Chapter 253: The Origin of Disaster

"Let me introduce someone." Constantine patted the middle-aged man on the shoulder and said to Ma Ma Zhaodi, "One of my old friends, in fact, I'd say my best friend, Chase."

The man extended his hand and shook Ma Ma Zhaodi's hand: "Hello."

"And this is uh, what was your name again?"

Constantine only realized at this moment that, up until now, he knew absolutely nothing about this newcomer.

"Ma Ma Zhaodi, an occult enthusiast, currently unemployed, you can call me Old Ma."

Constantine raised an eyebrow; an unemployed man who spoke American English, yet could spend so lavishly?

There was something off about this man, but since he was the employer and the deposit had already arrived, Constantine didn't want to ask too many questions for now.

If this teammate really had some issues, the worst that could happen was selling him off to save his own skin.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, He forced me, He forced me..."

On the sofa, Lester, still in a state of panic, kept repeating these words; his mental state at that moment was extremely dire, and Constantine could basically get nothing out of him.

Chase looked at the puddle of slime on the sofa and asked, "Where the hell did you find this guy?"

"In the bathtub, believe it or not?" Constantine sneered, "I thought it was a giant spider crawling out of the pipes."

"Let me reintroduce myself: Gary Lester, he used to be my friend, then we had a little problem in Jodi, England—and then we went our separate ways."

Constantine signaled for Chase to start doing what he was supposed to do, then lit another cigarette: "The last time I heard from him was in Morocco; I heard he was writing some book, probably just some whining—drugs, alcohol, boys, strange fates, and such things; anyway, he ruined himself enough, luckily he didn't self-harm, or he'd have a whole life story to tell."

"Didn't you also hang out with bands?" Chase replied casually, "Rock, rebellion, individuality, and such things."

"I didn't do it to make excuses for indulging and destroying myself."

At this moment, Ma Ma Zhaodi watched as Chase fiddled with the things he brought, finally drawing them into a syringe, and immediately understood what Constantine meant by "getting a real fix"; he shook his head, then patted Chase on the shoulder.

"Forget it, flush that thing down the toilet; I'll help him calm down."

"Hey, hey!" Constantine, who was flipping through The Sun nearby, spoke up: "This guy is pitiful enough already; we need to get something out of him, at least let him relax first; that's not some kind of torture drug—wait, are you Singaporean?"

"I'm Chinese," Ma Ma Zhaodi said, "You should know our views on this stuff."

"Alright, alright, my friend, you need to know one thing: when in Rome, do as the Romans do—this is London, England; you can't control every drug addict, and you paid me to find out the truth, remember? Sometimes, for something more important, we have to make a small sacrifice."

At this moment, Lester on the sofa saw the syringe in Chase's hand and immediately became like someone lost in the desert seeing water; he let out a pleading sound.

"Give me that thing, Constantine, please, stop torturing me! Give it to me!"

"You see, even if you stop him today, in a few days he'll go buy that thing himself anyway."

"That's his business." Ma Ma Zhaodi reached into his pocket and took out two candies, then removed the detachable hood from his coat: "But I won't consent to injecting him; I choose a different method."

Constantine watched as he threw the two candies in his hand into Lester's mouth. Strangely, in the next second, Lester's shriveled body and sunken, skin-and-bone parts suddenly became full; the heavy dark circles on his face, the red blood vessels all over his eyes, the pale sickly complexion on his cheeks, the needle marks on his arms, along with the marks from being bitten, all disappeared rapidly.

Ma Ma Zhaodi then placed the hood on the other person's head; similarly, in the next moment, Lester's eyes changed from confused and terrified to calm and rational.

Actually, Ma Ma Zhaodi could have chosen to use ten thousand dollars to restore him; the effects of the two methods were the same, but he didn't want to do that because it would be a sheer waste—the addict before him was already critically ill; not only had his body developed a physiological addiction, but his mind was completely dependent on that thing; his probability of relapsing was one hundred percent.

Chase, standing nearby, seeing Lester's condition, couldn't help but let out a long sigh; he picked up that bag of stuff and turned to walk toward the bathroom.

And Ma Ma Zhaodi turned his head to signal to Constantine, whose eyes were deep: This guy has calmed down; now it's your turn to ask.

So Constantine came before Lester; at this moment, his mind was filled with what had just happened; this new employer didn't seem to be a simple "occult enthusiast"; ordinary enthusiasts didn't have such unheard-of candies, and that hat capable of instantly restoring rationality was even more unheard of.

He had been in the same room with him for so long, yet he completely failed to realize that the hat was a magical artifact; it didn't seem to be the type of magic he was familiar with.

"Gus" (a special nickname he and Lester used for each other as friends). He began to ask, "I was originally going to use some hypnosis, but you look very calm now; I suppose I don't need to tie you up, right?"

"No need, Constantine." Lester was now completely calm; he stretched his body on the sofa; at this very moment, although he still really wanted to take drugs, he could temporarily restrain that impulse because he knew there was something more important to do right now.

"That happened when I was in Tangier, Morocco; it was that incident that caused me to become like this..."

Tangier was very hot, extremely hot.

Lester, wearing sunglasses, walked along the streets of the old city; his short-sleeved shirt was already more than half soaked with sweat; the scorching heat waves kept surging into his throat, almost suffocating him; the air was distorted and deformed by the baking sunlight.

Yet the people here all wore headscarves and long robes; the merchants in the city had long been accustomed to this weather, shouting loudly as they sold their goods along the street; a beggar with a broken leg huddled in the shady corner of an alley, weakly begging for food; children wearing hats ran around the street, pulling at passing guests and asking if they wanted to buy boys or girls.

Twenty dirhams each, four pounds, five dollars, forty renminbi.

A very cheap price.

But Lester ignored the crowd around him; at this very moment, he felt extremely uncomfortable; his addiction had struck again.

He wanted to get some drugs in the city, but he was penniless.

(End of this chapter)