A chance encounter
Hitching a ride at a gas station was quite convenient. Nobody could resist US dollars.
With four hundred-dollar bills as their tickets, Li Bai and the others got onto a bus. The bus was full of buxom blond bombshells, a sight for sore eyes.
Well, the ladies were heading to San Fernando Valley to shoot a film. As people catching a ride, they had to show them the proper respect.
Faced with a group of bored, flirtatious blonde bombshells, Wang Ping's old face flushed crimson. He kept waving his hands: left hand, "No"; right hand, "No"; both hands, "No, no." He nearly lost his hard-earned dignity in his later years.
Xue Qimin, meanwhile, gazed inward like a monk in deep meditation. No matter how charming they were, they were all red-dressed skeletons: coarse pores, hairy bodies, weighing at least 140 pounds. Either their body odor was overpowering, or their perfume was. Both could make a person sick. Once they washed their faces, they were no different from female ghosts. Better to admire them from a distance than to toy with them. Demons, begone!
The bearded director with a beer belly even had the gall to invite Zhou Xueyan to add a touch of Chinese flavor to his art film, thumping his chest and promising that the pay would be no problem.
But the moment the top student flashed her FBI Temporary Worker ID, the greasy, foul-smelling fatso willingly moved to the back row and earnestly reflected on his life.
If Japan dared to make films about special investigators, could the Americans dare to make a big drama about the FBI?
At most, they could give you an artistic version of Black Hawk Down. As for the three mountains weighing on the American people—the FBI, CIA, and IRS...