his hamburger, and slowly said, "Ms. Smith, why didn't you call the police? I suppose those fat mad dogs would be happy to deal with a foreigner for a blonde sweetheart like you."

Karen chuckled wickedly, glancing at John with a sinister look, and said in a playful tone, "You know what I mean, Mr. Smith."

John, sitting in his chair, felt a chill run down his spine as he looked at the two men's knowing, wicked expressions.

There was still a core operation to be carried out that night according to the best plan, so the three of them quickly filled their stomachs. Karen took the canvas bag from his suitcase and casually stuffed some odds and ends and an eye mask into it; Leon and John each put their Sony handheld devices into their pockets.

As John locked the warehouse door, the two men, both wearing masks, stared at the mountain bike still parked under the traffic light across the street. They turned to look at each other and nodded slightly.

After John locked the door, the three of them walked together toward Fifth Street and the Mexican woman's taco stand.

Too far from heaven, too close to America.

In 2009, Mexico had long been completely monopolized and swallowed up by capital; even the rainwater falling from the sky had a price tag.

Want to stay in your hometown and farm to make a living? Pay the exorbitant water bill first, then we can talk about anything else.

Mexicans, who can't even afford a sip of clean water, have no choice but to survive: either risk being shot and imprisoned to work as drug traffickers, smuggling drugs through their rectums; or cross the border to this country that drains them dry, where they are hunted like rats by immigration authorities, risking being forgotten even after they die, working desperately as illegal laborers just to earn a bite to eat.

So when Li Ang looked at the Mexican middle-aged woman with a friendly smile behind the taco stall and calmly spoke, she didn't hesitate at all: "There's a job that pays $300, but it's a bit risky."

The Mexican woman's eyes lit up instantly. Without the slightest hesitation, she nodded expertly and replied, "How about my daughter? 300 dollars for three days of fun, just don't hurt her. She has several years of experience and will definitely satisfy you. No cheating."

Fearing the deal might fall through, she quickly added, "If you don't like younger women, I'm available too, sir. However, I have to set up my stall during the day, so I can only keep you company in the evenings. It'll last for a week!"

Karen rolled her eyes and couldn't help but curse, "Mr. Smith, you're a complete idiot."

Li Ang coughed lightly, then awkwardly added, "I forgot to mention earlier, I wanted a man, an M3?"

Upon hearing this, the Mexican woman's face instantly lit up with a joyful smile, her eyes shining brightly. She patted her chest and declared confidently, "Men! My husband and my son are both fine!"

The three men's expressions instantly turned strange, and they quickly exchanged a glance.

Li Ang's lips twitched involuntarily, and he secretly clicked his tongue in amazement: These Mexicans are really multi-talented. Fathers and sons are gay, mothers and daughters are prostitutes. It's like the whole family is involved, and the black industry chain is completely closed.

In order to obtain a green card and escape their homeland, which has been devoured by capitalism, they are willing to do any dirty, tiring, or shameful job, and the price is ridiculously cheap.

$300 for three days? A white woman could easily make $500 or $600 a day, and a diligent one could easily earn four figures a day.

He composed himself, concealing the strange look in his eyes, turned to Karen, smiled, and asked, "Madam, please have your husband come over—by the way, what's your name?"

The Mexican woman, seeing the deal was a sure thing, nodded excitedly and replied loudly, "Mata Garcia, sir! I'll call him right now! He'll be here in ten minutes at most!"

As soon as she finished speaking, she quickly pulled out her worn-out cell phone from her sweatpants pocket, typed a string of numbers, held it to her ear, and as soon as the call connected, she shouted "Ramon" twice, then spoke a few words of Spanish that the others couldn't understand at a rapid pace before hurriedly hanging up.

"Why didn't you choose his son, boss?" John asked, his face full of curiosity.

Li Ang glanced at him speechlessly and said seriously, "Bro, wait until you figure out whether you love your country or not before asking me the next question."

Karen couldn't help but burst out laughing, teasing, "Haha, I suddenly find you really funny, you idiot."

John raised his hand and scratched the back of his head, looking at the two laughing men with a blank expression, not understanding the meaning of their words at all.