The Art of Old Bai's Speech

The bar was mostly empty, that was the truth.

Because this nameless little town didn't have many people either. The young folks had all gone elsewhere to make a living, leaving behind only a few old-timers clinging to life.

So everyone who came to the bar was a local, all familiar faces.

Most of the time, Old John was busy with other things. Customers who walked in would help themselves to a glass, pour their own drink; sometimes they'd grab a can of beer and find the bottle opener themselves. Then they'd toss the money into the cash basket on the counter.

That was also why Old John could run the bar alone. He didn't stop people from serving themselves. Of course, that didn't stop him from grumbling about it.

If someone wanted a proper meal, there was another restaurant in town. Old John didn't bother competing with them; he stuck to selling drinks and a few simple bar snacks.

The old folks in town were set in their old-fashioned ways, so most only gathered at the bar in the evening for a little get-together. They wouldn't come in broad daylight just to get drunk, unless something particularly good had happened.

They drank in moderation too, mostly just a can of beer or about that much alcohol and that was it.

If someone was clearly trying to drink themselves into the ground, and they were alone, no one needed to ask—they could guess something bad had happened at home.

If two or more people were drinking heavily, that meant something good was going on.

A little probing, and if help was needed and could be given, it naturally would be. If it was beyond anyone's ability to help, everyone had the tact to give the person some space.

They were all old enough now; they were long past being depressed teenagers who'd want to kill themselves over heartbreak. Just give it some time to sort itself out.

If it was something worth celebrating, no one needed to ask—they'd want to share it themselves.

There was one thing that changed Henry's prejudice, though: the belief that white people didn't know the art of insulting others.

Actually, that stereotype was wrong.

Maybe those American teenagers deeply influenced by Black culture got easily riled up. Instead of running their mouths, they'd rather pull a gun to have a conversation.

But white people steeped in Redneck culture had a pretty rich vocabulary for cursing people out. At least, in a country where stand-up comedy thrived, claiming they didn't know how to mock someone was just fooling yourself.

Henry had heard exchanges like this more than once:

"So you finally show up like a human being instead of hiding somewhere else. I was starting to think the bar counter was my home, you despicable bastard."

"Yeah, I'm surprised you can still drag your ass in here to say that to me. I thought you'd be six feet under by now. Oh, that's what I hoped would happen, not what actually happened to you, no. Once you step through my door, talk like a damn human, not some nigger mumbling."

"Whatever, just give me a beer."

"Ten bucks."

"What, ten bucks! God, Old John, what are you, half Jewish or something? You keep jacking up the damn prices."

"A can of beer going up to ten bucks has been happening for ten years now. You stubborn Scottish son of a bitch, if you've got amnesia, you should see a doctor."

"Yeah, keep your change, you'll need it for the doctor later."

"I'll take your money and donate it to the church, ask the priest to save you a plot in the cemetery."

This kind of mutual ribbing played out in the bar all the time, twenty or thirty times a day. It had practically become Old John's way of greeting people.

In the Nineties in America, even though all kinds of political correctness were starting to awaken, it hadn't yet reached the point of pushing back against traditional white culture. So the Black jokes and racial jokes that came out of these people's mouths were nonstop, each one trying to one-up the other.

Admittedly, some of those jokes—if someone came from a different cultural background—they wouldn't necessarily get the punchline. That was undeniable.

Even though a few decades later, you wouldn't be able to say those things in public anymore, it didn't stop Henry from learning how to fit into this old-fashioned society, living like a white American instead of some street thug.

Regardless, his appearance already locked him into a certain box. What benefit was there in acting and talking like a Black guy?

As for living like he had in his past life, priding himself on being from a land of propriety while actually being timid and groveling at every turn—that would only get him looked down on in this world.

The old white men in town wouldn't think this kid was refined and polite; they'd just think he was a pushover!

The old white women in town were even worse—they'd straight-up see this big, burly young man as a guy with a tough exterior and a glass heart, like some delicate maiden.

Being seen as a pushover was one thing—that fit his plan of playing dumb and coasting through life. But being seen as a sissy? That was unbearable. Especially being seen as the sissy in a Fujoshi's eyes. That basically made him the bottom!

Even though the term "Fujoshi" probably hadn't appeared yet in this era, that didn't mean there weren't people like that around!

But to say it a third time: the bar was really slow. So most of the time, Henry just killed time watching an old CRT TV on the counter.

Old John hadn't subscribed to any paid channels, so aside from the free news channel, there were just a few TV channels that endlessly replayed old movies and old soap operas.

It was a color TV, but it was playing a black-and-white movie, and Henry still watched it completely absorbed.

He watched these old movies not to learn English or anything like that—it was purely out of boredom.

Being locked up by the Old Russians in that sunless research institute for nearly twenty years, he'd had no entertainment, not even the most basic human interaction.

For someone who'd been used to loneliness in his past life, having no one to talk to wasn't a big deal. But not having even a shred of entertainment? That would drive a man crazy.

Having finally seen the light of day again and been taken in by Old John, Henry certainly didn't expect to live a life of wine and women.

Even if he wanted to, this nameless little town didn't have the conditions for it. So that broken TV with its old channels became the only salvation for this invisible shut-in.

If only he could have an endless supply of Otaku happy water, that would be truly wonderful. Too bad Old John had already been generous enough to provide plenty of food.

It was like all this stuff was making up for the deficit of the past, constantly being absorbed by his body.

Had anyone ever seen someone who only ate and never shat, only drank and never pissed? Henry was exactly like that now.

As soon as any food entered his mouth, his body's conversion efficiency hit one hundred percent. No feces, no urine were produced, so naturally he never had to go.

At the same time, his scrawny frame kept changing, getting bigger and bigger, more and more burly.

His whole body was like a balloon being inflated, changing almost daily. Anyone paying close attention could see it.

As for Old John's mindset, Henry could more or less sense it. It was simply that you bring nothing into this world and take nothing out, so if anyone had a use for his things, he didn't begrudge it in the slightest.

After all, in this godforsaken place called Alaska, he couldn't save his way to being a millionaire. No matter how much he lost, it wouldn't be enough to bankrupt him.

So for a kid who needed help, he didn't hesitate to lend a hand.

It had nothing to do with whether the kid was black or white—it was just that the future belonged to the young, not to an old man with one foot already in the grave.

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