From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Bang!

In that brief moment of distraction, a tremendous force struck my chest. The burly man, like a rhinoceros, headbutted Anson's chest, catching him off guard and knocking him over.

Damn it!

Anson disregarded the pain, his mind consumed by a single thought: concern that the brute would catch up to the boy and his mother.

"Jack, don't look back."

Please, please don't look back. Just leave without hesitation.

Anson nimbly stood up, and the next moment he saw that the burly man wasn't chasing after them. He felt a slight relief, but remained vigilant, his eyes fixed on the man before him. He tasted blood on his tongue, his chest heaving like a bellows, but he was strangely calm.

"So, are you ready? Now, you've finally found a worthy opponent."

The burly man went completely berserk, opening his massive mouth and charging forward with a roar.

A charging bull!

But Anson, like a matador, nimbly dodged the attack, accurately grabbing the man's shoulders and arms, adding force as he pushed.

The burly man lost his balance and stumbled forward, soaring through the air before gravity pulled him down with a heavy thud.

A pathetic sight.

Conversely, Anson was light on his feet, composed, and had completely regained his balance. The results of his half-year of arduous training as "Spider-Man" were evident. Though not a kung fu master, dealing with a brute who only possessed raw strength was easy.

The burly man seemed humiliated, scrambling to his feet.

"Aaaah!"

He roared again, protecting his head with his hands like Rocky, adopting a boxer's stance, ready to attack.

But he never expected that this set of movements posed no threat to Anson.

One dodge, two dodges. Anson easily avoided the man's punches. Instead, the burly man, after throwing several punches that missed, was barely able to stand. This became Anson's opportunity. Lowering his center of gravity, he aimed at the man's abdomen and unleashed a series of punches.

Bang!

Bang, bang, bang!

Like hitting a punching bag, the burly man staggered backward, finally losing his footing and flying backward, tumbling away.

However, Anson still didn't relax. He adopted a fighting stance, ready to advance.

The burly man seemed frightened, using his hands and feet to crawl backward like a spider. He warily watched Anson, and after a brief standoff, he didn't bother with dignity, turning and fleeing in the opposite direction from the boy and his mother.

Huff, huff, huff.

Anson stood on the street, supporting his knees with his hands, breathing heavily, feeling the burning and stinging in his lungs, the tightness and burning of his muscles. The emptiness after releasing all his energy in a short moment felt particularly real, and his feet felt the ground again.

Gravity pulled at his ankles, and his knees trembled slightly.

It was heavy and tiring, but everything was real.

Perhaps they had hidden themselves; perhaps they had completely escaped.

This was a good thing. At least today, they shouldn't be found.

"Beep!"

"Damn it!"

"Didn't you see the green light? Are you trying to die by crossing the road? If you want to die, no one will stop you, it'll reduce some carbon emissions; but you better find another place, don't bring bad luck to me here."

A torrent of abuse.

Anson jolted, all thoughts and soul pulled back into his body, instinctively looking around, thinking he was standing in the middle of the road obstructing traffic—

He wasn't.

Anson was obediently standing on the sidewalk, not obstructing any drivers.

Then…

Anson saw an elderly white-haired woman frantically trying to merge into the lane. She held a dark brown supermarket paper bag, containing some apples and oranges. She accidentally dropped some, and she entered the lane instinctively to pick up the oranges.

The cars behind her were startled.

His heart returned to Anson's chest. He didn't have time to worry about himself, and before he could sort out his thoughts after the series of shocks, he quickly stepped forward, looked at the apologetic but helpless old woman, and shouted at the driver who was leaning out and cursing.

"Sorry, really sorry."

Taking a deep breath, Anson calmed his wildly beating heart slightly, then quickly picked up the scattered apples and oranges.

The driver was still relentless, "Damn, if old people lose their minds, they should stay home and wait to die, why come out and harm society…"

Blah, blah, blah, endlessly. Seeing that the words were getting more and more unpleasant, Anson couldn't listen anymore.

"Shut up!"

Turning around, Anson retorted.

"Enough is enough, don't talk as if you'll never get old, or soon others will be shouting at you like that, you good-for-nothing."

With a few words, he hit back hard head-on.

Seeing the driver's eyes redden and him rolling up his sleeves, ready to fight, Anson wasn't afraid at all. He also rolled up his sleeves and walked over.

"What? Ready to fight?"

"Very good, I'm in."

His rationality was still in a derailed state, and he needed to vent. Even if it wasn't that burly man, others were the same. He purely wanted to vent.

He was ready to cause some trouble, to release all the repressed and suffocated emotions. Now that someone was offering themselves up, it was just what he wanted, how could he refuse?

Anson didn't hesitate at all, walking over in large strides. His murderous appearance startled the driver. Goosebumps popped up crazily, and he quickly closed the door he had just opened, frantically rolling up the car window, muttering to himself, but ultimately not shouting anything.

He secretly glanced at Anson, but after seeing the murderous intent in Anson's eyes, he immediately chickened out, obediently shutting his mouth, swallowing all the complaints, and whistling quietly, pretending nothing had happened.

The noise disappeared.

Through this brief venting and release, Anson's rationality finally quietly returned to normal, and the surging emotions gradually calmed down.

Even so, Anson still didn't leave immediately, but stood in place, quietly watching the driver, using his eyes to express his attitude:

What, are you sure you don't want to fight?