1: Chapter 1 American Police

Shaun felt that today should be a good day.

The sun was shining, the temperature was moderate, and the scent of coffee and fried chicken wafted through the humid air unique to New Orleans.

He sat in the patrol car, adjusted the seat back a bit, and let his legs stretch out comfortably.

This piece of junk was an old Ford Explorer. The seats were designed as if they were for someone five-foot-three, and at six-foot-one, his knees hit the steering wheel when he drove it.

His partner next to him, Otis, patted him and complained, "Shaun, stop lying around. Turn right at the intersection ahead. Mrs. Travis says there's been a homeless man lying in front of her house all day."

Shaun sighed and adjusted the seat back.

Trying to slack off is really not easy anywhere!

Even after transmigrating into an American cop, there's no way to slack off.

That's right!

Shaun was a transmigrator.

As for how he transmigrated, he really had no memory of it.

Anyway, the moment he opened his eyes, he had become a police officer in New Orleans.

As a rookie cop three months into the job, he had more or less adapted.

As for Otis Washington, forty-five years old, Black, a New Orleans native who had been a cop for twenty years, he had seen more things than Shaun had eaten grains of salt.

He had a sturdy build; one of him could equal two of Shaun.

Given Shaun's six-foot-one height, one can imagine how big Otis was.

When Shaun first joined the police department, he was paired with Otis.

The people at the station called this "training the rookie," but Shaun felt it was more like "letting the rookie learn how to slack off from an old timer."

...

"A homeless man..."

Shaun repeated at this moment, then couldn't help but complain.

"Mrs. Travis can report things to the police three times a day, whether it's a homeless man, a stray cat, or the neighbor's tree branch reaching into her yard. Why doesn't she just call the mayor's hotline?"

Otis, whose attitude was clearly much calmer, immediately replied: "Because the mayor's hotline will tell her to call 911."

"Stop complaining. Mrs. Travis might be annoying, but her corn chowder is the best in the whole community. She gave me a jar for Christmas, and my wife drank it and almost wanted to adopt her as a godmother."

In fact, Otis felt that dealing with small problems like homeless people wasn't bad at all.

At least there's no danger, right?

...

The police car turned into a quiet street.

On both sides were typical New Orleans-style houses: colorful wooden cabins with porches, and various flowers and plants that Shaun couldn't name planted at the entrances.

There was a huge oak tree at the street corner, its shade covering half the road.

A person was lying under the tree.

Shaun parked the car on the side of the road and got out with Otis.

As they got closer, they saw clearly that it was a middle-aged man with messy reddish-brown hair, several days of stubble on his face, wearing a dirty gray hoodie, curled up next to the tree roots and sleeping soundly.

Beside him was a plastic bag, revealing a few empty beer cans and half a box of donuts he had gotten from who knows where.

Otis crouched down and gently pushed the man's shoulder: "Hey, buddy, wake up."

The man didn't react; he rolled over and kept sleeping.

Otis pushed harder: "Wake up, police."

The man finally opened his eyes groggily. Seeing two people in uniform standing in front of him against the light, he reflexively raised his hands: "I didn't steal anything! Those donuts, I found them in the trash, they weren't expired yet!"

Hearing this, Shaun couldn't help but take another look at him.

This face... messy hair, filthy all over, and an unpleasant smell.

And this disheveled homeless man clearly made Otis somewhat impatient.

"Nobody said you stole anything!"

"Someone called the police saying you've been lying here all day, so we came to check. What's your name?"

The man lowered his hands, blinked, and instantly put on an innocent expression: "My name is Frank, Frank Gallagher. Officer, I'm a law-abiding citizen; I just have bad luck and am having some temporary financial difficulties."

After Frank finished speaking, Otis didn't react much, but Shaun felt as if his soul had been struck.

Suddenly, an image flashed through his mind!

Chicago, the South Side, dilapidated streets, a big family, and an old bastard who was always swindling people but just wouldn't die.

Frank Gallagher.

The American TV show, one of the main characters in "shameless"!

Fuck!

This... could it be the world of an American TV show?

"Financial difficulties?"

While Shaun was struck by lightning, Otis repeated Frank's words, glanced at the beer cans in his bag, and said coldly: "A pretty happy kind of difficulty."

Frank said solemnly: "That's to relieve stress. The doctor said I have too much stress and suggested I drink in moderation. Beer is liquid bread and counts as a basic nutritional requirement."

Upon hearing this, even Shaun, who was still digesting the information, couldn't help but look sideways, admiring Frank's ability to talk Bullshit.

Shaun stood to the side, looking at this legendary old rogue from American TV history, not knowing how to react for a moment.

He had transmigrated into this world three months ago. For the past three months, he had seen normal neighbors, normal criminals, and normal homeless people.

He had always thought this was just an ordinary world and that only he had transmigrated.

Now Frank Gallagher was crouching in front of him, telling him that because of high stress, he needed to drink beer.

Does that mean...

"Frank," Shaun couldn't help but speak up, "You're not from New Orleans, are you?"

Frank looked up, sized him up, and a trace of wariness flashed in his eyes: "Good eye, Officer. I'm from Chicago, here in New Orleans for a trip."

Shaun glanced at the holey sneakers on his feet and couldn't help but ask skeptically: "A trip?"

"Budget travel." Frank didn't change his expression. "It's popular now. Experiencing local life, integrating into grassroots communities, and understanding the real America."

Otis, listening from the side, laughed: "Alright, you. Budget travel and sleeping under a tree? Do you think I've only been a cop for a day?"

Frank sighed, his expression extremely serious: "Officer, let me tell you the truth. I originally had a friend living here who agreed to let me stay for a few days. But when I arrived, I found out he moved away three months ago. My money was stolen on the way here, and now all I have left is this..."

He pointed to the beer in his bag.

"These basic supplies to sustain life."

Otis shook his head, took his wallet out of his pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it over: "Take this, go get something to eat, and then find a shelter to sleep in. Don't lie here anymore. If Mrs. Travis sees you again, she'll chase you away with a broom."

Frank took the money, the look of gratitude on his face worthy of an Oscar: "Officer, you're a good man, and good men deserve good rewards. Can I know your name? I want to write you a thank-you letter."

"Otis Washington, New Orleans Police Department." Otis put away his wallet. "No need for a thank-you letter, just don't let me see you on this street again..."

"Definitely, definitely." Frank scrambled up, picked up his plastic bag, walked two steps, then turned back: "Oh, by the way, Officer, do you know if there's a shelter around here? Preferably one that provides free breakfast."

Otis pointed him in the right direction, and Frank left, thanking him profusely...