Chapter 57: The Corpse Handler Flew Back Home

Although he now had money in hand, Roger never forgot his original intention.

He was a homeless vagrant who had gone bankrupt; taking some aid wasn't wrong, was it?

Besides, he wasn't taking it for himself—he planned to give the pizza to those two girls, Xiaer and Luola, helping them out while also building goodwill. Why not?

But when he arrived at the pizza pickup location, he found the pizza deliverer was still Anjielina.

"Strange, didn't she say last time she was recording an album?"

With curiosity, Roger joined the line of vagrants. He arrived quickly this time, yet still dozens waited ahead.

Qiangsen and Juan had already collected their pizzas and were now teasing Jose with bacon by the roadside.

After waiting over half an hour, Roger finally stood before the blonde girl.

Anjielina wore a light green long dress today, the ribbon bow of her spaghetti straps tied just above her delicate, pale collarbone, as if ready to take flight.

Yet her figure was shadowed by passing vehicles, making her golden hair appear dull.

The pizza boxes inside the van had also been replaced with cheap-brand labels and repackaged.

The two white youths who had spoken rudely last time had been replaced by the same white young man who had helped distribute pizza the first time.

The only thing unchanged was her blue eyes, still sparkling, crystal clear.

When she saw Roger, she first looked surprised, then smiled: "I didn't expect you to arrive so quickly today."

"If I'd known it was you, I'd have come even faster," Roger said with a grin. "Aren't you supposed to be recording an album? How do you have time to deliver care packages?"

Anjielina took a deep breath, her shoulders rising sharply: "Unfortunately, my songs were rejected by the producer. He said they lack a hook—I need to rewrite them."

"That's harsh. Have you gotten any inspiration yet?"

"I don't know," the white girl sighed. "My head's a mess—I can't think of a single new lyric."

"Hey, you up front—once you've got yours, move along!" A vagrant suddenly shouted.

Roger picked up the pizza: "Alright, looks like our chat's over."

Anjielina stared at Roger's cleaner appearance compared to before, and for some reason, a sudden urge to confide rose within her. She called out to the man about to leave: "Wait—if you're willing, could we meet somewhere later to talk?"

Realizing how ambiguous that sounded, she quickly added: "I'm looking for song inspiration."

Roger paused, then nodded: "Of course. Happy to help."

"Then it's settled."

Anjielina exhaled, a faint smile touching her lips.

Thus, Roger sat beside Qiangsen and Juan, watching Jose stand on his hind legs and bow for two strips of bacon.

"Jose is so smart!" Qiangsen chuckled, then noticed Juan's silent, weary gaze.

Qiangsen's face stiffened; he quickly handed all the bacon to the pitbull: "Hey, buddy, it's all yours—don't rush."

Roger couldn't help but smile, then reached out and rubbed Jose's short tail twice.

"Woof woof." The pitbull affectionately licked his hand.

"Good boy, Jose!"

Roger turned to Qiangsen: "How's work going lately?"

"Not good," Qiangsen sighed. "We heard the guy who used to handle corpses ran off—now we've got no jobs."

"Why? Wasn't it going smoothly before?" Roger asked.

Qiangsen explained: "Apparently, he liked describing dissection procedures to crowds, and some of his remarks leaked, drawing media attention."

"Plus, he wasn't white. You know, the skin color thing."

"So he actually escaped?" Roger asked.

"Probably. At least I haven't heard the FBI caught him."

"That's impressive—evading the FBI." Roger didn't press further; black-market industries changed fast.

He asked: "So what are you planning to do next?"

"Uh, look for other jobs, or maybe sign up for drug trials," Qiangsen replied. "But I like to get high—don't know if I'll pass their screening."

"Only like to get high? No problem, buddy," Roger assured him. "You represent at least forty percent of ordinary Meilijian people."

"What about the remaining sixty percent?"

"Twenty percent addicted to stimulants, forty percent addicted to painkillers."

"Uh… well, I guess you're right."

Unlike Dongda's stance that marijuana poses serious harm, in Meilijian, marijuana is merely a minor nuisance—its dangers far less than those of abused stimulants.

While some Asian nations view marijuana legalization as heretical, in capitalist societies it's more like a planned consumer cultivation strategy.

After all, when weed no longer delivers euphoria, addicts reach for stimulants.

Unscrupulous pharmaceutical companies couldn't be happier.

If one of the Twenty-Two Extraordinary Paths were "Addict," Meilijian would've already achieved mass ascension, evolving into a nation of gods.

After chatting a while, the singer finished delivering all the pizzas.

Seeing Anjielina approach, Roger patted Qiangsen's shoulder and said goodbye to Juan.

Then she led him into a nearby café, where he sat down.

The white young man was there too, but he was only listening to music, scrolling on his phone, and drinking coffee.

"His name is Weide—my landlord's son."

"Hi, Weide," Roger greeted.

The white youth nodded, put on his headphones, and returned to his free game.

"Go on," Roger said first. "You've clearly got a lot on your mind."

Anjielina propped her chin on one hand: "Right. The company says my melodies are off, my lyrics are off—but they won't tell me where. I have to figure it out myself."

"God, they didn't say that at first. They called my songs heavenly, swore they'd sign me, and promised me a billboard at Shidai Guangchang."

Roger replied, "But now they've changed their minds."

"Yes, I don't know where things went wrong," sighed the blonde-haired, pale-skinned girl, her whole demeanor appearing deeply dejected.

"Maybe the problem isn't with you?" Roger said. "After all, they originally loved your songs—now they're rejecting them. That's the company's issue, not yours."

Anjielina thought for a moment and said, "You're right. Maybe I should have refused their offer and stuck to my own vision?"

"That's one option. You can think about it some more," Roger said. He didn't want to give anyone life advice—he wasn't the one involved and didn't know the full picture.

Maybe the company was right after all.

After a pause, he continued, "What kind of inspiration are you looking for from me?"

Anjielina pulled out her phone, plugged in her headphones, and answered, "I want you to listen to these demos from the perspective of an ordinary listener, tell me how you feel. Then tell me the stories of those homeless people—maybe I can find some inspiration there."

"No problem," Roger accepted gladly.

Half an hour later.

"Thank you, Roger," Anjielina smiled. "Thanks to you, I finally have some idea about the new song."

Roger smiled and said, "I just told some random stories, and your pizza was important to me too."

Anjielina asked curiously, "Have you found a job? I saw you got a car."

"Something like that," Roger explained. "I've temporarily escaped the life on the streets."

"That's wonderful," Anjielina's smile shone like sunlight. "If only other homeless people were as positive and hardworking as you."

Roger pursed his lips, feeling the girl seemed to have some misunderstanding about being positive and hardworking.

For homeless people, the harder they try, the more unfortunate they become.

Not long after, Anjielina bid farewell to Weide and Roger and left the café.

Roger picked up the cold pizza, got in his car, and planned to find Xiaer and Luola.