America: Starting with Daily Intelligence-Chapter 12 - Old Friends in Los Angeles

"How's your haul today? Doesn't seem to match up to yesterday's."

Allen glanced at Dominic's bag and noticed it had shrunk considerably, seemingly containing even fewer cans than the day before.

"Don't even mention it, buddy. Just my luck today was awful. Went to the few blocks I usually do, but pretty much every trash can had been picked through. In the end, I could only wander back and forth between a few shelters, taking my chances nearby, and after half a day's work, I've only collected a bit more than 200 cans, making roughly 10 US dollars."

Dominic sighed, clearly feeling helpless.

The competitive pressure seems to be ramping up lately, with quite a few people taking up can collecting as a side hustle, seriously cutting into his earnings.

Because it's the middle of the month now.

Subsidies and shopping vouchers are distributed successively for 16 days from the start of the month, after that, you're on your own.

Crime occurrences and rates on the poor streets follow a pattern too; everything in the world has its cycles.

The first half of the month, the streets might be a tad more peaceful, since the homeless are doing relatively well, squandering their subsidy money and shopping vouchers as soon as they get them, living in drunken stupors. But the latter half of the month is when the competition is fiercest!

It's time to enter survival mode, survival of the fittest, and soon another batch of people will be weeded out.

Sure enough, a new group will fill their place.

Homeless drug addicts on the streets typically have a lifespan of just 3-5 years. Having been a street dweller for two and a half years, Dominic has grown accustomed to life and death.

Even the crematorium is prepared with body bags at the ready and a bulk purchase of fuel resources. The energy companies' stock prices even ticked up a few points, sporadically influenced by today's market.

Seeing Dominic's dejected mood, Allen understood he might resort to his old ways in a couple of days!

Not wanting to see his friend go down the path of crime, Allen immediately said: "Don't worry about not making money, Dominic. Since you can't find many cans in other districts, don't bother going too far. You could narrow down your scavenging route to just scavenging around Hopson Street, after all, that's our turf. What's mine is yours."

Other places are mostly taken over, like the Rich District. Dominic, out here on his own, is prone to get into violent conflicts.

He's not like me who can fight to ensure his safety. With his delicate skin, even if he ran his legs off in regular districts, he'd barely make much in a day.

Homeless folks can't afford guns, or else they wouldn't be in such dire straits—the ones who can are basically street gangs.

"But that's your turf, buddy. I can't just take what's yours."

Dominic was both surprised and tempted, but he quickly shook his head in refusal, subconsciously disinclined to take advantage of his own people.

"Don't be polite with me, buddy. You're my first friend on the West Coast. Without your help, I'd still be out on the streets! You can pick cans there at ease from now on, nobody's going to compete with you. And if anyone dares to bully you, come and tell me."

Allen clenched his fists confidently: "I'll break their spines, leave them incapacitated! They'll see why the flowers are so red!"

As long as your fists are hard enough, and you're hot-tempered, ready to fight at the slightest disagreement and beat someone half to death.

Then you'll actually have it pretty good on the streets, other homeless folks are exceptionally friendly to you!

There are no racial discriminations.

"Alright then, thanks for your generosity, Allen. I'll be counting on you covering for me! Buddy, those muscles of yours sure aren't for show!"

Dominic accepted with gratitude, also throwing in a little envy for Allen's physique.

"I'll give you a cut of the money I make from picking cans on that street too."

So far, Dominic's most profitable can-picking spots have been near the Sunkist Bar and the strip club on those relatively bustling streets.

Other high earnings, besides Zero-Dollar Purchase, were mainly from selling good finds from trash cans in the Rich District and shopping plazas. But foraging in high-level resource areas comes with great competition and risks, not to mention that income is quite unstable.

In case of rainstorm or extreme weather, you can't go foraging normally either.

"You better work hard, buddy. I'm counting on you to kick back a few hundred dollars to me every week! Hahaha."

Allen, hearing there was money to be collected, immediately grew energetic, wishing he could claim two more streets to announce all of Los Angeles' fifty thousand streets as his turf.

To be the king of can collectors.

"Dominic, don't we also have little Lori around here? Lori Louis 19 was named after him, why didn't he help you deal with Ethan and those guys?"

Allen was puzzled because he had heard from other scavengers that Dominic had been bullied outside, even had his territory taken over, and he wondered why Black didn't take care of it?

Wasn't there a mutual agreement of helping each other?

Maybe it's because there wasn't a due paid? There was no obligation for him to bring trouble upon himself.

Dominic shrugged, "Lori generally doesn't deal with that kind of stuff. He's either smoking weed or on his way to smoke. He only cares that our place isn't intruded upon by outsiders. Street fights have nothing to do with him. Out here, everyone must answer for their own actions, and really, you can't rely on anyone else."

"But Lori also goes to other people's turf to beg and wash windshields, and those folks don't dare say a thing. But it's different for us."

At the end of the day, it's still a world where bullying is the norm, and might makes right, isn't it?

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Two hobos came to blows over a bottle, and you might think they're just small-time.

But when two gangs shed blood over a street corner, you see them as solely driven by profit, relentless in their methods.

When two countries go to war over an oil field, everyone just hopes for peace to arrive soon.

There's no real distinction in the underlying logic of all this.

As long as people still breathe, they will never cease to struggle.

No matter where, the rule is the same: the competition at the bottom is fiercer, more savage, and bloodier.

Allen Zhang didn't really want to delve into this anymore and instead asked Dominic about identity documents.

"My fake IDs come from an Asian trafficker who sometimes surfaces on the streets to hawk his wares. For 200-800 dollars, you can get a Green Card and a passport, but if you provide the template information you want, the minimum you'd pay is a 50-dollar material cost for printing and production. However, there's no guarantee of authenticity or quality."

"You need to pay a tidy sum on top of that to make it real! Some of these people have their ways to enter identity data into the Immigration Bureau systems and give you a stamped, legal identity proof."

Once you get your legal identity proof and own assets locally, have a tax payment record with the tax office, the certificates and all become unimportant.

No matter who you were before or whether you entered illegally, you're now recognized as a lawful citizen.

Because you paid taxes.

The more you pay, the better a citizen you are.

Have you ever seen a criminal travel all this way just to pay taxes to the United States?

Please, we need more charity donors like that! The more, the better. The United States welcomes them, why not fatten them up before slicing the leeks?

Taxpayers with something to lose are the good taxpayers. Extravagant immigrants without leverage are just ticking time bombs.

Nothing to worry about in peacetime, but when things change, the rich immigrants are the first to be targeted.

Dominic said, "But I'm not sure when he'll show up. You know how it is, people in this line of work are always mysterious and have their own secret bases. Their headquarters might be in some abandoned factory in the suburbs, in the city, or even in some Immigration Bureau employee's house!"

Allen understood this.

He couldn't just show up at a California Immigration Bureau official's door from the address on a card for faking IDs, asking if they take private jobs, could he?

How rude would that be?

People need to save face.

Removing the middleman and getting in touch with those guys directly is definitely high threshold, if not completely impossible.

Everyone knows the Ganges is dirty, but you can't confirm how dirty without drinking or bathing in it.

"I've already sorted my identity online, and passed the facial verification on social media platforms. If I had a printer, I might be able to make it myself, but to be on the safe side, you've still got to go through Immigration Bureau employees... the fake ID traffickers!"

Allen also showed the files he had downloaded on his phone.

"Hanberger Juan Jin?" Dominic was surprised.

"If we're talking fake identities, buddy, who would use their real name?"

Allen chuckled, "I'm not that stupid. Apart from eye color and the photo that can't be changed, even height and weight can be freely fabricated. But not too far off the mark."

"You're right, no one is foolish enough to put their real info on a fake ID. My Texas driver's license is also under a different name and made-up info – Franklin," nodded Dominic.

He added apologetically, "Sorry, Allen, I may not be able to help you with this for the time being. But don't lose heart, someday I'll ask around on the streets for you. Maybe they know something."

"It's fine, I'm not in a hurry to use this identity anyway," Allen gestured dismissively.

Even if Dominic came up empty-handed, he wasn't worried.

With daily intelligence reports at his disposal, the information he needed might turn up any day.

The streets are full of talent. It's just about whether you can find them, and if they are willing to help you.

"You've got the US dollar bills' portraits taped up there; surely the officers will show you respect."

Allen laughed, "You're reminding me of an old acquaintance from Los Angeles, a Black guy."

"Sure, that's my freedom."

Dominic chuckled in amazement, "You have a Black friend too? His name Franklin as well?"

"That's right, he's robbed the Federal Bank, worked for the CIA, stolen nuclear weapons, and retired as a billionaire."

Dominic: "..."

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