Driven by desperation, unemployed American workers embarked on a journey to aid Africa. They had no choice—without jobs, they risked becoming homeless, a fate far worse than relocating to Guinea, a place they saw as a backwater. Some romanticized U.S. homelessness as "free-spirited," but the reality was grim. Around 12,000 homeless Americans vanished yearly—some dead in forgotten corners, others on cold operating tables, their organs harvested to extend the lives of the wealthy. The homeless were livestock for the elite, used for blood, organs, or twisted desires, and as lab rats for drugs, viruses, or weapons. No one cared if they disappeared.
But Guinea surprised them. Though poor, it had solid infrastructure—electricity, gas, water—and cheap food and housing. Most importantly, opportunities abounded. Factories were rising fast, and jobs were plentiful. There was work, bread, even education—teachers hired from Europe, the U.S. at high salaries, rivaling America's "happy education" if not its elite systems. Few workers could afford the latter anyway.
Some considered bringing their families. Others wrote to stubborn ex-colleagues: Forget pride—come to Guinea. There's bread, milk, work.
Obama, thanks to Martin's plan, earned widespread praise among workers—a happy accident.
…
By late March 2009, Inception wrapped filming. Before diving into editing, Martin took a break. Driving from the studio to his Beverly Hills estate, he called his Australian sweetheart, Nicole Kidman. Since leaving Australia, their calls hadn't stopped. As a Incubus, Martin's obsession with lineage ran deeper than human instinct.
While chatting and driving, Martin trailed a truck carrying live pigs. The animals, caged in the back, grunted as if sensing their doom. Contrary to the phrase "dumb as a pig," pigs were smarter than cats or dogs. One hefty hog patiently nudged its cage's latch with its snout, persisting until it popped open. The pig shoved the door aside and leapt off the truck, charging toward Martin's car.
"Holy shit!" Martin slammed the brakes, pulling over.
The pig swerved, bolting into the roadside wilderness.
"What happened?" Nicole asked, hearing the screeching brakes.
"Nothing, love. You won't believe this—a pig just ran at my car. Gotta go check it out."
"A pig? In L.A.? They have wild boars now?"
Martin hung up, stepping out. The truck driver, noticing his "cargo" escaping, stopped and jumped out, chasing the pig while yelling, "Damn it, stop! Come back, you fucking pig bastard!"
Martin doubled over laughing. The driver, passing him, snapped, "Sir, if you're stopping, can't you help?"
Her tone was sharp but earnest. Martin realized she was a woman—and a striking one. He recognized her from his other soul memories: Lauren Findley, the future American fitness goddess, the "Diamond Doll." Now, in 2009, she was a chubby young woman, yet to embrace fitness. Her face already hinted at her future beauty, though her chubbiness—especially her jiggling cheeks as she ran—obscured it.
Born in 1991 to rancher parents, Lauren was an only child, often driving trucks to haul goods. Martin's memories included her Wikipedia entry and a 2013 YouTube fitness video where she, in tight workout gear, pushed her body to the limit—undeniably captivating.
Before 22, Lauren cared little for fitness, visiting the gym sporadically in high school for casual jogging. She lived on junk food, unconcerned with health. At 22, after being mocked as "Piggy" during a failed romantic confession, she snapped awake. Fresh from college, with her family's wealth freeing her from job-hunting, she studied fitness online and began training.
Her discipline was remarkable. She quit junk food, stuck to grueling workouts, and two years later transformed into a "goddess," stunning her former critic. It was a real-life Cinderella story—yesterday you ignored me, today I'm untouchable. By 2015, at 24, she competed in the NPC Gold Classic, gaining experience despite not winning. In 2016, she dominated the NPC New Jersey Fitness Competition, claiming her first championship.
For now, Piggy was still Piggy, panting as she chased her escaped hog.