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Let's rewind to Thanksgiving night, after Debbie closed the door.
Frank quickly devoured the food they had put out, disregarding his image.
After eating, the frozen feces and urine on his body made him shiver uncontrollably from the cold.
"Fine!" Frank gritted his teeth, but dared not raise his voice too much.
"Fine, you guys are really something."
He pressed against the front door, listening to the movement inside.
He originally wanted to be thick-skinned and go back in, at least to take a shower and change out of the jacket that reeked of shit.
But when he pushed, he found the door chain was locked tight by someone.
He didn't dare bang on the door loudly, let alone make a scene; the sound of the electric pig prod's zap still lingered in his mind.
Frank's muscle memory was more honest than his brain; he turned around and left directly.
Otherwise, what else could he do? If Shane came back and saw him, it wouldn't be a shower, but another South Side electrotherapy package.
But he was prepared.
He walked to an empty house he had been observing for two days; even on Thanksgiving, no lights were on.
He had originally planned to go home for a delicious meal tonight and then come to this house to scavenge, but now he could only move in early.
He pried open the lock, took a hot shower after entering, picked out some fitting clothes from the closet to change into, and collapsed directly onto the bed, falling into a deep sleep.
But the next day he overslept. Perhaps the beating last night exhausted his energy. He didn't wake up until the sound of a car engine and a door opening.
This sound scared Frank out of his wits. He had to jump out of the back window of the bedroom in a hurry and flee quickly.
But now, he didn't dare go home, and the owner of the new safe house came back too fast.
Frank went to find an old homeless buddy nearby who was a bit mentally unstable.
That homeless man lived in a shack made of plastic sheets and broken wooden boards. Seeing Frank walk over, he started giggling foolishly: "Fufu, you're here again?"
Frank squeezed directly into his smelly little shack, sat on the ground, and started reviewing the situation.
He urgently needed a listener to affirm his twisted thoughts, even if the listener was mentally challenged.
"You know what? My sons, my own flesh and blood, I provided them with food and clothing, and he actually shocked me with a taser!"
The homeless man's eyes were unfocused, muttering: "Electric—buzz buzz—pain, very painful—"
"You don't understand!" Frank got emotional.
"They united against me. Fiona wanted to dump me as a burden long ago. That kid Lip has always been jealous of my intelligence. As for Shane, that little Asian bastard, his blood is cold to the bone!"
Frank started waving his arms, attacking imaginary enemies.
"I was beaten stupid, shocked into confusion. Did those words I said count? That was torture to extract a confession, a violation of human rights!"
The homeless man didn't know what he was saying, just getting excited along with him, yelling gibberish.
Frank crawled out of the shack directly, stood in the small alley, and spoke loudly to the air: "I gave them life, that's an ironclad fact! Even if I said something, so what? Where in the world do children not owe their parents? I just asked for a little return, is that wrong?"
"They used despicable means to persecute their own father. This is not only the shame of the Gallagher family but also the epitome of the moral decline of the entire South Side!"
His speech had only this foolish homeless man as an audience.
Some figures passing by occasionally either quickened their pace to leave or glanced at him from a distance.
...No one cared.
After saying all this, Frank crawled back into the shack.
He put his arm around the homeless man's shoulder, his voice aggrieved.
"Sigh, my brother, although you don't understand me, that's the truth—"
Just when Frank thought life would be like this for a while, two nights later, when he and the homeless man were sharing new glue, the homeless man suddenly fell straight to the ground, twitched a few times, and stopped moving.
Frank was stunned, pushed him: "Hey, my little heart, don't scare me."
No reaction.
He lowered his head to listen to his heartbeat, then checked his eyelids: "Oh, my brother, looks like the dosage this time was too generous for you."
But there was no sadness on Frank's face, only the pity of wasted resources.
He rummaged through the small shack again, wanting to find the homeless man's remaining change.
"Rest in peace, brother."
But not long after, reality was placed in front of him again:
The money he stole was almost used up. This homeless man didn't have much money either. He couldn't go home; it wouldn't be worth it if Shane beat him up again.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up, remembering a bar on the edge of the South Side that was rumored to be very generous.
Gathered there were some groups not yet so accepted by the mainstream.
In Frank's superficial understanding, those people were often very lonely, eager for companionship, and willing to spend money.
Frank knew where he could stay for the next few days.
He stood up, walked out of the small shack, and walked to a shop window.
"Survival often requires a new identity."
Facing his reflection in the window, he began to adjust the expression on his face.
He tried hard to squeeze out a sensitive and broken demeanor...
Before long, he arrived outside the bar.
Frank didn't go in directly, afraid of meeting acquaintances. He went straight around to the back alley and started waiting.
For him, the target needed careful screening:
Too strong? Pass. It wouldn't be wonderful if forced. Too vigilant? Pass. Not easy to succeed.
Ideally, those who were older, looked weak, and were easily moved by stories were his targets.
Before long, the first target walked by. Frank went up directly.
"Sorry sir, I'm a bit lost, can you—"
But the other party ignored him and walked straight past.
"Alright." Frank wasn't too disappointed. After all, failure is the mother of success.
Soon, the second target appeared. Frank stepped forward again.
"Oh, sir, this city is too cold. Not just the weather, but also human hearts. My family discovered my secret and kicked me out—"
Frank started trembling appropriately, inadvertently revealing some bruises on his neck (made by Shane).
The man wanted to say something, but his eyes dimmed, and he walked away quickly.
"Fck." Frank cursed inwardly.
...Unknown how many targets later, Frank walked up, repeating his spiel.
But this time, Frank detected hesitation in the other party's eyes.
There's a chance! Just need to add a little leverage.
Frank retreated to advance.
"I only ask to use your bathroom, just once. I've been kicked out by my family for several days."
As he spoke, he exposed the bruises, his voice choking.
This man was named Clive, a middle-aged accountant.
Looking at the miserable kind in front of him, his heart softened.
"OK, but you have to leave after using the bathroom."
"Of course, of course, God bless you, sir!" Frank nodded hurriedly.
.
Entering Clive's somewhat tidy apartment, Frank went straight into the bathroom.
Upon entering, he had already assessed the new host's financial situation (good, but not wealthy) and personality weaknesses (inner desire for recognition, but very lonely).
Before long, he finished showering and walked out with a bathrobe wrapped around his upper body.
He clearly saw the look in Clive's eyes wanting to see him off but reluctant to part, and immediately started his performance.
"Oh, this piece of pottery of yours shows real taste."
He pointed to a piece of pottery on the shelf that looked ordinary but was placed right in the center.
"This reminds me of my unfulfilled artistic dream, because—because my family, they—"
Frank added body tremors as he spoke, squeezing out two tears.
And at this moment, the belt of his bathrobe "accidentally" loosened a bit, revealing more scars on his body.
Clive's breathing paused. He couldn't help stepping forward to hug Frank.
While hugging, Clive started kissing Frank's body, wanting to offer further comfort.
Frank's face changed suddenly.
He raised his hand to press his temple: "Oh, god, my head hurts from being beaten by my son. Or maybe it's because I haven't eaten for too long and was blown by the wind..."
As he spoke, Frank's body swayed.
Clive quickly supported him and helped him to the sofa: "You rest first, I'll get you something to eat."
Frank covered his head, opening his eyes a crack, watching Clive's busy figure for him, revealing a smile.
In the following days, after Clive went to work during the day, he would help clean up (rummage for change and valuable things).
In the evening, he would make a dinner that didn't taste very good, then say, "This is the taste of home."
He would patiently listen to Clive's troubles, then comfort him (filtering out information about payday or valuables), and share his miserable past (elaborately fabricated stories).
But he stuck to his bottom line!
Whenever Clive wanted to go beyond the roommate relationship, Frank would find ways to delay.
"Clive, you make me feel safe, but the wound in my heart, the pain of being betrayed by loved ones, hasn't healed yet. Can you give me a little more time?"
Every time, Frank would postpone Clive's expectations while making him deepen his investment.
Now, Frank lay on this sofa in Clive's home, downing a mouthful of whisky bought with stolen money.
"See, Frank Gallagher can always find a way out."
He raised a toast to the air.
"Look at this Clive. I'm helping him, really, giving him a chance to play the savior. As for those little awkwardnesses—"
"Ha, as long as you don't catch the ball, no one can call you out."
Alcohol made him feel a bit light-headed.
He sighed comfortably, temporarily forgetting the shame of the beating, immersed in his own wisdom.