Chương 142: Wealth Sharing Plan

Leaving Alice's villa, Arthur Kennedy walked to the pickup truck parked on the street corner, opened the door, and drove away from this neighborhood where power was most concentrated in the United States.

According to the plan, he will not spend the night in Washington.

He plans to drive out of the special economic zone overnight.

On the edge of wasteland to the right of the special economic zone's border highway, Arthur spotted a drive-in restaurant that stayed open all night.

The restaurant's neon sign was old and dilapidated, with only a few red letters flashing in the wind.

Three black Cadillac sedans were parked on the muddy ground outside the restaurant.

Six men in heavy coats stood around the car, hands in their pockets, watching every vehicle drive by on the highway.

Their posture and eye placement indicated that they had received professional security training.

Arthur slammed on the brakes and slowed down to approach.

The headlights swept across the three cars, illuminating the metal license plates hanging on the rear of the vehicles, which read "Louisiana".

This is a convoy that traveled over a thousand miles from the southernmost part of the United States, along the Gulf Coast, to Washington, D. C.

Arthur decided to stop and buy a hot coffee.

He parked the pickup truck under a wooden utility pole a dozen meters away from the Cadillac, turned off the engine, and got out.

The bodyguards' eyes immediately focused on him, but seeing that he did not make any dangerous moves, they did not step forward to stop him.

Pushing open the glass door of the restaurant, a smell mixed with cheap coffee beans, fried bacon, and low-quality tobacco hit you.

A dozen or so long-haul truck drivers and homeless people wearing tattered jackets gathered around a few tables in the center.

At the center of the crowd, a tall man in a loose white linen suit is giving a speech at a wooden table.

Arthur had seen this man's picture.

This is Hugh Long, the current governor of Louisiana.

He was known for promoting absolute egalitarianism and proposed a wealth-sharing plan.

This can be inappropriately compared to "redistributing land to the rich and powerful."

Therefore, he enjoys a large following among the lower classes in the South.

"This morning, I sat across from President Herbert Hoover on behalf of the Southern states. I told him that our cotton is rotting in the fields, our factories in the North are shut down, and people are starving."

"I demand that the federal government immediately allocate one hundred million dollars from the national treasury to establish a National Relief Committee."

97 The restaurant was quiet, and everyone was staring at him.

"But do you know what our president said? He said that relief funds would destroy the spirit of self-reliance among Americans."

"He sent me back to the South to teach the people to be patient and wait for the economic cycle to recover naturally."

Hugh Long gave a cold laugh.

"Patience? Patience won't fill your stomach. I refuse to stay in Washington and listen to the nonsense of politicians in silk underwear and Wall Street representatives."

"I'm going back to the South. The real America isn't in this marble city, but among you guys who drive long-haul trucks, build railroads, and sweat in factories."

Hugh Lang raised his glass.

"God gave us this land, a land full of wheat, and oil buried underground. But now, all of these things are in the pockets of Morgan and DuPont. One percent of the people take ninety-nine percent of the money."

"I want to push for a bill that confiscates all private property exceeding one million dollars. Buy houses, buy radios, pay pensions. Let's share the wealth!"

He then downed the beer in his glass in one gulp.

Several truck drivers clapped enthusiastically.

Arthur walked up to the bar and bought a cup of black coffee.

Hugh Long jumped off the table.

One of his assistants immediately handed him a dry towel.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and put on his white suit jacket. His gaze swept across the corner of the restaurant and landed on Arthur.

In this dilapidated restaurant packed with blue-collar workers, Arthur's tailored wool coat and composed posture created a striking contrast.

Hugh Long tossed the towel to his assistant, strode to the bar, and sat down on the empty stool next to Arthur.

"A bourbon, no ice, please."

He called out to the waiter.

He then turned to Arthur, looked him up and down, and asked, "This coat is made of nice material. Which department do you work for in the Special Administrative Region?"

"I do not work for the Federation," Arthur replied.

Hugh Long stroked his chin, took out a cigar box, pulled out a cigar with the tip cut off, and put it in his mouth.

His assistant came over and lit a match for him.

"You don't look like a banker, nor a lobbyist. Your fingers have calluses from years of typing on a typewriter. A reporter?"

Hugh Lang looked at Arthur.

"right."

Hugh Lang, puffing on his cigar, suddenly stopped.

He seemed to remember something and reached out to his assistant. The assistant immediately opened his briefcase and took out a newspaper that had been folded several times.

That was a few days ago in the New York Herald. The headline was "Sixteen Tons." Below the headline was a black-and-white photograph of Arthur.

Hugh Long spread the newspaper on the bar counter, looked at the photos, and then looked at Arthur.

"Arthur Kennedy," Hughie read aloud from the newspaper.

"You took the Tammany Society to court in New York with your articles, and now you're writing about miners in Pennsylvania. Your souls are mortgaged to corporations and stores." Very accurate wording.

"Looks like you just came from the D. C. area, and some bureaucrats from Washington are giving you trouble?"

"A minor problem. It's been resolved." Arthur said calmly.

Hugh Long turned to face Arthur, his tone becoming more solicitous.

"Come with me to Louisiana, Kennedy. The New York press is too restrictive; your writing could be censored or compromised at any time. Join my 'Share Our Wealth' movement."

"You'll be the chief communications officer. I'll provide the state government's printing presses and distribution channels to get your writing to every farmer and worker across America. We're going to break up those big trusts. Once we've reorganized the rules, you can lead the news the way you want."

Hugh Long's political approach is straightforward. He needs someone like Arthur, who can stir emotions and dissect social structures.

Arthur looked at Hugh Long.

Hugh Long's wealth confiscation plan has enormous grassroots appeal in theory, but in practice it means conducting an unchecked trial.

When power is distributed without checks and balances, the end result is often an absolute monopoly of power.

"Governor, this bourbon is on me. But I decline your offer." Arthur placed a few coins on the bar.

Hugh Lang raised an eyebrow: "Reason?"

"A politician's job is to make policies and wield power. A writer's job is to maintain distance and document what's happening in society."

Arthur met Hugh Lang's gaze without backing down.

"If I accept your position, my articles will no longer be news, but political propaganda manuals. That's no different from those newspapers bought out by corporations."

"I am not affiliated with any party, whether it is the conservatives in the White House or the wealth redistribution movement you lead."

Hugh Lang looked at Arthur, the enthusiastic solicitation on his face fading, replaced by a scrutinizing gaze.

"You need to go to those agricultural states. East Coast capitalists like to use lawyers and courts. But the agricultural oligarchs in the Midwest and California don't buy into that."

"When you drive into their orchard to investigate, they will drag you out of your tent in the middle of the night, break your hand, or just shoot you in the wilderness."

Hugh Long stood up. He waved to the bodyguard standing in the doorway.

The burly bodyguard walked to the bar, carrying a long, heavy canvas bag. He placed the bag on the bar in front of Arthur and unzipped it with a brass zipper.

Arthur's gaze fell on the items in the bag.

It was a Winchester M1897 pump-action shotgun.

During World War I, this type of shotgun was known as the "trench broom" because of its extreme close-range lethality during trench clearing.

Next to the gun, four thick cardboard boxes were neatly arranged, filled with 12-gauge buckshot.

Each of these bullets contains nine lead pellets, each about 8. 4 millimeters in diameter, and has an extremely high stopping power when fired at close range.

"The political philosophy of the South is simple: when someone is about to use violence to silence you, you must have more violence than they do."

"This Winchester can fire all six buckshots in one and a half seconds."

Hugh Lang picked up his top hat.

"You can refuse a political alliance, and you can take this gun. I don't want to see you die in some private farm's drain. Consider it an investment in you."

Arthur didn't say anything; he simply extended his hand.

"Good gun. Thank you for your kindness."

Hugh Long nodded and walked out of the restaurant surrounded by bodyguards.

February 1, 1930. Midnight, on the highway.

The "Monthly Check-in System" was activated, and Arthur immediately checked in, ready to see what rewards he could get this time.

[Check-in completed in February 1930.] [Monthly rewards are being distributed] [Gained the passive skill module: Guitar Master.] [Description: This skill grants the host absolute muscle control over a six-string acoustic guitar and its common variations, mastery of diatonic music theory, and master-level muscle memory covering various playing styles such as country, blues, and folk.] A slight electric current sensation quickly spread from the cerebral cortex to the fingertips of both hands.

Within five seconds, his fingers seemed to have gained independent consciousness.

Chord derivation and memorizing different positions of the pentatonic scale become as natural as breathing.

The muscles and nerves learned how to press the strings with the appropriate force.

Complex techniques such as striking the strings, pulling the strings, harmonics, and alternating plucking have become instinctive.

But Arthur was speechless.

In the years when ranchers hired security guards to shoot and police arbitrarily threw people into jail, I drove a Ford pickup truck equipped with a pistol and a shotgun.

They gave me the memory skill of a guitar playing master.

Is this reasonable? I don't even own a guitar.

Shouldn't they give him a gun proficiency skill?

[Host's strong dissatisfaction detected. Additional task issued ————] Arthur:? You have this function too.

[Task objective: Win over 100 fans with your outstanding guitar skills.] [Mission Reward: Firearms Proficiency] 100 fans — Give me a TikTok.

Arthur shook his head and put his hands back on the steering wheel.

Perhaps in the next city, he can buy an old violin for two dollars at a pawn shop.