"Good moral character should begin with every individual. As long as each of us remains kind and keeps ourselves pure, this world will become a better place!"
In a shadowy alley somewhere in Las Vegas, a tall, gaunt man in a suit stood inside. His hair was slicked back with pomade.
His face was stern and earnest as he stared at two scantily clad prostitutes in the distance.
"Huh?"
Hearing the man's declaration, the women exchanged looks.
But with the economy struggling lately and business slow, the leading prostitute tilted her head and exchanged a glance with her companion. Then she tugged down the collar of her short-sleeved shirt, setting off a rolling swell of cleavage, and said in a coquettish voice, "If it's some special game, it'll cost extra."
The man clearly disagreed. He shook his head, straightened his already ramrod-straight back, and said, "No, no, no. Money is vulgar. Having enough is enough. What matters more is spiritual cultivation!"
Only then did the two prostitutes decide that the man before them might be mentally ill.
"Pah! Get lost, you psycho!"
Cursing, they spat, the saliva landing on the man's cheek. Then they left the alley together.
Behind him, he could vaguely hear them muttering, "Dressed all fancy, I thought he was some rich guy. Turns out he's a loser."
"There are way too many crazies in this city. Too bad we had to run into one."
He had been mocked again, just like the dreams he had proclaimed in childhood without knowing his own limits—only to look back one day and find them childish and laughable.
"Haha, Jason, you're an idiot."
A low, raspy voice came from within him.
It was like another version of himself speaking in his mind, enough to make one mistake it for schizophrenia.