Chapter 779: Deadly Joke (Part 6) (Patreon)

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In the end, Bruce couldn't muster the courage to use the kitchen utensils here. It wasn't that he was timid, but moments ago, he witnessed someone leaning nearby indulging in drugs and even tossing plant roots into a pot.

He didn't demand pristine and sanitary dishes, but at the very least, they shouldn't be toxic, right?

Descending to the ground floor, Bruce decided to survey the terrain. As dusk approached, the streets were still quite crowded. It felt noisy, and Bruce sensed his conspicuousness, with everyone casting strange glances his way.

Bruce knew that not many people here knew him. He was more renowned in the upper circles, visible in entertainment magazines, often depicted emerging from bars.

However, the people here could afford only ordinary newspapers, rarely featuring gossip. If they didn't read those magazines, they probably didn't know what Bruce looked like.

Bruce glanced at his clothes. He wasn't foolish enough to wear designer labels here. The clothes he wore were unbranded, not much different from what the average Gotham citizen wore during peaceful times.

Bruce thought the issue might lie with his shoes. He had just rushed from the Shareholders' meeting, and there was no time to change his leather shoes. He also forgot to remove his watch. Perhaps that's what made him stand out.

Removing the watch was easy; he stashed it in his pocket. But if he took off his leather shoes, where would he find another pair to wear?

Observing the surroundings, Bruce noticed many people wearing boots. That seemed like a good choice, considering Gotham's frequent rain. A sturdy pair of rubber boots would keep his feet dry.

Bruce was fortunate; he spotted a boot store at the street corner. There weren't many people inside when he entered. He leaned into the somewhat enclosed storefront and asked, "How much for rain boots?"

The shopkeeper, busy calculating, glanced up and said, "5 dollars, and for an extra 2 dollars, you get an umbrella."

Bruce raised an eyebrow not because he found it expensive but because it seemed too cheap. He reached over, grabbed a pair of boots from a nearby cabinet, inspected them, and then said, "Give me a pair of boots and an umbrella too."

The shopkeeper said, "Put down the pair you're holding; that's a display model. Wait a moment."

He went into the back room and returned with a pair of boots and an umbrella, handing them to Bruce. Bruce didn't take them immediately; instead, he scrutinized them. After confirming their quality, he handed the money to the shopkeeper.

On his way back, Bruce noticed a small hotdog stand. He spent an additional two dollars on a hotdog.

Back in the rented room, Bruce immediately changed his shoes, safely stowed his watch, and then unwrapped the hotdog. The next moment, he furrowed his brows; the bread and sausage were fine, but there was an excess of condiments. As he bit into it, the sauces flooded into his throat, nearly causing him to gag.

Apart from the rich mayonnaise, there was also spicy chili pepper sauce, and the hotdog was loaded with several slices of tangy pickles. There was barely any aroma from the bread or the meat; all he tasted was the overwhelming flavor of condiments.

Bruce endured the discomfort, finishing the hotdog, then went to the tap to drink a couple of sips of tap water.

Finally suppressing the peculiar spice, Bruce coughed twice forcefully. Shaking his head, leaning against the sink, he thought maybe he was being too finicky. In the slums, having plenty of condiments might be considered an advantage.

But soon, he realized he was too young because not even 20 minutes later, he started experiencing stomach pain.

Earlier, he had rushed to the tap to drink water, forgetting that this wasn't his Manor. There was no expensive and terrifying water purification system here; this was Gotham Slums, and he had no idea what was in the tap water.

Accustomed to bland food, his stomach couldn't handle the abundance of chili pepper sauce and chili pepper rings, coupled with tap water resembling the periodic table of elements. Bruce spent the night in the toilet, only feeling slightly better in the late hours, lying down and falling asleep with a sigh.

When Bruce opened his eyes again, it was already close to noon. Bruce initially planned to start job hunting early, but now he faced another problem: lunch.

Yesterday's dinner didn't provide any energy, leaving him somewhat dehydrated. Now he was thirsty and hungry, yet afraid to eat or drink anything, fearing another bout of gastrointestinal issues due to bacterial problems.

Now he understood what Maggie meant. People not raised here truly struggled to survive. Besides having a strong will, a flexible mind, and robust endurance, one also needed an iron stomach.

Enduring weakness, Bruce felt he had to cook for himself. He decided to buy groceries but didn't know where. Fortunately, during his descent, he encountered the Asian woman from before, who was cooking.

This woman lived on the third floor. She informed Bruce that he could go to a nearby street with a vegetable supermarket. If he wanted meat, he had to go further to the adjacent slaughterhouse.

Following the woman's directions, Bruce found that the prices here were surprisingly low. The boots, umbrella, and hotdog he bought earlier might have been overpriced.

For less than a dollar, he could buy enough vegetables for a satisfying meal. Though not very fresh, some even seemed like rejects from high-end restaurants, but at least they were edible.

Bruce felt he needed to buy a pot because who knew what the communal kitchen pot had cooked before.

He asked a vegetable vendor where he could buy a pot. The African American vendor scratched his head and suggested, "How about checking the nearby grocery market?"

Not far from the vegetable supermarket, there was a general market selling hardware, daily necessities, second-hand goods, pots, and pans.

Bruce spotted a familiar restaurant logo, realizing the dishes and utensils here weren't donated by that restaurant out of goodwill.

Walking through the market felt like entering a large fencing site. He thought, no wonder Selena lived here. No wonder every time he didn't capture Selena on the spot, the stolen goods disappeared overnight.

But he had no choice. He knew slums wouldn't have an organic supermarket. After browsing, Bruce finally settled on a frying pan. He even attempted to haggle and realized he had been taken advantage of before.

The ordinary frying pan was priced at 3 dollars, and after negotiating, he got it down to 60 cents. With a handful of vegetables, Bruce left the market, feeling even heavier than Batman's cape as he walked away.

Later, he went to the slaughterhouse and bought some relatively fresh minced beef. Back at his place, Bruce dared not use tap water to wash the vegetables or even to clean the pan. He filled the pan with water, placed it on the stove, boiled it, poured it out, scrubbed it carefully, and then boiled another pot of water to cool and wash the vegetables.

By the time he finished preparing everything, it was already past lunchtime. Bruce, accustomed to eating on time, felt his stomach ache.

Starting to fry the beef patties made Bruce even more uncomfortable. The kitchen's design was questionable, and regardless of where Bruce stood around the stove, he was always downwind. Without a hood, the cooking oil continuously splashed onto his face, making it hard to keep his eyes open.

The stove used a gas cylinder, but the control knob was worn out. It was impossible to regulate the flame properly. A handful of spinach stewed for half an hour and still wasn't tender, while potato slices turned into a burnt mess in two minutes.

Bruce was never good at cooking. Being able to cook the vegetables was already a testament to his extraordinary talent. However, this kind of cooking, closer to mysticism, was beyond his control.

Eating these poorly prepared vegetables was even harder for him to swallow. It took over an hour for him to finish his lunch. The sun had already set, and he was still washing the pan and dishes. The lingering sunset glare stung his eyes.

Before this, he had never thought of himself as such a finicky person. He believed he had a very strong will. He could run a kilometer even after being shot twice and had endured countless pains, still willing to step onto the battlefield.

This great hero had never considered being defeated by trivial matters of life. He never thought he would shed tears not for the wounds left by ruthless criminals but for the daily struggles hidden in the twilight.

This bat plunged to the bottom of the cliff, only to realize there were no grand battles to fight here. His biggest enemy to face was the myriad inconveniences that were not difficult to overcome but left no room for recovery if missteps were taken.

After finishing his meal, Bruce sat on the small balcony of the living room, listening to the drunken shouts from above, the quarrels of the couple downstairs, smelling the stench brought by the garbage truck on the street. He felt the surge of gastric fluid and quietly watched a sunset in this place.

At that moment, he suddenly felt relieved. It was an effect that no psychological treatment could achieve.

Because here, the loss of parents might be sad, but they didn't have much time to grieve. They had to work, pay rent, buy groceries, cook, go to the market, eat, sleep, take out the trash.

Sadness, grievances, entanglements, nostalgia—all these emotions were better compressed into a few days. If, like Batman, one kept entangling for ten years, they might starve to death.

Only the bat hanging high on the loft had the luxury to imagine himself as a dark avenger in the night. The humans standing on the ground just wanted to figure out what to eat tomorrow.

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