America 2009: Survival of the Underclass

The two thieves, dressed in volunteer vests and wearing cleaning clips, set off for South Park to play and frolic after leaving the church.

MS13 members leaned against the graffiti wall on the street, backpacks slung across their chests, lazily displaying various "Descent of the Holy Spirit" merchandise.

Above the teardrop tattoo, which represents the end of life, two pairs of fierce eyes scan the entire street like radar.

"Stop hitting them! Please!"

"Mother--"

Two heavily tattooed MS13 members were circling and kicking a black homeless man near a black tent on the sidewalk ahead.

In the surrounding tents, more than twenty black homeless men and a dozen Latino homeless men, who had been driven to watch the show, looked at the scene with fear on their faces and dared not even breathe.

The homeless people further away had already burrowed deep into the tents, trembling and praying that the MS13 thugs would finish off that unlucky guy who broke the rules and leave quickly, and not suddenly decide to grab a few punching bags to scratch their hands.

Li Ang stood five meters away, his arm around Karen's shoulder. The corners of their mouths, hidden behind their masks, curled into amused smiles as they watched the gang leaders play a game of hitting a beanbag in the street.

After kicking the ball around for a while, the Black homeless man successfully gained weight and fell asleep happily.

The two MS13 members straightened up, glanced around at everyone, licked their lips in unison, and sneered, "You newbie trash, this is what happens when you dare to sell glue!"

"This is just a warning. If it happens again, you won't want to know the consequences!"

After watching the street beanbag toss game, the two nodded to the two MS13 members who had three teardrop tattoos on their faces.

Two MS13 members, responsible for several deaths, glanced at the green vests of the Los Angeles Mission Team on them, nodded in response, and waved behind them.

After all, the major charitable organization in this neighborhood is MS13's biggest financial backer.

Without charitable organizations distributing supplies in large quantities every day, there wouldn't be tens of thousands of homeless people gathering there, MS13 wouldn't have such a large warehouse, and it wouldn't be able to collect those small "entry fees".

How can such a large operation be supported by just those scattered small charity distribution points on the street, and where will the endless small amounts of money come from?

The two brushed past them and continued walking towards South Park.

"Mr. Smith, that idiot with thick lips had pretty good luck just now," Karen said softly after walking ten meters.

"He's not some flash mob member from another gang, just a homeless guy who doesn't know the rules, selling stolen industrial glue. It's just a small business, a few dollars' worth of stuff, not like he's dealing with anything legitimate." He shook his head with a smile, his tone relaxed.

She nodded in agreement: "Yeah, if someone dares to sell something that makes people feel good on gang territory, they'd be shredded and flushed down the drain if it were Flash Rat."

The two chatted as they walked, until they reached a street distribution point for daily necessities. He stopped, raised his chin, and pointed to the line of homeless people across the street.

"Ms. Smith, this is why I don't want to set up a stall," he said softly, looking down at Karen's profile.

"These MS13 guys really know how to do business, Mr. Smith," she said with a slight nod.

Under the sunshade, two white volunteers wearing red vests stood behind a folding table, filling white plastic bags with toiletries and distributing them to the homeless people who were queuing up.

On either side of the sunshade, four MS13 members stood smoking, while the two on the left were collecting a small entrance fee from the homeless man at the head of the group.

The two men on the right remained expressionless as they watched the homeless man toss the easily resold daily necessities from the plastic bag into the cardboard box at his feet before nodding slightly.

After his valuables were stolen and all that remained was a plastic bag of scraps, the homeless man happily headed to another distribution point.

Oh, by the way—MS13 members also work part-time as paid "security" for these small charity volunteers. After all, without their watchful eyes, the homeless might steal or assault people.

Although they orchestrated the chaos, the security service was impeccable.

"Let's go, Corporal. It hurts me to see them making so much money. I wish I could stand there and collect my share." He patted Karen on the shoulder, took her hand, and started walking.

"Yes, sir, I wish we could do this easy, lucrative job too." She squeezed the hand that was being held and said enviously.

"This money isn't easy to earn; you never know when the National Guard might come and mow you down with machine guns," he said with a laugh, shaking his head.

"I'm just saying this kind of job has no cost, is pure profit, and is easy, not about joining a gang and begging for bullets," she shook her head and retorted.

"Once we've made enough money and opened the first shelter, you'll be able to experience it," he said, nodding slightly and looking earnestly into her eyes.

"Can the shelter buy supplies? If so, let me do it. I love selling things that have no cost." She asked curiously with a sweet smile.

He smiled and nodded, then said seriously, "Of course we can. Once we get it going, we can secretly resell the donated supplies from businesses and individuals and make a pure profit."

He shrugged, paused, and continued, "There are also government subsidies, donations, EBT cash-outs, there are just too many ways to make money without any cost, and it's all tax-free. The IRS won't take a single penny of the money they make."

"Really?!" She looked surprised, and after he nodded, she said happily, "Those mad dogs who killed Al Capone and the money they can't collect, how interesting."

"They dared to mess with Al Capone, but they wouldn't touch a philanthropist. So what if they ripped off a mad dog like that?" he continued nonchalantly. "Have you ever eaten bread from the Eagle Union's charitable foundation?"

She lowered her head and thought for a few seconds, then suddenly looked up at his face and said, "So a mad dog will bite anyone, but it won't touch charity, because it's the Skyhawks' money box."

She paused, then asked, "They touched it, so it's like a dog biting its owner, right?"

"but--"

He interrupted Karen before she could ask a question, saying nonchalantly, "If the Skyhawks give a loaf of bread to the lower classes, or use charity to make money, then the Son of God has been defiled and is no longer clean."

He paused, looked into her eyes, and said earnestly:

"This is class suicide, an intolerable disgrace, and filth."

Other sons of God would doubt whether he was still one of them, and would begin to look down on him and distance themselves from him.

It's not that they're unwilling to part with the money, nor that they simply look down on it.

"It's them! They're fucking too afraid to have any physical contact with filth! Especially not face-to-face combat like charity!"

"Because of a piece of bread! Even if they didn't hand it out themselves! They'll believe that this filth will creep back along with the money and defile their noble souls!"

"I see! I was wondering why those Skyhawks, they set up all sorts of charitable foundations every day, but I've never actually eaten their bread on the street." She nodded in realization and squeezed his hand.

"But, Ms. Smith, they think it's dirty, that it's beneath them, and they don't want to make money from it. We can make a killing here." He said with a glint in his eyes and a grin.

"Yes! If it weren't for the fact that it's beneath us and feels dirty, they would have monopolized the industry long ago, just like they do with other industries. They would have monopolized it so tightly that there wouldn't be a chance for us." She agreed with a big smile.

"This may be the only way for people at the bottom to climb up, although it's still feasible if we only consider wealth." He nodded, his tone relaxed.

"Sir, even if I have more money than them in the future, will I still be looked down upon?" she asked doubtfully.

He smiled and shook his head, dodging a homeless man lying on the ground, and waved the cleaning tongs in his right hand: "You'll understand when you actually make a lot of money with these and climb up the ladder. Money is useful, and it's also useless."

She shook her head, smiling as she stared at his face: "I can't imagine what money can't buy, Mr. Smith."

He nodded, released her hand, and placed it on her shoulder: "There's no use thinking about it now; time will give us the answer."

"Of course, you promised me the explorer, the watch, and the house. Without these things, I don't believe any of that nonsense about philanthropic tycoons making a fortune," she said, wrapping her arms around his and acting coquettishly.

"Haha, you're too realistic, Ms. Smith," he said, chuckling to himself.

"Who knows if you'll kick me to the curb after you make your first buck. Only benefits that are actually in hand count; promises that aren't kept are just bullshit." She nodded, looking serious.

"OK! Let's take it one step at a time. Once we've bought the explorer, the watch, the house, and all that, you can set new requirements for each one, and I'll complete the tasks one by one to deliver. How about that?" He nodded just as seriously.

"That's for the best, Mr. Smith. The other day you ran off with another bitch, but I still have some stuff with me. I won't become a free whore." She nodded in agreement.

"The way you put it makes it sound like you were the only innocent girl, Karen, in that room in the summer of 06."

He said it with a wicked grin and a strange manner.

She raised an eyebrow and said sarcastically, "Oh? The tough guy Mr. Smith who was carried home by four women in the end? The spineless Mr. Smith who didn't dare to leave the house for a week?"

"Jesus! Christ!" he exclaimed, then grabbed her chin with his right hand and continued, "Who knew you guys were so damn good, even giving me drugs? I'm being lenient by not calling the police to arrest you."

"It's like we dragged you there, who the hell's grinning from ear to ear?" She clapped her hands, retorting urgently, "You want to be the tough guy who conquers sweethearts, but you don't have the ability, and you blame us for giving you drugs? You coward!"

"OK! OK! OK!" He shook his head indifferently and changed the subject, saying, "In the years you've been away, all your girlfriends have gotten married and now they have kids."

"And then? What are you trying to say?"

She raised an eyebrow and asked the question, then continued before he could speak:

"Bringing home a crying monkey, sexual harassment, sexual coercion, exhausted, and working as a free Filipino (domestic helper) and a whore."

"Using their mouths to take care of that person after finishing work, lying on the sofa and pouring alcohol into their veins."

Watching a idiotic TV show with the lyrics "Drink, drink, drink, pit, pit, pit, ah, oh ...

"A complete idiot who only tells low-brow jokes and replies with monosyllabic words—even his mother's attempt to relax with a Canadian cigarette takes a month of saving up."

She paused, then continued, "These are lucky ones; they found work and didn't encounter violent freaks or drug addicts. If..."

Am I right?

"Smart!" He nodded, and said casually, "I'm just letting you know. After all, you haven't been back for so many years, you don't need to get so excited."

"Fuck you! You piece of white trash!"

"Hahaha!"

"Don't run! I'll beat you to death, you piece of trash!"