Chapter 70: The Difference Between Truth and Memory

"You mean that little star from the movie 'Chaplin and His Lover'? I heard the kid's got a star dad—should be pretty famous in your circle. Why are you asking me about it?"

"You know him!" Henry exclaimed.

"Alright, I was just curious about who Hollywood's casting to portray the female stars of the Golden Age, so I went to watch. Honestly, it was pretty disappointing. But Chaplin's acting? I could tell it was solid."

"So what do you think… does Robert Downey Jr. look or feel like Tony Stark?"

Old Black suddenly widened his copper-bell eyes, lowered his voice, and leaned in: "What? You've got insider gossip that those two are half-brothers or something?"

"No no no, I don't have any such rumors. I just wanted to ask—do you think their faces or demeanors have any similarity?"

After a long pause, Old Black said: "No, I don't see any resemblance. Especially when you put them side by side—that kid from the star family can't possibly act proud in front of the Stark Industries heir."

Old Black's answer gave Henry a warning: he couldn't judge whether someone was a superhero's true identity by their face.

Because actors are actors, superheroes are superheroes—they're entirely separate individuals.

Considering the comics' tradition of retconning, maybe what he knew wasn't reliable at all. Who knew how things really were on this universe's Earth?

For instance, was SHIELD's one-eyed director black or white?

Was Tony Stark really Howard Stark's biological son? Would the future be Iron Man or the Sorcerer Supreme?

After being rescued from the Arctic, would Captain America wake up and shout, "Hail Hydra!"?

And you didn't even need to ask whether this was the most famous Marvel cinematic universe—mutants running wild? That wasn't something a movie universe would have.

Also, besides this damn Marvel system, were there other weird things here?

Especially that last question—Henry could guarantee there absolutely were. Because he himself was the weirdest thing in this universe: a suspected Kryptonian who didn't even know if the Marvel universe existed.

The biggest side effect of this realization was that whenever intelligence agents showed up near him, unless they slipped up, he couldn't identify them by their faces.

Like SHIELD's agent with the shiny forehead; or the South American bald agent from S. H. I. E. L. D. —who had high clearance but acted like a lackey, constantly being ordered around.

Thinking of this, Henry's head throbbed. He once again firmly reaffirmed his principle: if you can survive, don't take risks.

Don't run into some African-American actor in Hollywood spouting "Motherfucker" and, like a Pavlovian reflex, assume he's SHIELD's baldy—that'd be hilarious.

Perhaps Henry's silence during his thoughts made Old Black uneasy—even though it hadn't been long. Chef Wesley said: "Kid, should I step in and plead your case to Tony Stark?"

Henry first looked surprised, then smiled and shook his head: "Chef, thanks, but no need. It's just a job—no production lasts forever. If I get fired early, I'll just find the next one. No big deal."

"Besides, you said Tony Stark promised not to pursue it—I believe he has no interest in chasing someone like me. The ones who fired me were just sycophants trying to curry favor. It wouldn't be right to ask him to intervene."

Besides, Henry didn't think Old Black's influence was strong enough to make those rich people listen to his plea.

What if things went wrong, Old Black lost face, couldn't vent on those people, and ended up blaming Henry for being troublesome? Then they'd lose their friendship altogether.

After finishing their talk, Henry stood up to leave. Then Old Black grinned sheepishly: "Bro, about that burger recipe?"

Henry said generously: "Use it however you want. You can even publish it under your name. You did help develop it, and you provided all the ingredients. I've eaten enough of your meals to pay you back."

"Hey, bro, thanks. You've got my number—if you don't want to be an actor but need a job, just come find me. I'll make sure your pay is better, never worse."

"Thanks." Henry shook hands with Old Black, whose build was nearly twice his size, shoulder to shoulder, then patted each other's backs before leaving.

What's interesting about working in Hollywood is that you always make new friends—and constantly say goodbye.

The scent of summer had quietly settled over California. Driving his secondhand Cadillac, Henry had to roll down the window to catch the cool breeze and feel just the right comfort.

He drove north like this all the way.

Though he'd been fired from the production, Henry had stayed in San Diego for nearly a month. And San Diego wasn't far from Los Angeles—about two hours' drive.

Henry wasn't in a hurry. He drove leisurely along the highway.

Being unexpectedly fired hadn't brought him much regret. Next time he met someone trying to steal his food—whether it was Stark or Doom—he'd still hit them without hesitation.

Reviewing his gains from the production, aside from the likely polite compliment from Steven Seagal, several action teams had genuinely extended invitations.

Not just on the last day—they'd contacted him earlier, trying to recruit him.

These action teams seemed more reliable than Qian Ning's crew. Still, Henry politely declined, refusing to join any of them.

Perhaps, after today, these teams' bosses would be glad the guy hadn't agreed—if he had, and Tony Stark took out his anger on them, how would their small frames survive?

Henry indulged in imagining others' thoughts, staging all kinds of little dramas in his mind. He whistled as he drove toward Los Angeles.

Back in Hollywood, he'd head straight to Sallia's Italian restaurant for a good meal.

Henry loved coming here because he didn't know whether the Italian food was Zhengbuzheng, but it was delicious. And every visit let him practice his Italian in different ways.

Like practicing Italian men's pickup techniques with Sallia's husband—and then applying them to Sallia herself. A seemingly magical thing, it really happened inside the restaurant.

The Italian couple didn't mind; they found it amusing. At least when Henry praised Sallia's beauty or cooking, the old man always looked proudly pleased.

One could only say: Henry still had much to learn about Italian romance.

(End of Chapter)