If you love someone, send them to New York, for it is Heaven. If you hate someone, send them to New York, for it is Hell.
If America is a giant public restroom where dreamers of every color come to take a massive dump, then New York is undoubtedly the filthiest toilet bowl in the joint.
July 10, 2010. Brownsville, Brooklyn.
Here, the grime of poverty clashes violently with the glamorous decadence of Manhattan—the Empire's beating heart. It is a tale of two severed worlds.
"Leon, seriously, aside from your talent in the sack, what are you actually good for? We can't even afford basics. I can't even scrape together enough cash to buy new panties!"
The screeching coming from an old detached house on Newport Street was loud enough to be heard down the block.
But the locals were used to it. Gangs, domestic violence, junkies—that was just the local culture here.
"Chill out, Bonnie. I'll figure out a way to make money. It just takes time..."
Lying on the sofa, blowing smoke rings with a look of utter indifference, was a young white man named Leon Smith. To the naked eye, he looked like just another piece of white trash, no different from the thousands of other bottom-feeders in the neighborhood.
But actually, he was a "transmigrator." He had crossed over from the East to this evil capitalist world about a month ago.
Funnily enough, this body even had some Asian heritage. His great-great-grandfather was a coolie tricked into coming over during the railroad days—one of the original immigrants.
What depressed Leon the most was the tropes. Usually, guys in novels who get transported to another world get some god-tier cheat code. Him? Nothing. He started out strictly homeless. You could call him a "street artist," but really, he was no different from the stray dogs scavenging on Kensington Avenue.
It was only ten days ago that he managed to sweet-talk the woman in front of him into letting him crash, barely securing a roof over his head.
If he had one saving grace, it was his looks. If he shaved the messy stubble, he'd look a hell of a lot like a young Brad Pitt.
"Enough! You lying bastard! I must have been out of my mind to pick a loser like you off a park bench!" The blonde, Bonnie, cursed at him as she stripped off her clothes, revealing a voluptuous body.
Leon was used to the verbal abuse. He just lay there, unbothered.
In this rigid capitalist hierarchy, a bottom-feeder like him had no way up. He couldn't out-hustle the Latino laborers at McDonald's, couldn't out-crime the cartels, and he didn't have the street cred to pull off a "zero-dollar shopping spree" (looting) without getting shot.
He let the insults go in one ear and out the other, picking up an empty beer bottle from the floor and shaking it. "Fk! Out of booze again..."
"I made less than 200 bucks in tips last night. Keep this up, and I won't be able to pay rent," Bonnie sighed softly. "And you, you asshole, you eat more than a pig!"
Leon completely understood her complaint, but he was powerless to fix it.
Bonnie was a pole dancer at a night club. She used to make bank, living a high-flying, decadent life comparable to the Silicon Valley elite. But thanks to the financial crisis of 2008, the economy in 2010 was still in the toilet.
People were clutching their wallets, not stuffing bills into G-strings.
"Maybe wear a little less? Girls walk down the street in bikinis now. No sucker pays to see a conservative show at a club."
Conservative?
Bonnie looked down at her outfit in shock. If you rubbed all the fabric together, you couldn't even make a single glove.
You call this conservative?
Even though Bonnie was covering Leon's food, housing, and even his physiological needs, all she got in return was sarcasm. Her rage spiked.
Aside from being somewhat "pretty," this man was a total ungrateful scumbag!
"Sht! I've had it! I'm warning you, if you don't chip in for rent this month—even just a little bit—I'm kicking your ass out of my house immediately!"
Leon threw up his hands and quickly sat up. He was used to managing Bonnie when she got like this.
His fingers began to trace along her neck, massaging her as he whispered, "Trust me, babe. I never owe women money."
"I know you work hard. I'll make it up to you tonight, thoroughly..."
As he spoke, Leon's fingers applied a little more pressure, making Bonnie's knees go weak, nearly dropping her to the floor.
"I'm going to head out to the street, soak up the atmosphere, hunt for some inspiration... When I get back, you'll see the charming smile of Andrew Jackson (the $20 bill)."
"Fine, you jerk... just be careful. On my way back from the club, the gunshots didn't stop from Manhattan Beach all the way to Brownsville." Facing the scumbag's gentle offensive, Bonnie surrendered quickly. In fact, she fell for it every time.
"I definitely will. By the way, can you spot me another 7 bucks?"
"Why do you need money now?"
"I'm just worried... if I get rolled, I need some cash to hand over to the guys on the corner. Otherwise, I might catch a bullet."
Bonnie sighed helplessly. She had sworn she wouldn't let this parasite take another cent from her pocket.
But, worried for Leon's safety, she hesitated, then pulled 7 dollars from her purse.
She couldn't quite figure out why he asked for exactly 7 dollars.
"Wait for my good news~"
Money in hand, Leon moved faster than a rabbit dodging a hawk. He grabbed the beat-up acoustic guitar he'd had since day one and bolted out the door.
Five minutes later, he was at the corner bodega/gas station. He used the 7 dollars, plus a quarter he had on him, to buy a pack of Marlboros. He lit up, inhaling deeply with pure satisfaction.
There was no "soaking up the atmosphere." There was no "making money." It was all lies.
"Fk..." Leon muttered the word, chuckling at his own shamelessness.
Since crossing over, many of his memories from his past life were fuzzy. He couldn't rely on future knowledge to get rich quick.
Without a degree or a wealthy background, climbing the ladder in a stratified American society was a pipe dream. Unless washing dishes suddenly paid six figures.
If you're born a mule, you'd better accept you're going to die a mule.
Just as Leon was deep in this depressing existential thought, a strange, mechanical voice suddenly rang out in his mind.
[ System Update: Infamy Tag Refreshed. Current Class: The Grifter. ]
[ Monthly Inspiration Refresh Active. Refresh date: 11th of each month. Unlock more Infamy Tags to gain Inspiration Charges! ]
[ Tag Lost: Inspiration refresh paused until new Tag acquired. ]
[ Good luck, scum. May the Devil watch over you! ]
"WTF? Infamy Tag?"
Leon stood frozen in the night, cigarette dangling from his lips, looking completely bewildered.