Chapter 786: The Deadly Joke (10)

A cold, the most common yet deeply annoying illness, is something nearly everyone in this world has experienced, yet despite its ubiquity, there remains no instantly effective cure.

If you go to the hospital with a cold, the doctor will always tell you four words: "Get plenty of rest." In truth, those four words work better than any cold medicine—no drug can match the power of your own immunity.

In today's fast-paced modern life, few people take time off just because they have a cold; most grit their teeth, speak with hoarse voices and clogged noses, and trudge to work anyway. But unquestionably, this seemingly harmless illness makes working people suffer terribly.

Coughing and runny nose are the mildest symptoms; headache and weakness are the most deadly. Yet no matter what, people living in modern cities can return home after work to a warm bed, pull thick blankets over themselves, and sleep soundly. If it worsens, they can go to the hospital for an IV drip—worst case, they stay two days in the hospital.

But what does Bruce have now?

He has only a rusted tin can—windproof? No. Rainproof? No. It's so shabby even as a coffin it would make you weep.

Forget cold medicine—he can't even start a fire. No bed. No blanket. No food.

Bruce knows he must leave this icy shallow shore. He can already feel his fingers and toes losing sensation.

Last night, he'd planned to build a fire, but after a full day's labor he was utterly exhausted. It's no surprise he fell asleep under such harsh conditions—fatigue had lowered his resistance, leaving him vulnerable to chills.

But now Bruce has no time for injections or pills. At eight this morning, he must drive to the gang's warehouse to pick up cargo. If he's late, he won't get paid tonight—he'll have to wait until tomorrow, meaning he'll have no money for food today.

Bruce had no choice but to drag his weary body out of the tin-can district, climb into his truck, and head to the gang's territory to collect the goods.

But during the haul, he realized all his prior sufferings had erupted at once.

The chill itself weakens the digestive system. Earlier, Bruce had drunk unclean water and developed mild gastroenteritis. For the past few days, his trucking work kept him too busy to boil water; just finding a faucet to drink from was a luxury. He ate whatever he could scavenge.

Someone who'd never drunk raw water has a gut hypersensitive to unboiled water. Someone who'd never eaten spicy, greasy food has a gut that rejects it. Add to that the cold-induced spleen-stomach coldness, and by noon today, after eating a loaf of bread with two sausages and gulping down a cup of cold water, Bruce ran to the back of the truck and vomited violently.

Many know vomiting differs from diarrhea: diarrhea leaves you weak for a short time afterward, but as long as you have energy, you recover quickly—once the stomach ache stops, you can move normally.

But vomiting, though it doesn't immediately drain your strength, brings persistent side effects: stomach pain, dizziness, nausea, cold sweats—all clinging to you. The pain isn't as sharp as intestinal cramps, but it lasts longer, and the intervals between flare-ups are shorter.

After emptying his stomach, Bruce felt slightly better. But as soon as he climbed back into the truck, his stomach churned again—a faint, creeping nausea rose, making him want to hunch over.

Bruce, who'd studied plenty of medical knowledge, knew his gastroenteritis had worsened. But even if he wanted to quit now, how would he get back to Wayne Manor?

More importantly, how could he explain to Alfred why he'd spent days like a madman wandering the slums and ended up sick?

In real life, unless there's profit to be gained, no wealthy person would willingly immerse themselves in the lives of the underclass to experience hardship. Doing this requires immense willpower—far greater than they imagine.

Batman never lacks willpower. The more he suffers, the more he believes this is merely the tip of the iceberg. He understands that his former privileged life and intelligence far above average had given him a head start most people never had.

At least, after catching a chill, suffering from gastroenteritis with vomiting and diarrhea, working a full day, sleeping without shelter, without fire, frozen through the night—he can still move freely.

The expensive gym equipment wasn't bought in vain. The rare nutritional supplements, unattainable even for most rich people, weren't eaten in vain. Yet even so, all of it is being slowly worn away—like the icy wind high above, stripping the downy feathers from this fledgling bat just out of its nest.

Bruce didn't return to the tin-can district. Staying there was worse than staying in the truck. Today's work earned him some money, but he had no idea where to buy food suitable for gastroenteritis.

Bruce realized he needed to find a doctor. But after driving around the East End for so long, he hadn't found a single pharmacy.

Things were growing worse. Bruce knew he had to find a way to turn this around. So he stopped a newsboy delivering papers.

These kids were relatively easy to talk to. Give them a little money, and they'd point you in the right direction. When Bruce first didn't know the streets, they'd helped him immensely.

The newsboy looked young, with a round face—a sign in Gotham that he was a capable child. Only those who'd lived long enough and earned enough money ate well enough to keep their baby fat from vanishing from hunger.

Bruce's lips trembled. His hands shook. His steps were sluggish—mostly from cold and weakness, partly from stomach pain.

Bruce gave the newsboy ten cents. The round-faced boy sized him up, then snapped his fingers. "Oh, I know what you're looking for. Come on—I'll take you there!"

Bruce followed the boy down a secluded alley. He wasn't afraid the boy would trick him—he carried a long rifle and plenty of ammunition. That was his only source of confidence now.

After winding through alleys, descending a cellar stair, then climbing back up, they finally reached a basement. Before even stepping inside, Bruce smelled something horrific.

At first, it smelled like strong smoke. On closer sniff, it carried the scent of sesame oil in food—but far greasier. Merely breathing it made his nasal passages feel greased over. Then, at the finish, it carried the reek of vomit.

Bruce knew exactly what this smell was. Every time he captured Constantine, his expensive Batsuit would soak up this odor—and then he'd throw it in the trash.

He turned to leave, but an old man blocked him. "Hey, it's rare for a kid to bring customers here. What's wrong with you? Tell me."

"No, I didn't come here." Bruce insisted on leaving, but the old man wouldn't let him go. "I can tell you're in pain. You've run out of supply, haven't you?"

"That's normal. The Twelve Families have been cracking down lately—no cargo allowed on trucks. If your usual supplier shut down, come to me. I guarantee no one sells better goods."

"Try this." The old man shoved a joint into Bruce's hand. "Just rolled it myself. Fresh. Don't worry, kid—one puff, and the pain vanishes."

Bruce took a deep breath, stared at the joint, then turned to the old man. "Do you know you're harming people? Do you know this stuff is actually…"

"What?" The old man looked confused. He scratched his head. "It's marijuana, isn't it?"

He sized Bruce up again. "Oh, you're a college student, right? I get it. I get it. You're not used to smoking joints. Wait a sec…"

The old man walked back to the counter by the basement door, opened a box of cigars, and pointed inside. "I told you—nowhere else will you find goods like mine. You came to the right place, kid."

"These are leftover low-grade cigars smuggled by the Lawrence family. I unrolled them, re-rolled the tobacco, packed in plenty of additives. You won't find this quality anywhere else."

"Did you bring a cigar cutter? If not, I can lend you one. Or you can buy one here. It's not as professional as those guillotine-style ones, but it'll cut ordinary stuff fine."

Bruce pushed the box away. "No. I didn't come here. I need to find a doctor."

The old man stared at him in surprise. "I'm the doctor. Where else would you go?"

"You're a doctor?!"

Bruce raised his voice. "Then why are you pushing drugs?!"

"Drugs?" The old man seemed unfamiliar with the word. He chuckled. "We don't call it that here. This is our medicine. Top-notch pain relief. Try it—you'll see."

He pushed the box toward Bruce again. "No matter where it hurts, one cigar, and you'll sleep peacefully."

"You're insane," Bruce said. "This stuff is addictive. Too much causes memory loss, limb spasms, even seizures. Long-term use leads to infertility. Overdose can cause shock—or death."

The old man took the box back, looked at Bruce. "Yes, marijuana joints can cause shock or death. But what about the pain?"

He walked to the basement door, opened it. Bruce saw a pile of people sprawled haphazardly inside—some with joints, some with hookahs, some with pipes. Smoke curled thickly through the room. That horrific stench made Bruce instinctively step back two paces.

"Why do you think they come here?" the old man asked. "Do you think they're rich and bored, just spending money on my goods?"

"I don't serve people looking for fun. If you smoke one a day, go to the nightclub next door—they'll roll cigarettes for you with beauties. This is a hospital. No illness? Don't come."

The old man spoke with deadly seriousness—so serious it made Bruce feel absurd. "You call this a hospital?? Do you even know what you're saying??"

"Of course. If you're not sick, you wouldn't come. This one… we call him Old Bristle…" The old man pointed to a man with a thick beard. "He's got lung trouble—maybe infection, maybe cancer. He coughs so hard and it hurts so much, he came here for treatment."

"This one, Little Pinat—he fell off scaffolding a while back, broke his bones. Couldn't afford surgery, but he couldn't sleep from the pain at night. So he stayed here two days. Now he sleeps soundly."

"And this one—we call her East Street Widow. Her son died from a cold after getting soaked in the rain. She cried for days, couldn't bear it. Came here for medicine. Now she's much better. She can even work during the day."

The old man returned, looked at Bruce, and smiled—a face carved with deep wrinkles. "I see your symptoms aren't severe, and you're young. Two cigars a day for a week—you'll be fine."

Bruce stared at him blankly. "Are all your doctors like this? You prescribe drugs as medicine?"

The old man turned, placed the box back on the table. "I can tell you're not from here. If you just want to try something new, leave now."

Bruce looked at him, puzzled by his sudden shift in tone. But the old man stared back, offering a stiff, awkward smile—smiling, yet looking like he was crying.

Bruce didn't know if the man had cried. But he'd never seen a Gothamite shed tears.

Finally, the old man said:

"This is the only medicine we can find. It lets us die a little more comfortably. If you have another place to go, leave quickly."

"If you truly have nowhere else to go, I advise you—get well first. Otherwise, your fate will be worse."