Chapter 1132

Shiler strode into Jonathan's room, his expression stern as he looked at Jonathan and said: "The nurse said you've been having violent outbursts again, with a tendency to hurt people—what's going on? Didn't they already get you a newspaper subscription?"

Jonathan was pacing back and forth in the center of the room, clearly very agitated. As Shiler took a step closer, Jonathan became wary, but upon recognizing Shiler, he relaxed slightly and said: "I've had enough!

"Some country bumpkin from who-knows-where backwater dares to provoke me?! Just wait—I'll make him realize sooner or later that his little bit of three-legged cat kung fu is nothing in my eyes!"

"And then what happened?" Shiler asked, looking at him.

Jonathan snapped: "Last night, some idiot calling himself Professor V called me, claiming he's the world's best chemist, insisting he'll prove to me that the path of pharmaceutical chemistry is a dead end, and saying I'm just the most common kind of mediocrity you'd find on the street!"

Shiler blinked, then said: "Professor V—who's that?"

"Who knows? He's never even been in the newspaper, surely hasn't done anything substantial! That's why I said he's a country bumpkin from some backwater who's never read a newspaper, yet dares to spout such nonsense—it's laughable!"

"You said he hasn't even been in the newspaper—why bother with him? Besides, he only dares to call, not even show his face—just all talk and no action."

Jonathan let out a cold snort: "Nowadays, any Tom, Dick, or Harry dares to call himself a professor! No way—I'll see what gives him the right to be so arrogant? Give me a discharge certificate—I'm going to confront him!"

"No, your mental state is unstable right now—if you go out and get provoked again, it'll ruin the hospital's reputation."

"Alright, I know—you're just worried I'll go cause trouble for Batman, aren't you?" Jonathan rolled his eyes: "Relax, this time my target isn't your prized disciple—I have no interest in him now—but I must make that provocative fool pay the price!"

Seeing Jonathan's frenzied state, Shiler sighed, grabbed the medical chart from beside him, and began writing while advising: "Looks like if I don't discharge you, you'll just break out."

"But we need to set three rules: you settle your personal grudges, but you won't go poisoning the whole city, right? My office's water purification system isn't even installed yet..."

Jonathan sneered contemptuously: "Who does he think he is? How important does he think he is to make me go to war over him?"

"Alright, alright—I know you're the best chemist around." Shiler said placatingly, tearing the paper as he spoke and handing it to Jonathan, then adding: "I've heard quite a few people who've been in the newspaper have entered Gotham lately—you'd better watch out."

Jonathan took the discharge slip Shiler gave him, walked toward the door, and said disdainfully: "It's them you should be watching."

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After seeing Jonathan off, Shiler let out a breath of relief, returned to his office, and had just sat down when he heard a loud "Boom!"

Shiler instinctively turned to look out the window—only to see a massive mushroom cloud rising over Gotham's skyline. From the direction, it appeared to be the Wayne Chemical Plant.

Less than half an hour later, Gordon dragged Jack the Clown to Arkham Asylum, threw him to the ground, and said: "Thanks to broccoli—the chemical plant's grounds have been destroyed, work can't proceed. This madman didn't blow up any employees—he just flattened the chemical plant."

Jack lay on the ground, unmoving, until after Gordon left, then he sprang up with a grin, looked at Shiler, and said: "You know? I did something—heaven—big—good!"

Before Shiler could ask, Jack started stomping his feet and cursing again. From his fragmented mutterings, Shiler finally figured out what was going on—the whole thing had to start with the broccoli invasion of Gotham.

A giant broccoli growing in the city would definitely destroy the ground, and since all buildings are built on the ground, once the ground is destroyed, many buildings become unsafe and must be repaired.

But repairing houses requires building materials, which require heavy trucks to transport them. Recently, truck drivers have been nearly worked to death—basically working several nights without sleep, taking jobs nonstop. Jack is no exception.

Ever since his little bat hurt his heart last time, Jack decided to give him the silent treatment. He believes Batman will be terribly lonely without him—maybe even hiding under the covers crying.

And Jack? He sees this as a chance to make a fortune. When Batman comes back to the slums, Jack will use cash to bury him alive.

Just thinking about that day coming fills Jack with energy—but last night, while he was driving his night route, he suddenly hit something.

As many know, night truck drivers almost always speed—Jack is especially extreme in this regard: not only overloaded, but also speeding. Not only speeding, but he drives his heavy truck like it's preparing for liftoff—a spaceship. The only difference from a rocket? He doesn't need a countdown.

In such conditions, hitting something is often fatal. Jack's truck was already a bit rundown, and unfortunately, what he hit had solid mass—it got sucked under the wheels and jammed the tire, leaving the truck immobile on the spot.

Jack got out and looked—his anger flared even more. He'd hit a person, but technically, not quite a person, because it was a mannequin made of spliced human limbs. The limb parts themselves had little strength, but the connectors were abnormally tough, warping the hubs of Jack's truck wheels.

Jack's temper can't be called mild or polite—it's more like he explodes at the slightest provocation.

Originally, night runs were urgent jobs—rushed, high-paying. Now the truck's broken: not only is the cargo undelivered, but he might offend the client. Jack stews: the more he thinks about holding back, the angrier he gets; the more he thinks about backing down, the more he feels he's losing out.

He dragged the mannequin out from under the wheel, reassembled the limbs that had been nearly ground into meat paste, and inspected the welded joints of the connectors.

Then he concluded: making such horror mannequins must take a long time—meaning their creator must have a dedicated base to store all kinds of spare parts.

After dawn, Jack called a tow truck to haul away his truck, but when he returned to the truck drivers' base, he heard that many night drivers had hit similar mannequins—at least seven or eight such incidents in one night.

Following the locations the truck drivers mentioned, Jack inspected all the mannequins and found they shared a trait: the limbs were highly decayed, nearly unusable.

Jack realized this was probably some kind of ritual—the creators deliberately dumped these mannequins on public roads so speeding trucks would crush the worthless ones into meat paste, just like free junk disposal.

He also noticed that among all the limbs, the freshest were the heads—meaning these mannequins were conscious and aware before being crushed.

But the connectors on their legs had been removed, leaving them unable to flee—only able to watch helplessly as a speeding truck bore down on them, get sucked under the wheels, and hear their own skulls being crushed.

Without a doubt, this is the killer's twisted amusement. Jack can imagine the creators promising their creations: "Work hard, and you'll get your original bodies back." But after serving their masters their whole lives, they end up hung on truck wheel hubs—dead, not even leaving scraps.

After analyzing the crash sites and the decay levels of all the bodies, Jack quickly deduced the mannequin maker's base: none other than the infamous Wayne Chemical Plant.

This made Jack furious beyond words—how dare they pick a chemical plant with "Wayne" in the name as their base? It's a shameless invasion! Batman still owes him a hundred bucks, and Jack doesn't even have a single Wayne-named building as his base!

"So you took explosives and blew the Wayne Chemical Plant flat?" Shiler looked at Jack and asked. Jack rubbed his nose hard, clearly displeased: "Poor me—those explosives were my hard-earned results, originally meant for my good friend Batman!"

"That damn fool, tasteless madman! He wasted all my good stuff!"

Jack resumed muttering curses under his breath.

Shiler let out a faint sigh and asked: "Did you kill him?"

"How would I know?" Jack snapped, then added, twisting his mouth: "Whether he's dead or not, his creations are surely ruined—but honestly, this probably hurts him more than killing him would."

Suddenly, Jack calmed down, speaking in a low, slow tone: "I know exactly what kind of people these lunatics are—these self-proclaimed artists are actually talentless fools who obsess over their worthless little collections."

"They enjoy manipulating others' fates—once an artwork is made, they script a dramatic destiny for it: when born, when died, how died..."

"For similar artworks, they demand identical death times and methods—they won't allow their meticulously crafted creations to fail their destined fate."

"And now, a massive blast has blown them all to heaven—'Boom'—a lifetime's work gone in an instant!" Jack's face twisted into a cruel smile as he murmured:

"The mannequin made of delicate female limbs, and the one made of rough dockworker limbs—all mixed together, indistinguishable now... Just thinking about it makes one sad. If their masters saw this, they might cry from rage—hahahahaha!"

Shiler stared silently at Jack—clearly, Jack is the kind of serial killer who excels at torturing other serial killers, and his murders go straight to the heart.

Shiler placed Jack in the room Jonathan had originally occupied—a special observation room where doctors and nurses can respond instantly if anything happens.

Afterward, Shiler went to help check on the still-uncured mad citizens. He worked all day, and that night it was unusually quiet—Jack took his medicine obediently and fell asleep early. Shiler thought he could finally relax.

But just as he'd drifted off to sleep for less than two hours, he heard a loud "Bang!" from upstairs, followed immediately by the sound of glass shattering everywhere.

Shiler stumbled up from bed in a daze—huhu—pushed open the window, looked up, and saw a huge figure with a crocodile head and crocodile tail leap onto the balcony, wielding two cleavers, roaring furiously inside.

"You damn bastard!

! You blew up the chemical plant! Cost me my job! I'm going to kill you!