Hoffa felt like he was going to die soon.
Not only was he suffering from the scorching sun during the day, but there were also some subtle and irreversible changes happening to his body.
Under the bright sunshine of London in 1994, he could see some tiny crystals forming on the surface of his skin. Those crystals were growing and spreading little by little. Before long, the knuckles on his right hand became transparent.
Sister Chloe once told him that apart from her, everyone in the spacetime was born. From the moment of birth, everyone's position in space and time was fixed. If they moved without permission, they would create time flares. The longer they stayed in the alternate dimension, the weaker the logic chain that maintained their existence.
The last time, it was only two or three days ago, and he almost died under the pressure of the time flares. The feeling of powerlessness in the face of the law of time was still fresh in his mind.
This time, it was fifty years later.
When the time flare sounded the horn of death once again, Crowley was no longer there. He was alone in a completely unfamiliar land, and he couldn't think of any way to survive.
Go back fifty years? Find Dumbledore? Even Dumbledore couldn't make him go back fifty years. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't make another Arrow of Time in just two days.
What could he do? If he only had two days left to live.
Five years ago, if he was asked what he would do in Harry Potter's world, he would probably say something like hitting on Hermione, beating up the Lord Voldemort, or something like that.
But now, looking at the poster of "Léon: The Killer" in front of him, he only wanted to order a cup of popcorn, a glass of iced cola, and a hamburger. He wanted to sit in the most comfortable position in the cinema and wait for death to come.
He was the most negative transmigrator in history.
Thinking of this, Hoffa actually laughed at himself. This was probably some kind of emotional compensation mechanism. The brain was subconsciously preventing people from collapsing because of too much despair.
Then let's do it.
He stood up in a daze. Ignoring the strange gazes of the people around him, he walked toward the cinema in the distance.
But when he slowly walked to the entrance of the cinema, he found another problem that wasn't really a problem.
He had no money.
His clothes were changed at Miranda's house fifty years ago. Later, they became tattered because of the battle. Even if he had some money in his pocket, it had long been burned.
Of course, he could use magic to cheat some money or make some fake money.
But that was meaningless.
How boring would it be to hurt others before death?
He looked at the exquisite ancient necklace in his hand.. that was the only thing he had. Then he looked at the McDonald's next door and thought that he could exchange it for a glass of iced cola.
So he walked into the shop. But as soon as he entered, he was pushed out by a fat female shop assistant with a pockmarked face. She pointed at the long line in front of the counter and said, "Can't you see we're busy? Go away, we don't have time to entertain homeless people."
Huo Fa, who was pushed out of the glass door, wasn't angry at all. He turned around and asked, "Did you … win World War II?"
...
"Are you crazy?"
The fat woman waved the rag that was used to wipe the table. Lettuce leaves splashed on Hoffa's face. She said in a hostile tone, "Ask your teacher if you have any questions. You look like a high school dropout with nothing to do."
.....
Outside the McDonald's, Hoffa held the necklace and sat on the red fire hydrant on the street in the afternoon. He looked at the passing cars aimlessly. At this moment, the time flare on the back of his hand had expanded to his forearm. From his thumb to his elbow, more than half of it was transparent.
He, who had long been used to the devastation of World War II, was extremely unfamiliar to this lively world that he should have been familiar with.
England was still England. The movies that should have been made were still there. The appliances that should have been invented were still there. Things that should have happened still happened.
Germany didn't win. Even if he was going to die in two days, Germany still didn't win. Grindelwald didn't achieve his goal of making the world feel pain. This meant that his existence was actually insignificant. It was the same whether he was there or not.
"How ironic."
He said calmly, "So I'm nothing."
Whoosh!!
As soon as his voice fell, it was accompanied by the rapid sound of tires rubbing against the ground. A flamboyant yellow Lamborghini Diablo stopped in front of the McDonald's.
It had square eyes, a huge air intake grille, and a long tail. Its butt made a puffing sound as water dripped out.
The pedestrians on the side turned their heads in the direction of the sound. The drivers stared at the wide monster with their eyes wide open with envy. The children jumped up and down and excitedly whispered to each other. The sound from the engine cover interrupted the voices of the people on the street.
Although he was on the verge of death, although Hoffa had just arrived in this era from fifty years ago, he still dug out some information about this car from his dusty memory. Diablo, produced in 1991 … One of the top luxury cars of the nineties.
Bang.
The door opened and a hoarse and cheerful man's voice came from the car. "Dear, you can come down here."
"Eh, where's the shopping trip to Oxford Street?"
The woman said unhappily.
"Aiyaya, today's a bad day. I have to pick up a friend."
"Can't you tell me in advance where I'm going now?"
"Go shopping, go shopping, drink coffee, whatever."
The hoarse man's voice became perfunctory.
"I won't."
The woman said firmly.
"Take it, the password is your birthday."
The man said casually and put something in her hand.
"You remember my birthday!?"
The woman said in surprise.
"Uh … maybe …"
"Hmph, I hate it. I like your indifferent attitude, Trojan!"
Accompanied by a kiss that made passersby envied, there was a hot fragrance. A pair of long legs stepped out of the luxury car and flashed in front of Hoffa.
It was a strange woman wearing sunglasses and carrying a designer bag. She looked around arrogantly. Her jeweled face was almost written with the words "I'm a famous model".
This kind of scene was not strange in London in the future. After the war ended, the economy developed rapidly. Rich people were everywhere. Just like in the 21st century in Shanghai or Beijing, when people saw such a scene, they would probably curse in their hearts, "Damn it," or say something like, "You can really do whatever you want with money." Then, they would unwillingly turn around and leave, blaming God for not giving them a good reincarnation.
Hoffa lowered his head. He didn't care about a sports car or a model. He didn't care about anything because he was going to die.
But the sports car didn't leave. Instead, it stopped in front of him and farted.
The owner of the sports car turned around and shouted to the gray-haired young man sitting on the fire hydrant, "Hey, are you coming in or not?"
Hoffa frowned when he felt a sharp pain in his arm.
Seeing that he didn't respond, the guy driving the sports car honked. The yellow Lamborghini Diablo let out a loud cry.
Hoffa slowly raised his head and saw an old man wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap staring at him through the open gull-wing door. He was wearing a simple white T-shirt and blue jeans. He happily honked and said, "Young man, don't be so negative. Come in and sit."
Hoffa looked at the Lamborghini beside him. The Lamborghini let out an unhappy fart again. Puff, puff.
The old man was helpless. "Who are you looking at? I'm talking to you."
The passers-by all stopped and revealed surprised expressions.
They couldn't possibly associate this guy, who was sitting on a manhole cover and begging, with his tattered clothes, gray hair, and face covered in dust, with the shiny luxury car in front of them.
The female employee who was wiping the table in the burger shop saw the scene outside the window and her jaw almost fell to the ground. She didn't understand why the owner of the rare luxury car would let a homeless man in.
Even the tall model who had walked a few steps away pulled down her glasses in surprise. Her mouth, which was painted with expensive lipstick, turned into an "O" shape.
Hoffa still didn't respond.
The old man in the car was a little helpless. He crawled out from the other side. Under his singlet was a healthy bronzed complexion. He was tall and looked very powerful.
Then, he strode forward, grabbed Hoffa's arm, and dragged him into the car without any explanation.
The Lamborghini's simple chrome interior didn't match its appearance. Hoffa let out a muffled groan. The car was filled with the strong smell of perfume, which made his chest feel stuffy. Before he could react, intense pain surged through his body again.
Subtle cracking sounds could be heard, and he could feel that his chest was rapidly crystallizing. His existence was becoming more and more illogical. His body was quickly disintegrating under the power of the arrow of time.
Bang!
The door of the Lamborghini was closed.
The vehicle roared out in the streets of London.
The acceleration pressed Hoffa against the back of the chair. He turned his head and looked at the old man in a white T-shirt and a baseball cap in the driver's seat. He said in a hoarse voice, "What are you doing?"
"Aren't you going to ask who I am?"
The old man held the steering wheel and asked with a smile.
"Whoever you are has nothing to do with me."
Hoffa said slowly. He looked at his arm.
Through the glass of the car window, his right arm had almost disappeared under the sun. It seemed to be made of glass. Only some faint blood vessels and bone veins could be seen inside.
"Yes, you have some of my pride when I was young."
The old man nodded with a smile. He was very happy.
"Shameless boasting."
Hoffa sneered weakly. He didn't think that an old man who drove a sports car and slept with a young model could be compared with him.
His pride and experience didn't allow anyone to feel that he was very similar to himself. It was just that he was powerless to resist now. He didn't want to refute. He looked like duckweed drifting with the tide.
The time flare was eroding his body. He had entered the countdown of his life.
Creak.
When passing the traffic light, the Lamborghini stopped. The old man pulled down his baseball cap and sunglasses with a smile, revealing short gray hair and a pair of faint golden eyes.
He looked at Hoffa with his hands on the steering wheel and said in Chinese, "Am I really shameless?"
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