Chapter 8: Thrilling and Exciting Bus Ride

Is something uncomfortable?

Damn, how can you even ask me that?

You've only lived in Gotham for a year, and now you have no concept of normal life anymore?

Ma Zhaodi had a thousand complaints in his heart but didn't know where to start, so he finally subconsciously fixed his gaze on the gun Drake was holding.

Seeing his look, Drake laughed with a hint of false modesty: "I originally wanted to give you my gun, but then I remembered Old Jack seemed to be having a clearance day today, so I just went and asked. You're lucky; he still had one barely used Glock 17 left. Buying it with 9mm bullets and a magazine together only costs three hundred dollars."

"Wait, clearance? Glock 17? Is the driver's side hustle an arms dealer?"

"Don't worry, plenty of people in Gotham buy these. But since the quality is a gamble, they're too light, and they're all used by cops, many people sell Glocks they got from the police station, which sometimes gets folks into trouble. But this one is definitely fine; Old Jack wouldn't screw me over."

While they talked, several large men with tattooed arms boarded the bus.

Ma Zhaodi clumsily took the gun into his hand, and Drake thoughtfully stuffed the remaining magazines into his coat pocket.

He subconsciously glanced at the driver again, only to see two or three people already lining up beside him. The old man held the steering wheel casually with one hand, occasionally turning his head to chat a few words, while his right hand pulled out gun after gun to hand to passengers handing over cash.

Damn, he even did a one-handed drift through an intersection.

"By the way, I haven't even asked yet." Ma Zhaodi, as if waking from a dream, looked at the windshield that was there only for show: "Why doesn't the bus have glass?"

Several leather-jacketed thugs who looked like gang members walked in through the door.

"It originally did, but after it got smashed a dozen times, the owner stopped wanting to fix it."

"A dozen times?"

"Ah, well, since this bus departs from the East End, minor scuffles happen from time to time."

"Wait, wait."

Ma Zhaodi held his head and thought for a long while: "Are you saying we live in the East End?"

Several women dressed in revealing, flamboyant outfits boarded the bus, giggling.

Ma Zhaodi's comic book reading volume wasn't impressive. Unlike certain die-hard Batman or DC fans or lore experts who could recite major events, character relationships, organizational structures and origins, regions, and institution names like the back of their hand, he did have some impression of the East End.

Gaining a good reputation is difficult, but achieving infamy is very simple; the East End of Gotham City is exactly such a place.

As the world's capital of crime, the land of deepest darkness, a dangerous city built on crime and gangs, Gotham's name is known to every household in America, and the East End is the most notorious district in Gotham.

As Gotham's least developed area, the East End is filled with poverty, crime, prostitution, drugs, and weapons trafficking. Beggars, gangs, criminals, prostitutes, addicts, enforcers, and arms dealers are seen everywhere. The most famous alley here was originally called Park Row, where Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne were shot and killed. Because of that shooting, the alley was renamed Crime Alley.

If you don't know who those two are, just remember that the Wayne family is one of the four founding families of Gotham.

"Yeah, otherwise where do you think I'd live? Diamond District?"

"..."

Several addicts who looked pale and listless swayed from the front door to the seats at the back of the bus.

Watching them take their seats in the back, Ma Zhaodi felt a surge of sorrow. No wonder so many dragons and phoenixes were flooding onto the bus all along the way. Now the composition of people on the bus was quite mixed, like putting sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal, and shrapnel into a tin shell and sealing it up.

You can't say it will definitely explode, but you know that once it meets fire, it really might. Now Ma Zhaodi could only pray that Drake was reliable enough not to let him run into a tin explosive shell that would meet fire.

"Screech—Bang!"

The high-speed bus driver suddenly slammed on the brakes. Just as everyone on board was about to be thrown about, the braking bus crashed heavily into another bus that had pulled into the lane from the side, turning everyone into rolling gourds.

"Damn it! You damn dog, can't you drive?! Driving this fast in the East End, do you want to go to hell early to meet your damn ****?!"

"You idiot, call me one more damn time and I'll shove a gun barrel up your ****! Get the hell out of my ****!"

The driver of the bus on the other side was a middle-aged Black man. As soon as Old Jack first initiated a voice communication request, he responded immediately with enthusiasm no less than Old Jack's and with the fluent rapping of a famous West Coast rapper. The intensity of their exchange grew hotter and hotter, yet the street strangely did not fall into congestion. Clearly, the residents of Gotham City had developed sufficient driving skills and psychological resilience in their daily lives.

Of course, there was also the mental preparation to abandon morality and prioritize solving survival problems.

To put it simply, Old Jack and the Black man started trading insults, but the other Gotham citizens passing by were already used to it; they pressed down on the solid line and sped out against the flow of traffic.

No choice. In modern society, everyone is busy; cars, horses, and mail are all urgent. An ordinary citizen might only manage to sell a few dozen grams of goods, take on six or seven customers, or handle three or four corpses in a single morning.

After all, one has to live.

"You little bastard!" As the verbal exchange grew more intense, Old Jack's emotions became more agitated, his speech rate faster and faster, with even a few spittle droplets splashing onto his beard: "I'll show you right now how to reason in Gotham!"

Immediately, he pulled a black-barreled shotgun from under his seat.

"Bang!"

"Holy crap, it really met fire!"

Ma Zhaodi's face was full of despair. He trembled and hugged the pistol in his arms tightly. Although he had only just gotten it ten-odd minutes ago, it was clear that from the moment Old Jack fired, this gun had become one of the good brothers he would live and die with in his heart.

However, the people around him remained calm, having already pulled out their guns long ago. Even Drake patted his shoulder: "It's fine. We'll get off first and find a safe place to hide. Old Jack will keep driving after he's done shooting. You'll make it to work on time."

Damn, what does "keep driving after he's done shooting" mean?

(End of this chapter)