Chapter 782: The Deadly Joke (6)

In the end, Bruce still couldn't bring himself to use the kitchen utensils—not because he was cowardly, but because he had just seen a man leaning against the wall, snorting drugs, then tossing a handful of plant roots into the pot.

He didn't demand the food be perfectly clean or hygienic, but at least it shouldn't be poisonous, right?

Downstairs, Bruce decided to scout the area first; it was nearly dusk, the streets still crowded, noisy, and Bruce felt utterly out of place—everyone stared at him with strange eyes.

Bruce knew few people here recognized him; he was more famous in upper circles, where people could afford entertainment magazines and often saw photos of him stumbling out of bars.

But these people could barely afford ordinary newspapers, which rarely carried gossip, and if they didn't read magazines, they likely had no idea what Bruce looked like.

Bruce glanced down at his clothes—he wasn't that foolish; he wasn't wearing branded gear. His outfit was plain, identical to what any Gotham citizen wore on the street.

Bruce thought the problem might be his shoes—he'd rushed here straight from a shareholders' meeting and hadn't had time to change them, and he'd forgotten to take off his watch; maybe that's what made him stand out.

The watch was easy—he could just slip it into his pocket—but if he took off his dress shoes, where would he find another pair to wear?

Bruce observed his surroundings and noticed many people wore boots—this was a sensible choice; Gotham rained constantly, and sturdy rubber boots kept feet from getting soaked.

Bruce was lucky—he spotted a boot shop right around the corner. When he entered, the store was empty. He leaned into the cramped interior and asked, "How much for rain boots?"

The shopkeeper, tallying accounts, looked up and said, "Five dollars, plus two more for an umbrella…"

Bruce raised an eyebrow—not because it was expensive, but because it was too cheap. He reached over, pulled a pair of boots from the display cabinet, inspected them: thick material, solid stitching. He said, "I'll take a pair of boots and an umbrella."

The shopkeeper said, "Put that pair down—that's a display item. Wait."

He disappeared into the back room, returned with another pair of boots and an umbrella, handed them to Bruce. Bruce didn't take them immediately—he studied them, then accepted them, examined them closely, and only then handed over the money.

On the way back, Bruce noticed a hot dog stand by the roadside; he spent two more dollars on one.

Back in his rented room, Bruce immediately swapped his shoes, hid his watch, then opened the hot dog wrapper and took a bite.

The next second, he grimaced—the bread and sausage were fine, but the sauce was overwhelming; it flooded his throat the moment he bit in, nearly making him vomit.

Besides the thick mayonnaise, there was spicy chili sauce, and several slices of pickled jalapeño peppers inside—almost no trace of bread aroma or meat flavor remained; his mouth was filled entirely with sauce.

Bruce forced himself to swallow the hot dog, then rushed to the faucet and drank two gulps of tap water.

Finally, he suppressed the strange spice taste, coughed twice, shook his hands, and leaned against the sink. He thought: maybe he was being too fussy—in the slums, more sauce might actually be a plus.

But soon he realized he was too naive—less than twenty minutes later, his stomach began to ache.

Earlier, the overwhelming sauce had made him thirsty; he'd rushed to the tap for water without thinking—he'd forgotten this wasn't his estate, with its outrageously expensive water purification system. This was Gotham's slums; no one, not even Mendeleev, knew what was in the tap water.

His stomach, accustomed to bland food, couldn't handle the mountain of chili sauce and jalapeños, compounded by tap water that seemed to contain every element on the periodic table. Bruce spent the entire night hunched over the toilet, only feeling slightly better by the small hours, then collapsing onto the bed and passing out.

When he opened his eyes again, it was nearly noon. Bruce had planned to wake early and look for work, but now he faced another problem: what about lunch?

Last night's meal hadn't replenished any energy—it had left him dehydrated. Now he was thirsty and hungry, yet dared not eat or drink anything, terrified of another bout of gastroenteritis from bacteria.

Now he understood what Maggie meant: it was truly hard to survive here if you hadn't grown up here. You needed not just strong will, sharp mind, and immense endurance—but also steel intestines.

Enduring weakness, Bruce decided he had to cook for himself. He planned to buy vegetables, but didn't know where. Fortunately, on his way down, he encountered the Asian woman who had been cooking earlier.

She lived on the third floor. She told Bruce he could go to a nearby street where a vegetable market stood; for meat, he'd have to go farther—to the slaughterhouse next door.

At the place she indicated, Bruce found prices shockingly low—he suspected he'd been overcharged for his boots, umbrella, and hot dog.

For less than a dollar, he could buy enough vegetables for a full meal. The produce wasn't fresh—some even looked like rejects from upscale restaurants—but at least they were edible.

Bruce realized he needed a pot too; no one knew what had been cooked in the communal kitchen's pot before.

He asked the vegetable vendor where to buy a pot. The Black vendor scratched his head and said, "Maybe check the nearby general store?"

A short walk from the vegetable market was a general store selling everything: hardware, household goods, secondhand items, pots, pans, bowls, chopsticks…

Bruce found pots for sale—but they were all secondhand, and clearly stolen—or rather, nearly everything here was stolen.

He spotted the logo of a restaurant he recognized; those dishes hadn't ended up here because the restaurant donated them out of kindness.

Walking through the general store, Bruce felt like he'd stepped into a massive fencing den. He thought: no wonder Selina lived here. No wonder, whenever he failed to catch her red-handed, the stolen goods vanished overnight.

But he had no choice. He knew slums didn't have organic supermarkets. After hours of browsing, he finally picked a frying pan—and for the first time, he tried haggling. He realized he'd been completely ripped off before.

The ordinary frying pan was priced at three dollars; after bargaining, he got it for sixty cents. Bruce left the market carrying an iron pot and a bag of vegetables, his silhouette heavier than Batman's.

He then went to the slaughterhouse and bought some relatively fresh ground beef. Back home, he dared not wash vegetables or scrub the pot with tap water. He filled the pot with water, boiled it, poured it out, scrubbed it thoroughly, boiled another pot of water, let it cool, and used that to wash the vegetables.

By the time everything was prepared, lunchtime had long passed. Bruce, used to eating on schedule, felt his stomach ache.

As he began frying the beef patties, he suffered more—the kitchen's design was terrible. No matter which side of the pot he stood on, he was downwind. No exhaust fan. Grease smoke blasted straight into his face, blinding him.

The stove used a gas cylinder, but the knobs were worn out—he couldn't control the flame at all. A handful of spinach boiled for half an hour and still wasn't tender; potato slices added to the pot were burnt to mush in two minutes.

Bruce had never been good at cooking; just getting food cooked was already beyond his skill. This kind of alchemy-like heat control was impossible for him.

Eating the poorly prepared vegetables made swallowing agony. He spent over an hour on lunch; by the time he finished, the sun had set. While washing the pot and dishes, the setting sun's glare blinded him.

Before this, he'd never thought he was such a delicate person. He believed his willpower was immense—he'd run a kilometer after being shot twice, endured countless pains, and still chosen to return to battle.

Such a great hero had never imagined he'd be defeated by mundane, trivial things.

He never thought he'd shed tears not from wounds left by vicious criminals, but from the ordinary, smoky haze of human life hidden in the twilight.

This bat had plunged to the very bottom of the cliff, only to realize there were no grand battles to fight here. His greatest enemy was the small, trivial, ever-present miseries—the situations that weren't hard, but where one wrong step meant no chance of recovery.

After eating, Bruce sat on the tiny balcony of his living room, listening to the drunken curses from upstairs, the married couple's quarrels below, smelling the stench of garbage trucks, feeling his stomach churn, quietly watching the sunset.

In that moment, he suddenly felt unburdened—something no therapy could achieve.

Here, the death of parents might bring sorrow, but there was no time to grieve—people had to go to work, pay rent, buy groceries, cook, shop, eat, sleep, take out the trash.

Grief, resentment, torment, longing—best compressed into a few days. If someone here brooded for ten years like Batman, they'd starve to death.

Only the bat hanging high in the attic had time to imagine itself a dark avenger. Those standing on the ground simply wondered what they'd eat tomorrow.