Chapter 1: Beast House

With the Lavender Festival wrapping up, the 2003 Atlanta Spring Carnival was officially a done deal.

In a Marietta neighborhood, Martin Davis hobbled into the living room, his busted knee screaming in pain.

He'd only been in North America for a week and was still trying to get his bearings.

On the bare wooden walls of the living room hung two old, yellowed posters.

One was a cover of some edition of "Gone with the Wind."

The other was of T1000 from "Terminator 2."

Martin plopped down on the fabric sofa, the swirling dust making his nose itch. Just as he was about to sneeze, something hard jabbed his butt.

A rusty, broken spring had poked through the discolored foam and non-woven fabric.

Cursing under his breath, Martin shifted to the other side. The damaged foam cushion caved in, swallowing his critical area like a big, soft balloon.

He suddenly felt sorry for the balloon and even more for the hard-earned future he had fought so hard for.

Martin had been grinding in North America for years, honing his acting chops step by step, picking up relevant skills, and even working as a stuntman for a few years. It was only through sheer grit that he landed some minor roles.

At the start of the new year, Martin finally snagged a supporting role with enough screen time to rank in the top five of the cast.

If the TV series aired successfully, and he kept hustling for another five or six years, he might earn the title of a veteran actor.

Martin, who loved to drink, partied hard with friends. After a few homemade cocktails, he passed out between two giant balloons, which might have caused breathing issues and led to a tragedy.

When he woke up again, he found himself in Georgia in 2003.

The body’s original owner, Martin, was in rough shape. His most recent gig was as a house repairman, and a week ago, he fell off a roof, messing up his leg and head.

The current Martin took advantage of the situation and became the 22-year-old Martin, but some of the previous owner’s memories in this body were like programs needing decoding, running pretty slow for now.

This past week, Martin spent most of his time getting used to his accent, and gradually, he could talk normally.

Just then, the door opened from the outside, and Elena Carter, with her brown hair tied in a ponytail, came in with a key. Her brother, Harris Carter, followed behind her, holding a paper bag.

Elena, with her delicate features and tall figure, had a smooth face without freckles. As soon as she walked in, she said, "Is your brain better? Can you talk normally now?"

Martin, like he’d done it a million times, flipped her the middle finger. "What do you know? I hit my head, and now my IQ’s doubled."

Elena, standing tall with her chest puffed out, her faded hoodie exaggeratedly lifted by her chest, said, "Great, hurry up and find a job. I don’t want to bring food to you, a lazy bum, for another week. I have two kids to raise; I can’t afford to support you."

During the week Martin was injured, it was the four Carter siblings from next door who brought him food.

"According to Mr. Brown, you have a 70% chance of recovering in a week." Harris placed the paper bag on the low wooden table and said, "There’s free bread from the church in here, and this time there’s fried chicken too."

He turned to leave. "Mr. Brown has been in the business for two months and has cured twenty sheep and thirty-five cows without making a mistake."

Before leaving, Harris turned back and said, "The bike is mine today; I’m going to tutor the Cole Sisters."

"You two idiots took me to see a vet!" Martin cursed, grabbing the paper bag without hesitation.

Elena sat next to Martin, rubbing her sore butt. She said, "You don’t have crap medical insurance, and I don’t have money to take you to a proper clinic. Mr. Brown used to live on this street; he doesn’t charge us for treatment."

Martin tore into the bread and fried chicken, chomping down big bites. Thinking about his injury and his last job, he muttered, "The house repair company owes me two weeks' pay, and for this work injury, I’ll figure out a way to get more cash."

He was flat broke, and some desperate ideas started creeping in.

"You better get more money!" Elena snatched a piece of bread and took a fierce bite. "The food you ate this week, and the food you ate in the past few months, I won’t hold it against you, this poor guy. But the rent for this house, your damn dad hasn’t paid it for half a year."

She glared at him, fiercer than a mountain lion. "The worst thing is that your dad Jack ran off with my mom Emma this Monday, eloping in the name of true love and freedom!"

This jogged Martin's memory. He realized, with a sinking feeling, he wasn’t just broke.

A month before Jack Martin took Emma Carter away, he had the previous owner of this body borrow $6,000 in high-interest loans from the owner of Beast House.

Emma had also taken the money her husband Scott Carter got from selling stolen goods.

The two left everything behind and went on a world tour, leaving these two in a mess.

Martin said softly, "I have to repay the first installment of the loan soon."

"Pray to God for help," Elena shrugged. There was no cheap sympathy among paupers.

Martin shook his head and said, "God doesn’t help paupers."

"The disability subsidy review day is coming soon. My uncle James’s subsidy has been collected by Jack all these years. Jack left a video. Now that he’s eloped with Emma, the subsidy is gone." Elena was troubled. "Without money, I can’t maintain this damn life."

Martin was about to ask, then remembered. This house belonged to James Carter. He said, "Your uncle died eight years ago from eating the wrong flour."

"I’m sure now, your brain isn’t damaged." Elena didn’t care at all. She pointed to the small woods behind the house. "James is buried there."

A few days ago, she was worried that if Martin turned from a pauper into a fool and a pauper, she would have to support one more person. Now she was relieved, casually saying, "James was lucky to escape the pain of being a pauper. You and I dug his grave."

"Damn it!" Martin had a headache. Poor people living in hell had incurable diseases.

Elena took out a chipped phone, checked the time, and stood up, saying, "I have to go to the mall for a temporary sales job."

Martin casually comforted her, "Don’t worry, you’ll find a way."

Elena, however, looked at the T1000 poster and said, "Don’t go to that damn theater group to work for free. Robert Patrick never returned to the Marietta Theater Group after becoming famous."

Martin was now thinking about solving basic living problems first. He replied, "Don’t worry, I won’t work for free."

Because Martin had a history, Elena warned again before leaving, "Pauper, if you can’t do it, I’ll settle accounts with you, calculate how many times we had sex, and you’ll pay me! Also, I’ll call Beast House Club and tell them you’re willing to be a gigolo to pay off your debt! Think about why they lent you high-interest loans!"

"Isn’t sex something you should pay for? I give you billions of sperm every time!" Martin said matter-of-factly.

Elena raised her hands above her head, giving him two middle fingers.

After finishing the bread and fried chicken, Martin felt his leg didn’t hurt as much with food in his stomach.

Martin tidied up briefly and stood outside in the sunlight, looking around.

Marietta was a sparsely populated southern suburban town. Even in the rundown Clayton community where Martin lived, each house had a small yard in front.

In the yard next door, wrapped in broken wire mesh, a boy was digging a hole, with a cardboard box at his feet.

This was Elena’s ten-year-old brother, Hall Carter.

An old Dodge pickup truck drove along the cracked road, painted with a dancing man and the words "Beast House."

The truck stopped by the roadside, and a muscular man in a jacket got out, looking at Martin and asking, "Martin?"