Chapter 784: The Deadly Joke (8)

Ten minutes later, Bruce watched Jack, sitting in the passenger seat, wiping his eyes with a tissue, making exaggerated gestures and speaking in a ridiculous tone: "Oh, that joke of yours was hilarious—I haven't laughed this hard in ages!"

"What's so funny?" Bruce asked, staring straight ahead.

Suddenly, Jack leaned close to Bruce, his face nearly touching Bruce's, eyes wide as he asked: "Do you need to eat? Do you get hungry? I still have bread in my car—want some?"

"No, I'm not hungry," Bruce replied, but Jack immediately exposed him, pressing his head near Bruce's stomach: "I heard your stomach growl—you're definitely hungry. Have some bread!"

Jack pulled out the half-eaten bread from his pocket, sniffed loudly, and said: "It's leftover from last night, but it's really good—don't you want some?"

"No," Bruce refused again. Even if he starved to death, he wouldn't eat anything the Joker offered—who knew what kind of bomb he'd stuffed inside?

Jack fell suddenly silent, clutching the half-bread, sitting rigidly in the passenger seat, staring at the congested traffic ahead: "Why didn't you ask me this question sooner? Why didn't you ask me sooner?"

"What question?" Bruce glanced at him.

"How do you eat if you have no money? That's the question you just asked me. You really should've asked me sooner," Jack suddenly changed expression, smoothing his messy hair and rubbing his eyes.

"What's wrong with that question?" Bruce asked again.

"Nothing," Jack shook his head abruptly, as if he no longer wanted to speak. After a moment, he asked: "Have you made any money yet?"

"Not yet," Bruce pressed the accelerator, driving the car a short distance before it stopped again.

Jack fell into an eerie silence, as if he no longer existed. Bruce slowly maneuvered the truck forward, stuck in traffic on the overpass for over an hour, finally nearing the distribution point.

At the distribution point, Bruce noticed: the person here to receive the cargo was a stranger—and he looked hostile.

Bruce picked up the gun he'd just bought. The moment the group saw it, their expressions changed. The bald leader gave a signal to the man behind him; a thin man stepped forward, coldly sneering at Bruce: "New guy, right? You know the rules here?"

In these past days, with Batman's genius and learning ability, he had already figured out the underlying rules. He said nothing, simply chambered a round and raised the gun: "I only know the rules of this."

The bald man finally stepped forward: "Alright, rookie, don't get too worked up. None of us want trouble—we're all here to make money. If you end up in the hospital, you won't earn a cent."

"Which warehouse?" Bruce touched the gun grip again. The thin man replied: "Go to Warehouse 4 and wait in line to unload."

Bruce pointed the gun at him, lightly squeezing the trigger: "Don't try to screw me. Warehouse 4 has the smallest parking spot—you'd need half an hour just to turn around. Send me to Warehouse 8."

"You're pushing it," the thin man raised his voice. "Warehouse 8 is only for the Greene Street Street Crew. You're some backwater trucker from Cross Square—you think you can go to Warehouse 8?"

The bald man added: "New guy, don't think having a gun makes you special. Everyone here has one—we just don't pull ours because we don't want to waste bullets. Here's what we'll do—we'll give you a backdoor entry to Warehouse 5. It's the third largest—"

Bruce remained unmoved: "If you won't let me unload at Warehouse 8, I'll unload right here."

He turned as if to open the cargo door. Only then did the bald man's face darken. He stepped quickly in front of Bruce, blocking him, teeth clenched: "Good kid—who taught you that?"

Seeing his expression, Bruce knew the tactic worked. It was a trick he'd learned yesterday after treating an old trucker from Cross Square to a meal.

The guards at the distribution point weren't afraid of being threatened with a gun—after all, as he'd said, everyone here had one. Their ammo supply was probably larger.

What they feared was this: you park your truck dead center, pile all the cargo at the entrance, blocking every vehicle behind you. With too many trucks jammed in haphazardly, they'd have to clear the mess—and they wouldn't get anything done the rest of the afternoon.

Worse, if a truck carrying valuable goods got stuck, the big crime bosses would demand answers—and everyone would suffer.

Most truckers didn't use this tactic—either they didn't know it, or they feared making too many enemies. But Bruce had no such ties. He had nothing to lose—he was barefoot, unafraid of those in shoes.

The bald man saw this clearly. He lowered his voice: "Let's compromise. Warehouse 7."

"I want Warehouse 8. No deal otherwise," Bruce stared at him. "I've already given ground. Don't think I don't know—Warehouse 8 isn't even the best. Behind the eastern corner of Warehouse 9, there's another one reserved for…."

"Enough," the bald man glanced around. "You know too much. Best keep your mouth shut—otherwise, it won't be good for you."

He waved to the men behind him: "Let him unload at Warehouse 8!"

Bruce picked up his gun and returned to the driver's seat. Jack in the passenger seat clapped loudly: "Excellent job, trucker! Only been working a week, and you've already figured out all the rules!"

Bruce turned the wheel: "A week's too long. I should've figured this out in three days."

Jack lit a cigarette. Bruce frowned: "Don't smoke in my truck."

"Just one," Jack, with practiced ease, stuck his hand out the window and flicked ash. "Learn how to drive a truck in Gotham in three days—then what? What's your next move?"

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but Jack sucked hard on the cigarette: "Then end this stupid 'experience life' act. Go back to Wayne Tower and tell your shareholders: life in the slums isn't so bad."

"You'll tell them: those poor bastards just don't work hard—they deserve to starve."

"Couldn't those beggars on the street just spend three days learning to drive a truck? Since they're so lazy, when they're hungry, they shouldn't beg the rich—they brought it on themselves."

Jack's tone was calm, utterly without anger. He drew the cigarette into his mouth: "Then that night, you'll put on your billion-dollar Batman suit, return to the slums you 'experienced,' and beat the hell out of everyone who gave you trouble."

"You think you've avenged them, fulfilled their long-unrealized dream of beating up those bastards."

"They don't praise you—they print newspapers slandering you. You think they're ungrateful, unworthy of saving."

"Then you stand again atop Wayne Tower, thinking: heroes must bear slander, misunderstanding is your fate. The world kisses you with pain, yet you sing back—never forgetting your innate kindness…"

Smoke drifted slowly away. Jack flicked ash out the window: "Batman—that's why I say the man who dresses as a bat is insane."

"Have you ever considered this society doesn't need you? Everything you do is just self-delusion."

"People are experts at calling anything they don't need garbage. We're both trash thrown out—but only you think you're a hero."

"They see you as trash, yet you see yourself as their savior," Jack turned to Bruce. "Batman, we've always looked down on you—because every move you make says: this society is right."

"But in truth, they're narrow-minded. Anything they don't need, they call garbage."

"Many are thrown out by society. We treat this vile world like a game—enjoying ourselves, laughing loudly."

"Only you, with your sad face, act like the master who threw you out was something kind, something worth hoping for."

Jack tossed the cigarette butt out the window: "Looks ugly—like a dog abandoned by its master."

Bruce turned to Jack: "Have you finished? Don't you have your own truck?"

"You hit the nail on the head," Jack turned to him, smiling. "I used to. Now I don't."

"Why?" Bruce asked again.

"That was the last question."

"What question?"

"How do you eat if you have no money?" Jack shrugged. "How do you buy a truck?"

"What happened to your old truck?" Bruce asked.

"Let me think," Jack tapped his temple, feigning thought. "Was it my first week as a trucker… or second? My truck was set on fire."

"I can't quite remember why—maybe I didn't load the cargo the way the gang wanted, or maybe I didn't bribe the warehouse managers. Anyway, one day, when I stepped out, I saw flames roaring…"

Jack held up a hand before his eyes, waving it: "I saw my brand-new truck burn. That night it rained—but the rain couldn't put out the fire. It turned to ash right before my eyes…"

"At first, I went mad trying to save it. Flames burned off my eyebrows, scalded my face. But then the rain grew heavier…"

As Jack spoke, rain fell, tapping softly on the ground. The crackling of fire echoed in his ears. In the rain-soaked night, the burning truck blazed fiercely.

A shadow stood before the flames, watching them burn, like a traveler who'd exhausted his last strength in a snowstorm.

Strength, time, effort—all drained away in the endless night. He had no more wood to burn. Only the hope of his future remained.

He used the fire to warm himself, hoping not to freeze to death tonight. But he didn't need to survive the night—because tomorrow, there would be no sun.

In the rain, he sat on the ground, staring up at the burning truck. Rain fell on him—not onto the earth, but like a child returning to its mother's arms, vanishing into his body.

Watching the vivid, blazing fire, the traveler danced with joy, genuinely delighted by this final night's revelry.

Amid the rising flames, he laughed—a deafening, mad cackle—piercing Gotham's dark sky.

Because he knew: it was this fire that finally gave him the chance to laugh, to pierce the clouds, to engulf the city.

It was this fire that burned away the mask forged by poverty and suffering, letting him reveal his true smile, perform this great act.

Not like all those wearing masks—gentle, walking quietly into that good night, as society wished: noisy in life, silent in death.