A Homeless Man's Comeuppance
Seattle, under the Interstate 5 viaduct.
This is a festering scar beneath the city's prosperous facade. The bridge piers are covered in mottled graffiti, and the air is thick with the stench of urine, the acrid smell of rotting garbage, and the lingering smoke of campfires. Dozens of colorful, dilapidated tents are haphazardly arranged along both sides of the bridge piers, like a forgotten cluster of mushrooms. A few makeshift fires made of iron barrels emit wisps of smoke, and several ragged figures huddle in the shadows, their eyes vacant or wary.
Inside one of the stained tents, barely held up by a blue tarpaulin and a few bent aluminum frames, Chen Fugui lay half-reclined on a musty sleeping bag, holding up his phone to the camera with a forced, even smug, smile.
He was in his fifties, thin, with prominent cheekbones, and his skin was a sallow yellow from long-term malnutrition and lack of sunlight. He wore a dirty jacket that he had picked up from somewhere, printed with the logo of some construction company. His hair was greasy and tangled, and he had a stubble beard. But his eyes were unusually bright at this moment, a kind of morbid excitement.
On the phone screen, the number of people displayed on the live streaming app was not large, only a few dozen, mostly idle IDs, with some sarcastic or amused comments floating in the comment section.
"Brothers! Look! It's 'food' again!" Chen Fugui flipped his phone over, pointing it at a makeshift porridge distribution point set up by volunteers not far from the tent. Several volunteers in fluorescent green vests were distributing food and bottled water. The line wasn't long, and most of the people in it were homeless like him. "See? Steaming hot stewed beans, and bread! It's free! Eat as much as you want! This is United States! Capitalist welfare! Haha!"
His tone was exaggerated, almost boastful, as if this free meal was a huge victory for him.
In the comments section, some people spammed "666," while others cursed, "You've embarrassed yourself internationally." Chen Fugui selectively ignored the criticism and continued to speak confidently to the camera, "Some people say I'm embarrassing myself? Embarrassing about what? I earned my welfare through my own abilities, is that illegal? Those bosses are all incredibly stingy, and they expect me to work for them? Dream on! How free am I now? I can sleep in as late as I want, I don't have to worry about anyone's attitude, I don't have to be bothered by those yellow-skinned people..."
He paused halfway through his sentence, seemingly realizing that some things couldn't be said too bluntly, and changed his words: "... Not having to be exploited by those capitalists. Getting food and daily necessities every day, isn't this life more comfortable than working?"
He said this, but deep in his eyes, there was a trace of emptiness and confusion that even he himself was unwilling to admit.
He reported Feng Ya, the young female boss who had once sympathized with him, taken him in, and paid him wages higher than the market rate for unlicensed workers.
He clearly remembered that when the ICE vehicle stopped in front of "Fortune-Filled Building" and the two serious-looking officials walked into the restaurant, he hid in the alley across the street, watching Feng Ya's face turn deathly pale in an instant, and a twisted, indescribable pleasure welled up in his heart.
Why? Was Feng Ya unkind to him? No, quite the opposite. Feng Ya was one of the few bosses he met in United States who truly treated him like a human being. She provided him with accommodation, advanced him his salary, and even gave him several hundred dollars more when his son was "sick" (the truth of which is questionable).
But he just hated it. He hated Feng Ya's condescending pity, hated her lecturing tone of "you illegal workers," hated the disappointed and resolute look in her eyes when she finally kicked him out. What he hated even more was seeing a young woman like Feng Ya, who, through her own efforts, opened her own restaurant in a foreign land, while he, a man who had lived half his life, could only eke out a living in the dark kitchen.
Reporting Feng Ya would bring him no real benefit. ICE wouldn't give him a bonus or legal status. It might even make it harder for him to find illegal work in the future—after all, no employer would dare hire someone with a "whistleblower record."
But so what?
At that moment, watching Feng Ya fall into trouble, he felt a morbid satisfaction. It was as if, through this method, he had reclaimed a pitiful, distorted "dignity." You're doing better than me, aren't you? Then I'll drag you down with me. If I'm not doing well, you won't be either.
This dark, self-destructive impulse was one of the few "bright spots" in his bleak life.
As for what to do next? He hadn't thought that far ahead. At worst, he could continue being homeless. Although the welfare system for the homeless in the United States wasn't particularly good, they wouldn't starve. Churches, relief stations, government subsidies... he could always find a bite to eat. As long as he was careful not to provoke those groups of Latino homeless people and not freeze to death in the winter, he could manage to get by.
He turned off the live stream, put his phone in his pocket, and prepared to get up to collect the stewed beans that had been delivered.
Just then--
"Bang!"
The tent suddenly shook violently! It was as if it had been hit hard by something heavy! Then, with another "bang," the tent's support poles groaned under the strain!
Chen Fugui was startled by the sudden commotion, and a surge of anger welled up inside him. It must be those damned Mexicans causing trouble again! They always take advantage of their numbers to seize territory, steal things, or they're just drunk and looking for fun.
"Damn it! Who the hell is out there?! Are they blind?!" Chen Fugui cursed as he got up, grabbed a sharpened steel pipe he used for self-defense, and angrily unzipped the tent, ready to rush out and teach these blind bastards a lesson.
He had barely poked half his body out of the tent, his mouth agape, before an even more vicious curse could escape his lips—
A cold, hard, round tube was pressed precisely and firmly against his forehead.
Chen Fugui's cursing stopped abruptly, like a string on a musical instrument being cut.
All his movements froze. His pupils contracted sharply as he stared intently at the dark, deathly muzzle of the gun in front of him. Following the muzzle, he saw a steady, large hand wearing a black tactical glove, and above that, a black face with a cold expression and eyes like inorganic glass beads, devoid of any emotion.
Cold sweat instantly poured from Chen Fugui's forehead, back, and armpits, soaking through his dirty jacket. His hand gripping the steel pipe began to tremble uncontrollably.
Clang--
The steel pipe fell to the ground with a crisp sound.
He slowly, extremely slowly, raised his hands. His legs were weak, and he almost knelt down.
The black man with the gun (one of Lü Yi's men) looked him up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on Lü Yi's disheveled, terrified, and humble appearance, a hint of undisguised contempt flashing in his eyes.
Then he spoke, his voice low and steady, carrying an unquestionable tone of command:
"Chen Fugui, right?"
Chen Fugui's throat was dry, and he nodded frantically, like a chicken being strangled.
"Mr. Lin wants to see you." The Black man lowered his gun, but the muzzle remained pointed, seemingly unintentionally, at Chen Fugui's groin. He tilted his head, gesturing for Chen Fugui to look outside. "No rush, put your pants on first."
Chen Fugui then noticed that in his haste, he had crawled out of the tent wearing only a pair of worn-out underwear. Following the other person's gesture, he looked out of the tent with trembling eyes—
My heart felt as if it had stopped beating for a moment.
Outside the tent, the scattered tents and homeless people had vanished without a trace. In their place stood at least a dozen men dressed in uniform black, with cold expressions and burly builds, spreading out like silent Iron Tower, completely surrounding the small blue tent. Some had their hands in their pockets, others hung naturally, but each of them exuded an aura of true "violent machinery" that instinctively instilled fear in a lowly person like Chen Fugui.
In the distance, several homeless people who had been queuing for food had already moved far away, peeking and looking in this direction, but none of them dared to approach.
Chen Fugui's legs went completely weak. If it weren't for the support of the tent behind him, he might have collapsed to the ground. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but only a "hoarse" sound, like air leaking out, came out of his throat.
Mr. Lin? Which Mr. Lin? He doesn't know any Mr. Lin at all! Could it be... Feng Ya? Someone Feng Ya knows? How could that seemingly ordinary China woman possibly know such a group of ruthless people?!
Countless questions and fears churned in his mind, but ultimately they all coalesced into a cold reality—he was finished.
Seeing that he hadn't moved for a while, the Black man frowned impatiently and pressed the gun forward slightly. "Hurry up. Mr. Lin doesn't like waiting."
Chen Fugui jolted awake, as if from a dream. He hurriedly retreated into the tent, his hands trembling as he found his dirty pants and shakily pulled them on. Because his hands were shaking so badly, he had to try several times to zip them up.
Then, supported (almost carried) by two men in black, he was led away from the vagrant camp where he had thought he could live a carefree life, like a condemned prisoner being led to the execution ground, his legs weak and his face pale.
On the overpass, traffic continued to rush by, and no one noticed the brief but oppressive scene below.
Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the bridge piers, casting dappled shadows on the ground. Chen Fugui's shadow was stretched long and twisted, like a mudfish being dragged ashore, struggling in its death throes.
What awaits him is a fate far more "exciting" than "dinner is served".