It's Only About Looks

If he decided to go the film industry route, he had to consider whether to work in front of the camera or behind it.

Behind-the-scenes roles also came with their own professional barriers.

Sound recording, cinematography, color grading, depth of field, lighting, composition, directing, and editing—these skills, while dependent on talent, couldn't go far without a solid theoretical foundation. Let alone making it onto Hollywood's stage.

As for those online American entertainment time-travel novels he'd read before crossing over—the approach of submitting a script to catch a film studio's eye and break into the industry—it wasn't that no one had succeeded, but the odds were slim.

First off, most Hollywood scripts already existed. Some had been sitting around for ten or twenty years before getting their chance to be produced.

Then, scripts were rewritten over and over until they were unrecognizable, leaving no trace of the original work.

Take, for example, the highly acclaimed 1994 film Forrest Gump. The original was actually a political satire novel.

Not to mention anything else—a fool with an IQ below the average person's standard, getting involved in so many major historical events and ending up a millionaire? If that wasn't sarcasm, what was?

It was practically a slap in the face to every normal American. All that was missing was the iconic line: "I'm not targeting anyone in particular—I'm saying all of you in America are garbage!"

But in the end, the movie turned into an inspirational piece, even hailed as a representative work of the 1990s American Dream.

If you described the extent of the script changes in human terms, it wasn't just makeup or plastic surgery—it was a full head transplant. The only thing was, that head still had two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.

So the path of submitting a script and waiting for a studio to come begging to buy it, or to let him direct, was a no-go.

The only possible way to pull off something similar was with B-grade horror flicks or crude, lowbrow comedies. Those types of movies didn't have scripts waiting in the "to-be-filmed" libraries of major film studios.

But whether it was horror or comedy, the script wasn't the most important thing—it was the director's execution.

In other words, to break into the industry this way, he'd first need a finished work and a good creative concept to attract a studio to invest in him as a director.

Alright. Henry had watched two months' worth of classic movies, sure, but he didn't think just watching could turn him into a director like James Cameron, who'd transitioned from being a truck driver.

Did he really think watching fish swim upstream would turn him into a great man?

So, his best bet was still working in front of the camera—becoming an actor. At least the first hurdle for that job only required a decent face.

And because the bar was so low, there were tons of people in the field. The opportunities allocated to each person were even rarer than the chance of getting struck by lightning while standing in an open field on a rainy day.

That's why all sorts of shady practices and red couches ran rampant. Everyone was just trying to boost their odds of success a little.

As long as he didn't aspire to be a megastar, he could support himself with income from crabbing, treat hanging around sets and being an extra as a hobby, and spend his days dabbling in knowledge or nostalgic games—that kind of life should be pretty comfortable, right?

As the saying goes, "Desire nothing, and you'll be invincible." He wasn't aiming to become an Oscar Best Actor, nor was he forcing himself to match the wealth of those Jews. He was just a salted fish wanting an easy life—that couldn't be too hard, could it?

"Happy America, shootings every day"—the biggest challenge was just black guys and high hippies running around with guns.

But he had a Kryptonian physique, a natural bulletproof body, meaning he stood firmly on the winning side.

As for the Mutant problem, whether or not that Cosmic Family Planning Commission was planning to collect the Infinity Stones, or whether there was a Celestial embryo in the Earth's core—none of that was a big deal.

Anyway, as long as he stayed away from the universe's center—New York—his safety level would go up another notch.

Even if that Purple Sweet Potato Spirit really gathered all seven Dragon Balls... Six Infinity Stones.

Whether he was driven by a compassionate desire to wipe out half the universe's population so the rest could have more resources, or just wanted to kill a bunch of people to please "Death," one of the Five Primordial Gods—

Whatever his mood, after a snap, Henry's chance of turning to ash was fifty percent.

If he lived, no problem. If he died... what big deal was there? Dead was dead—why be scared?

Everyone feared the Snap, but if you really thought about it, it wasn't that terrifying.

Compared to dying suddenly in an accident, what was more heartbreaking was being tormented by illness, hanging on between life and death.

But that latter situation, compared to his later experiences in the Russian lab, didn't seem like much.

Back then, those white coats were pushing him to his limits—every inch of his body was their experiment zone. Saying he was covered in wounds wasn't an exaggeration at all.

If they'd had more chances, the torture methods would've escalated to taking off a leg one day and sawing off an arm the next. When they got bored, they'd slice him up for specimens...

So Henry genuinely didn't think the Snap was a big deal, at least for him.

He had no attachments in this world. If Thanos wiped out half the universe's population, what would he care about?

Whoever wanted to be a superhero could go ahead. He just wanted to lie low, live happily, and follow his own mood.

Not spend every day bitter and resentful, worrying about where something exploded, where someone died, where someone got robbed, or where a toilet was clogged.

None of that stuff was his fault!

He wasn't turning dark and plotting to destroy the world—that was already pretty good. At least he hadn't thought about getting involved when the Russians had their big reshuffle next year and the Red Empire collapsed.

What advantage could he gain from that big show?

Robbery?

Hell! He was a Kryptonian. If he really wanted to rob someone, he could do it anytime, anywhere. No need to check the almanac.

If he was serious, he'd just cover his face tomorrow and take a stroll through the Federal Reserve's vault. Then he'd use Heat Vision to melt the gold—who the hell could tell where it came from?

Flipping goods for profit?

That was just hard-earned pocket change. Could he make enough in one go to live three lifetimes without worry?

Using exchange rates to buy up Red Empire assets for profit?

To play that game, you needed deep pockets. His meager savings weren't worth it—he might as well just go rob someone.

As for getting revenge on those white coats from back then, that idea was even more laughable.

Let alone the vast sea of people—how could one find a target by face alone?

For most of the common folk, the next few years would be nothing but suffering. So I'd be going through all that trouble to find them, just to grant them release?

Even if they truly managed to seize an opportunity in this chaos and rise above it, taking revenge then would hardly be too late.

The two greatest pains in life are: dying before your money runs out, and running out of money before you die.

By the time those white-coated bastards who wronged me finally claw their way out of the turmoil, wouldn't it be far more amusing to show up at their door and say, "This is where it ends," than to go after them now?

Death isn't always a punishment; living can be a hell of its own.

New book—requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thank you~~