My American magical life
Chapter 815 - 815 42 The King's Game 2

815: Chapter 42: The King’s Game 2 815: Chapter 42: The King’s Game 2 The man’s fingers swept across the phone screen, not tapping, blocked by the shattered explosion-proof screen protector.

“Fak!”

Muttering a curse, he flattened his palm, wiped the dirty, shattered screen, and then continued to tap.

This time, the software opened.

But there was a problem with the facial recognition for login, and after a brief spinning of the loading animation, the man entered his account password in the password field that popped up.

Then, like a goose being strangled by the throat, his eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reopened them, only to find he was not mistaken.

Powerlessly, he put down the phone, the man, only wearing shorts and bare-chested, got out of bed and left the bedroom.

“George, you haven’t eaten dinner yet, I made some thin pancakes, you can eat them with some sauce, and also, don’t stay home every day, go out and find a job.”

His mother’s nagging voice came from the sofa, George glanced at the food on the dining table without replying.

The woman, accustomed to her son’s despondency, just watched the TV while continuing to knit a sweater.

George walked behind his mother, bent down, and kissed her head.

“Child, it’s okay.

Everyone has difficult times.

Go ahead and eat.”

In the story of “Yilin,” children in America are supposed to leave their families and grow up independently after turning eighteen, but in real America, there are plenty of young people who empty their parents’ savings to buy a house.

Like George, those who live in their mother’s apartments struggling to breathe after unemployment are not just one or two, and his mother thought her words might hurt her son’s self-esteem, even sounding somewhat embarrassed and uneasy.

“Mom, I’m somewhat incapable, maybe I shouldn’t have come into this world.”

George’s voice was hoarse and low, freezing the knitting hands while footsteps sounded from behind, and his mother hurriedly turned around.

But George had already opened the window, and at the last moment, he reluctantly looked back at the home behind him.

He saw the white hair on his mother’s head, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the old woman covering her mouth, seemingly horrified.

“NO!

Child, no!

Don’t do this, even if there’s no job I can keep you alive, don’t do this!”

George didn’t want to add any psychological pressure to his mother, he wiped his tears and explained with a smile.

“It’s not because of that, Mom, I don’t have the courage to live anymore, don’t blame yourself, it’s your son who’s too incapable.”

With that, the man sitting at the window leaned out, and under the effect of gravity, he fell down like a broken couch.

Dropping the sweater she prepared for George, the old mother walked over to the window ledge with shaky legs, she wanted to stick her head out to check on her son, but she didn’t have the courage.

With all her might, she supported herself on the windowsill to avoid sitting on the ground.

Everything happened too suddenly, she had barely prepared herself mentally before she had already lost the most precious thing in her life.

And this, was only a ripple effect of the BEC market crash.

George didn’t dare to play with BEC coins, he just bought some cryptocurrency options on LCE as BEC coin prices soared, and that was it.

Daqi used gimmicks and trends to kick off a craze on LCE, now, the tide had receded.

—————–

The Paris morning didn’t carry a light fragrance of flowers, and the Left Bank by the Seine River had coffee, paired with the centuries-old flavor of the Seine.

Old Parisians like to drink coffee, but when drinking, if it doesn’t have a bit of a stink, they will just slightly lift their chin and say it’s not authentic.

Job was a milk delivery man in Paris, every morning, he would drive his small truck, traveling over thirty kilometers, delivering freshly produced milk from the Paris suburban farm to clients in the city center.

Today, there were even more black people (Job thought they were thugs) than usual on the right side of the Seine river, stuck in traffic Job discontentedly rolled down his window and gave a deep sigh.

“Damn it!”

He didn’t specify who he thought should be damned, perhaps the black people he consider disgusting, perhaps the incompetent Paris transportation department, or maybe this cursed world.

Anyway, he did not specify who should be damned.

After being stuck for about seven minutes, Job’s small truck started moving again, not wanting to be docked in pay for being late, this experienced delivery man made his small truck sprint off swiftly.

Yet, when he arrived at the Cézanne Palace Hotel kitchen unloading point, he was still two minutes late.

“Hey, buddy, give some respect for a cigar rolled by a Cuban girl.”

What can you do about being late?

Job could only start ingratiatingly schmoozing.

“Shabi, Cuban girls roll cigars, not cigarettes!”

The man receiving the goods in the kitchen was Job’s elementary school classmate; he cursed at Job and then quietly checked today’s fresh milk delivery.

“Not to repeat!”

Job chuckled and said,

“There’s a vicar’s handover ceremony in our village this weekend, remember to come back, our brothers will have a drink together.”

“Okay, we’ll talk this weekend.

Too busy now, sigh.”

Job sat back in his truck and drove to the next delivery point.

You’re the idiot, posing like what, just a little supervisory manager of a hotel kitchen supply department, who doesn’t know who!

At 5:30 AM Paris time, Job continued his work, he still had several hotels to go to.

Europe is an old agricultural region, France’s agriculture and animal husbandry are top within the world, and the fresh milk delivered by Job was quickly sent to the breakfast room of Cézanne Palace Hotel.