Chapter 788: The Deadly Joke (Twelve)

Bruce left, and perhaps because of the gun in his hand, the big man didn't follow him.

Driving that nearly falling-apart truck, biting into tasteless bread, Bruce felt surprisingly light—having no money was better than owing debt; at least now, the consequence of being broke was only hunger, whereas owing the mob high-interest loans would've been a real nightmare.

He deeply realized he was no longer the Batman who could conquer heaven and earth; his current state was terrible—he had never been this humiliated in his life.

Days of constant hunger had drained his energy; he'd lost at least ten pounds, his cold had improved, but his throat still ached, seemingly turned into bronchitis, and his stomach still couldn't adapt to the local food—he kept getting diarrhea.

Under these conditions, Bruce couldn't fight with those strong mob members, because he couldn't accept the consequence of losing to them.

When he was Batman, if he'd lost to mob members—like when he first became Batman, when lime had been thrown in his eyes and he'd fallen from the cage roof into a trash bin—the consequence was simply returning bruised to Wayne Manor, cleaning his expensive suit, bandaging his wounds, checking his eyes, putting in eye drops, then going upstairs to rest.

But now, if he got beaten by mob members and fell off a rooftop, never mind the risk of broken bones or ruptured organs, even just a sprained hand or foot would be unacceptable—he wouldn't be able to drive.

No driving meant no income; no income meant no food; no food meant further weakness; greater weakness meant easier to bully; easier to bully meant more injuries; more injuries meant even less income…

Bruce was beginning to understand why the foreman had said no one who entered the canning district ever got out.

Because once you stepped into this river of poverty, there was no way to swim upstream—everything could only slide irreversibly into an abyss, until one day, you fell off the waterfall and shattered into pieces.

Fortunately, over the next few days, Bruce's luck held—he lived a stable few days, saved a few dozen dollars, and made some friends among the truck drivers.

He gradually learned the rhythms of this world, finally managed to make a living, and then one of the veteran truckers approached him, inviting him out for fun this weekend.

Previously, Bruce had joined other truckers for activities, but most of their outings were just going to a good barbecue joint or splitting earnings from group jobs.

Bruce only wanted to focus on earning money and had no interest in fun, but this veteran driver was the leader of another small group that had access to transporting fresh produce outside the city—transporting fresh goods was far more profitable than hauling ordinary cargo. After thinking it over, Bruce decided to go along, hoping to meet people from the outlying farms.

The veteran took Bruce to a nightclub. Bruce no longer had the means to substitute ginger juice for beer, so he drank some—but fortunately, his alcohol tolerance was better than average, so he didn't feel drunk.

After several rounds of drinks and dishes, the main event began: several women leaned against them. Bruce, smelling their overpowering cheap perfume, felt like vomiting.

Everyone else was having a great time, but Bruce, whose spending had plummeted like a cliff, couldn't even fake a smile.

These women, not even compared to glamorous courtesans, were less refined than the most ordinary waitress at the restaurants Bruce usually frequented.

Bruce pretended to be drunk, went to the bathroom, and vomited violently. The women didn't like hanging around with young guys like him—they knew he had no money; the older truckers, though rough, at least spent generously.

Other young men, like Bruce, were making advances, enjoying the attention, even willing to buy drinks for these women.

Bruce feigned severe gastroenteritis and left. A while later, he saw them all heading into the alley behind the club, each taking a woman, then climbing into their trucks.

Bruce returned alone, feeling no regret—only a sense of having narrowly escaped death. He felt that if he breathed the same air as them for another second, he'd get sick.

The next morning, the veteran, refreshed and cheerful, found Bruce again, regretful he hadn't let him enjoy himself the night before, and invited him out again tonight. Bruce wanted to refuse, but then learned the leader of his own small group would be there too—he had no choice but to go.

Fortunately, there were no women this time. After a few rounds of drinks, the tables were cleared and cards were dealt.

Two played against each other, while over a dozen others placed bets. When the atmosphere heated up, bills earned through a full day's hard labor were casually tossed onto the table—if you tried to pick them up again, everyone would sneer, and the boss's glare would outshine any lightbulb.

Bruce just watched, not playing, and soon drew resentment—but instead of just betting from the sidelines, he sat down and played himself.

No bugs, no cameras, no X-ray vision—Bruce's superior intellect let him memorize every card, track the flow of hands and remaining cards. Overall, he won more than he lost, but after each game, everyone shouted for him to buy dinner.

The next day, he lost more than he won, and was pressured to win back his losses. For the first time, Bruce felt that leisure time after work wasn't so precious—he'd rather drive at night.

To avoid this annoying social pressure, Bruce decided to work overtime at night—night shifts paid more, but were harder to drive.

Night driving made you sleepy, especially in the first few days before adjusting to the time difference. Other truckers all smoked marijuana to stay awake; Bruce refused completely—and then he crashed.

Fortunately, the crash was minor—a light bump. There were no police, no insurance; responsibility was determined by who had more bullets in their gun. The other driver had cut the corner and knew he was at fault; seeing Bruce's young face and strong build, they agreed: each go home, fix their own truck.

Other damage was negligible, but one headlight was broken. At night, high beams were essential. Bruce found a repair shop, haggled for two hours, and finally got a brand-new headlight—not a used one—the cost: all his savings were gone again.

Why was saving money so hard? Bruce kept pondering the reason.

He didn't know if he was just unlucky or if his methods were flawed—wasn't he adapting fast enough?

Three days of steady work, a week of food secured, half a month of being recognized in the industry—now nearly a month had passed, and his only achievement, besides still being penniless, was that he was still alive.

Bruce had no reference point—he didn't know if his situation was normal. He wanted to ask someone he trusted, but looked around—there was no one he could trust.

Then he realized the most trustworthy person in this circle was the Joker.

From his observations, Bruce concluded the Joker was one of the better-off truckers—he bought bread that cost twice as much as his own, not to mention he actually ate fried chicken.

This was the first time Batman had sought out the Joker—not to lock him up, but to see if the madman was doing better than him.

The result was a crushing disappointment—the Joker was doing incredibly well.

Bruce found Joker leaning against the repair shop door, smoking. Bruce's first reaction wasn't to stop him—he looked at what kind of cigarette he was smoking. He saw Joker was smoking a twenty-cent pack of good cigarettes. Bruce turned to leave.

Joker spotted him, smoking, and said: "Well, well—if it isn't our top performer? You've been eating poorly lately. Did your Bat-mom forget to feed you?"

Joker squatted down by the curb. Bruce squatted beside him.

Joker offered him a cigarette. Bruce didn't take it—not because he refused to smoke, but because he didn't even have a match.

He couldn't possibly lean over and ask Joker to light it—Joker was clumsy enough that if his hand slipped, he might ignite the several kilograms of explosives on Bruce's body, and then they'd both be dead.

"Didn't you ever imagine you'd one day sit calmly beside me on the sidewalk, chatting?" Joker exhaled smoke. "And now you're jealous—jealous I'm doing better than you, richer than you."

"You're dreaming," Bruce said, staring at the street. "I'm not jealous. I'm poor now only because I haven't worked long enough. If I had your experience, I'd be just as rich."

"If your useless pride could buy money, you wouldn't be sleeping in your truck." Joker sneered. "You know what? I don't even want to make bombs anymore. I don't want to make this problem harder—because even this simple one, you still can't solve."

"I'll find the answer someday," Bruce said, gripping his knees. "Right here. On them. When I find it, Batman will return—and I'll put you in prison."

"Doesn't that sound like a blessing?" Joker said. "A blessing that I don't have to work, yet get three meals a day, zero risk of starvation, and even get to spend taxpayers' money."

Bruce stood up, leaning against a nearby utility pole. He didn't refute Joker—because he realized Joker was goddamn right. His life now was worse than being in prison.

Joker hugged his knees, chin resting on his arms.

"I don't need to fight you anymore. You've chosen a harder opponent—one stronger and crazier than me."

"The only thing in this world I admit is crazier than me… is reality."

"Batman, I even want to help you. Only when you crawl out of your cradle will you understand what true despair in this world really is."

The last thing Bruce saw, leaning against the pole, was the Joker's limping silhouette disappearing into the sunset—he didn't ignite explosives, didn't laugh madly—but he did something even crazier—

He left Batman one hundred dollars—enough to rent a room.