Chapter 783: Deadly Joke (Part Ten) (Patreon)

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Cold, a common yet annoying illness that nearly everyone in the world has experienced. Despite its prevalence, there isn't any immediate and effective treatment for this ailment.

If you catch a cold and visit the hospital, the doctor will likely prescribe two words: "Rest well." Surprisingly, these two words work better than any cold medicine; nothing compares to the power of one's own immune system.

In the fast-paced modern life, few people take sick leave for a cold. Most would go to work with a hoarse voice and a stuffy nose, enduring the discomfort. However, even though it's not a severe illness, it can make the daily life of individuals at work quite miserable.

Coughing and a runny nose are just mild symptoms; the most fatal ones are headaches and weakness. However, in the urban hustle and bustle, after work, there is a warm bed to lie on, covered with a thick blanket for a good night's sleep. If it gets serious, a visit to the hospital or spending a night there is always an option.

But what about Bruce now?

He only has a tin can, no wind protection, no rain cover — a makeshift coffin that could make someone want to cry.

Forget about cold medicine; he can't even start a fire now. No bed to lie on, no blanket, and no food.

Bruce knows he must leave this cold shallow area; he can feel his fingers and toes losing sensation.

Last night, he intended to start a fire, but after a day of exhausting work, he fell asleep in such harsh conditions. It's not surprising to catch a chill due to fatigue-induced lowered resistance.

But now, Bruce doesn't have time for injections or medication. At eight in the morning, he needs to drive to Gang's warehouse to haul cargo. If he's late, he won't settle the accounts tonight; he'll have to wait until tomorrow. That means he won't have money for food today.

Dragging his weary body, Bruce leaves the canned area, drives his truck to Gang's territory to transport goods.

However, during the transportation, he realizes that all the hardships he endured before are erupting at once.

Wind chill weakens the stomach and intestines. Bruce had previously drunk unclean water, contracting a mild gastroenteritis. In these past few days, due to the busy truck work, he couldn't find time to boil water and settled for any available water source. People who have never drunk untreated water are sensitive to it. Similarly, those who haven't eaten spicy or oily foods are not accustomed to them. Added to the stomach and spleen deficiency brought by wind chill, at noon that day, after eating a bread roll with two sausages and a glass of cold water, Bruce rushed to the back of the truck and vomited.

Many people know that vomiting and diarrhea are different. Diarrhea causes additional weakness for a short period after, but as long as there's energy left in the body, recovery is quick once the stomach stops hurting. Vomiting, on the other hand, may not cause immediate weakness, but the side effects like stomach pain, dizziness, nausea, and cold sweats persist and the stomach pain is not as acute as intestinal pain but lasts longer, with shorter intervals between recurring episodes.

After emptying his stomach, Bruce feels a bit better, but as soon as he sits in the truck, the feeling of gastric fluid churning returns, making him want to bend down.

Bruce, who understands quite a bit of medical knowledge, knows his gastroenteritis has worsened. But even if he wants to give up now, figuring out how to return to Wayne Manor is a problem. More importantly, how would he explain to Alfred why he went to the slums like a madman for several days and ended up with an illness?

In real life, unless there's an interest involved, no millionaire would willingly immerse themselves in the life of the lower class to experience it. It requires strong willpower, even stronger than they imagine.

Batman never lacked willpower. The more uncomfortable he feels, the more he realizes that what he's going through might just be the tip of the iceberg because he understands that his previously dominant life and intelligence far exceeding normal people have elevated him far above.

At least, even after catching a cold from the wind chill, vomiting from gastroenteritis, being tired all day without a house, fire, and spending a freezing night, he can still move freely.

The expensive fitness equipment and rare nutritional supplements that ordinary people can't afford are gradually wearing away, just like the cold wind in the vast sky, polishing the down on the young bat that had just left the nest.

Bruce doesn't return to the canned area because staying there is worse than staying in the truck. He earned some money from today's work, but he doesn't know where to buy food suitable for gastroenteritis.

Bruce feels he needs to find a place for medical treatment, but after driving around East District for so long, he hasn't found a pharmacy.

The situation is getting worse, and Bruce knows he has to find a way to turn things around. So he stops a newspaper boy on his way to deliver something.

These kids are relatively easy to talk to. As long as you give them some money, they will show you the way. Bruce was unfamiliar with the roads at first, and they helped him a lot.

The newspaper boy looks young with a round face, a sign in Gotham that he's quite capable for a child. Only those who have lived long enough and earned enough money can eat well, and the baby fat on his face won't disappear from hunger.

Bruce's lips tremble, his hands shake, and his steps are unsteady, mainly due to the cold, weakness, and stomach pain.

Bruce gives the newspaper boy ten cents, and the round-faced boy pats him on the back, realizing, "Oh, I know what you're looking for. Come, follow me, and I'll take you there!"

Bruce follows the group, heading into a secluded alley. He's not afraid that this newspaper boy will deceive him because he's carrying a long spear and has plenty of bullets. It's his only source of confidence now.

Navigating through numerous twists and turns in the narrow alley, descending a cellar, then climbing back up, they finally arrived at an underground basement. Before even entering, Bruce caught a whiff of a horrendous odor...

At first, it seemed like a strong smell of cigarettes, but upon closer inspection, there was a hint of the fragrant oil used in cooking, even oilier than that. Just smelling it made his nasal passages feel coated in oil, and by the end note, a nauseating sensation lingered.

Bruce knew too well what this smell was. Every time he apprehended Constantine, his expensive bat suit would absorb this scent, only to be discarded into the trash afterward.

He turned to leave, but an elderly man immediately intercepted him, saying, "Hey, rarely do little chicks lead guests here. What's wrong? Spit it out."

"No, I didn't come here for this," Bruce asserted firmly. However, the old man kept pestering him, saying, "I can tell you're in great discomfort. Is it because the regular supply has dried up recently? Twelve Families have been inspecting rigorously, not allowing any goods on the trucks. If the place you usually go to has closed down, you can come to me. I guarantee no one has better goods than mine."

"Try this." The old man handed Bruce a rolled cigarette, saying, "I just rolled it. Fresh guaranteed. Don't worry, kid. Just take a puff, and your pain will vanish."

Bruce took a deep breath, looking at the rolled cigarette and then at the old man, asking, "Do you know what you're doing? Do you know what this actually is?"

"What is it?" The old man seemed puzzled, scratching his head, saying, "Isn't it just ***?"

He glanced at Bruce and continued, "Oh, you're a big student, right? I get it, I get it. You're not used to directly smoking rolled cigarettes. Wait a moment..."

Saying this, the old man walked back to the counter near the entrance of the basement. From the cabinet, he took out a box of cigars, opened it, pointed inside, and said to Bruce, "I told you, no one else will have goods as good as mine. You've come to the right place, kid."

"These are the leftovers from the Lawrence Family's cigar smuggling. I disassembled them, then rolled the leaves into cigarettes again. I used plenty of filling. You won't find this kind of quality on the market."

"Do you have a cigar cutter? If you don't have one, I can lend you. But you can also buy one from me. Although it's not as professional as their guillotine-style cutters, it works for ordinary goods."

Bruce pushed away the box in his hand, saying, "No, I didn't come here for this. I need to find a doctor."

The old man looked surprised, "I am the doctor. Where else do you want to go?"

"You're a doctor?!" Bruce raised his voice. "And yet, you're peddling drugs to people?!"

"Drugs?" The old man seemed unfamiliar with the term. He smiled and said, "We don't usually call it that. This is medicine in our place. Top-notch pain relief. Try it, and you'll know."

The old man handed the box back to Bruce, saying, "No matter where it hurts, just take one, and you'll be able to sleep peacefully."

"You're crazy," Bruce said. "This stuff is addictive. Overuse causes memory loss, limb convulsions, and even triggers epilepsy. Long-term use can lead to infertility. If the dosage is too high, it may result in shock or death."

The old man took the box back, looking at Bruce, and said, "Yes, smoking *** cigarettes can lead to shock or death. But won't the pain go away?"

Saying this, the old man walked to the door of the basement, opened it, and Bruce saw a pile of people lying in various positions inside, holding rolled cigarettes, water cigarette guns, and cigarette pipes. The room was filled with cigarette smoke, and the dreadful smell made Bruce unconsciously take two steps back.

"Why do you think they come here?" the old man said. "They can't just be rich and have nowhere to spend their money, right?"

"I don't entertain people looking for fun here. If you smoke one a day, you might as well go to the nightclub next door. They even have beauties to roll cigarettes for you. This is a hospital here. Don't come looking for me if you're not sick."

The old man said it seriously, so seriously that Bruce felt absurd. "Is this really a hospital?" Bruce exclaimed. "Do you even know what you're talking about?"

"Of course, if you're not sick, you won't come here. This... we call him Old Yak." The old man pointed to a bearded man lying in the room. "He probably has some lung issues, um... possibly an infection or cancer because he coughs a lot and it hurts. That's why he came to me for treatment."

"And this, Little Pinat, fell off a scaffold some time ago. His bones were broken, and he didn't have the money to get them fixed. But he couldn't sleep at night because of the pain, so he stayed with me for two days, and he's fine now. Sleeps soundly lately."

"And this one, we call her Widow from East Street. Her son died from an infection after getting soaked in the rain. She cried for days and couldn't get better, so she came to me for some medicine. Now she's much better and can go out to work during the day."

The old man walked back, looking at Bruce. A smile appeared on his wrinkled face, and he said, "I see, your symptoms aren't severe, and you're quite young. Smoke two a day, and I guarantee you'll feel better in a week."

Bruce stared at him in bewilderment, "Is this how doctors operate here? Do you prescribe drugs as medicine?"

The old man turned and placed the box back on the table, saying, "I can tell you're not from here. If you just want to try something new, you better leave."

Bruce looked at him, unsure why his attitude had taken a 180-degree turn. However, the old man looked at him, revealing a somewhat awkward smile. Although he was smiling, it looked like he was crying.

Bruce didn't know if he actually cried, but he had never seen tears from the people of Gotham.

Finally, the old man said, "This is the only medicine we can find. Let us die a bit more comfortably. If you have somewhere else to go, leave as soon as possible."

"If you really have nowhere else to go, I advise you to get your illness treated first. Otherwise, the outcome will only be worse."

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Next Chapter>>Chapter 784: Deadly Joke (Part 11)