Chapter 801: The Deadly Joke (25)

After the midday heat passed, Schiller and Bruce arrived at the express warehouse.

The work here was simple: the clerk's job was to record every item upon unloading and affix labels, while Bruce, as a laborer, was responsible for moving goods from one place to another.

Their work locations weren't identical—Bruce spent most of his time outdoors, while Schiller spent most indoors—but there was overlap: when Bruce brought items inside, he could see Schiller recording near the shelves.

This relieved Bruce of one worry, because he was deeply concerned Schiller, out of his sight, would create too many job opportunities.

All afternoon, Bruce worked diligently, and he confirmed Schiller had done nothing suspicious—only moving between shelves, carefully recording every item.

For some reason, Bruce felt a sense of relief: five full hours of Schiller behaving normally. But soon, he realized he had celebrated too soon.

By the time shift ended, dusk was falling. Bruce headed straight for the warehouse exit, but Schiller called him back: "Come on, let's collect today's pay."

Bruce frowned. "Pay? Didn't we already get settled?"

"Did we? You mean those few dollars? Please—we worked four full hours. Do you think that's worth our labor?"

A bad premonition struck Bruce. He hurried after Schiller, weaving through alleys until they reached the base of the warehouse's outer wall—where the same man who had hired them earlier was waiting.

Schiller walked up, glanced around, and said: "I've moved the goods. Is the vehicle ready?"

"Relax," the recruiter said, giving a thumbs-up. "The laborers handling the cargo are taken care of. The buyer's lined up. The truck's outside. As agreed—sixty-forty split…"

Schiller nodded, said nothing more, and gestured to Bruce: "Come on. Move the goods."

On the way to the truck, Bruce gritted his teeth: "You did this just to steal…"

"I told you—opportunities favor the prepared." Schiller circled the truck's front, stepped behind the recruiter, and wrapped his arm around his neck.

Before Bruce could react, Schiller jammed the truck key into the recruiter's windpipe. The whole process took less than three seconds.

Schiller released him, dropped the body, opened the truck door, climbed in, turned to Bruce, and said: "If you stay here, you'll be the prime suspect when the body's found."

"You damn murderer!" Bruce stared at Schiller, breathing heavily. He could barely tolerate Schiller's earlier actions—but watching him kill right before his eyes? Unforgivable.

Schiller didn't even look at him. He pulled a pistol from his side, pointed the barrel at Bruce, and said: "Get in. Don't give me trouble."

In the end, Bruce got in. They drove in silence. But when they stopped, Schiller smiled and said: "Come on. Let's see today's spoils."

He acted as if nothing had happened. Bruce even wondered if Schiller suffered from intermittent amnesia—forgetting how tense they'd just been.

Schiller opened the truck doors. Inside were several crates. Bruce recognized them: today's express shipments.

Most were frozen goods. Schiller opened the crates—yes, plenty of frozen food. As Bruce approached, he noticed the selection had been deliberate: seafood, and a whole crate of steak—high-quality, imported beef.

"You can't keep doing this. I warned you," Bruce said coldly from behind him.

"I'm hungry. Let's go eat," Schiller said, hauling the beef crate forward, as if he hadn't heard a word.

Back at the room, Schiller cooked. Since there were no vegetables among the frozen goods, he simply seared the steaks and made a seafood soup—but even so, it was a lavish meal.

Schiller ate heartily. Bruce didn't touch his food. He stared at Schiller: "Don't you feel guilt? This isn't yours…"

Schiller chewed slowly: "Bruce, tell me—do you think the resources produced today are enough to feed every person on Earth? Can the world's current goods sustain all humanity?"

Bruce thought briefly, then nodded. Schiller speared a steak and said: "I'm using my fair share under the assumption of perfectly equal distribution. What's wrong with that?"

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but Schiller cut him off: "Don't lecture me about sacred private property. Did the people who made that rule notify me? Did they ask for my vote? Since they didn't, why should I obey?"

"What if someone steals from you?" Bruce asked.

"I'll take it back myself. I don't need others to enforce justice. Yes, if everyone acted like me, the world would descend into war. So what? You want peace. I don't."

"Nonsense," Bruce said.

After dinner, Schiller didn't go to bed. He put on his coat, as if leaving. Bruce asked: "Where are you going?"

"I'm looking for a job. I can't keep working at the warehouse. I need to earn a living."

Bruce's head throbbed. "At this hour? Where are you going to find work?"

"I'll chance it. Opportunities exist." Schiller stepped out. Bruce had no choice but to follow.

It was 9 p. . not late—but Gotham's streets were pitch black. Today, luck held: no rain yet.

Schiller walked, asking: "You said earlier—besides laborer, what other jobs? Oh, right—waiter at a restaurant. Let's go to the food street. See if we can find an opening."

To Bruce, this meant something else entirely. He hurried forward: "I'm telling you again—you can't kill."

Bruce expected protest. Instead, Schiller nodded: "Alright. Fine."

Bruce followed skeptically until they reached the busiest food street near Hell's Kitchen. Schiller began circling, pausing at every stall, chatting with vendors or waiters.

This time, Bruce skipped meals, skipped the bathroom—he watched Schiller like a hawk. He refused to believe Schiller could commit a crime under his eyes.

An hour passed. Schiller showed no unusual behavior—no sudden disappearances, no bathroom excuses—just chatting with local shopkeepers. Bruce grew suspicious. He moved closer, listening to Schiller's conversation with a hot dog vendor.

"... eah, business is tough. Too many competitors. I understand your situation. Don't worry—getting something to cause diarrhea or vomiting isn't hard. Filtered rainwater or dirty water won't raise suspicion..."

"Relax. In three days, at least half your competitors will be out. Now, let's talk payment..."

Bruce lunged forward, yanked Schiller back, and growled: "You can't poison food!"

Bruce dragged Schiller back to their room with great effort, stopping his efforts to create more jobs in Gotham.

Bruce, exhausted from a day of intense surveillance, already malnourished and mentally drained, collapsed into bed the moment they returned.

At 5 a. . the next morning, he heard movement outside. Half-asleep, he opened the door—Schiller was already dressed. Bruce asked: "Where are you going?"

"Looking for work," Schiller replied casually. "I haven't found the right job yet. I need to start early."

As he buttoned his trench coat, he added: "You mentioned truck driving yesterday. I'm going to check it out."

Bruce fought sleep, shuffled back to put on his coat, then trudged after Schiller, muttering: "You can't kill. Don't steal. Don't poison food..."

Schiller ignored him, walked straight to the truck driver gathering spot, asked an older driver where to find gang-affiliated truck brokers, got the exact address, then began circling again.

Bruce squatted by the curb, watching Schiller pace left and right, wondering what he'd do today.

He realized bringing Schiller to the slums was a mistake—a decision made by his malnourished brain. He'd added another burden to his slum life: watching Schiller, preventing him from turning Gotham into nothing but job openings.

Crouching on the corner, Bruce felt drowsy. As his head nodded, suddenly—**BANG! *—a loud crash echoed nearby. He snapped awake, standing up.

Bruce saw two trucks had collided on the road directly ahead. One driver was Schiller.

Before the other driver could speak, Schiller got out, pointed at the damage: "Hey, buddy, what's your problem? I just picked up this truck today, and you wreck it like this? And right in New Town Gang territory? You disrespecting us?"

The crash had woken more than Bruce—the local gang members had heard it too. Schiller's truck had just been issued by them. Seeing Schiller get into an accident mere minutes after leaving, their faces darkened.

"Hey, Claude! You causing trouble on our turf?" Several gang members approached the other driver. "This is our new recruit—he's assigned to the cold storage route. He just got his truck today, and you smash it? Are you trying to pick a fight?!"

The gang members didn't know traffic rules or who was at fault—but this was their territory. They couldn't back down. Whoever was guilty, they'd blame the other side. Otherwise, they'd be admitting their boss picked a bad driver.

Schiller chimed in: "I was going straight. You turned from the side. You cut me off. I don't get it—no blind spots here. How did you even hit me?"

"I..." The other driver, Claude, glanced at the corner mirror—now shattered. Schiller followed his gaze and said: "Yeah, the corner mirror's broken. But you're a veteran driver. Don't tell me you don't check mirrors before turning."

Claude looked at the gang members closing in. He gritted his teeth: "Fuck. Fine. What do you want?"

Claude had his own connections, but he knew he was in the wrong. He hadn't looked—he'd just floored it after the turn. Collision was inevitable.

Besides, his gang's territory was far away. Calling for backup meant getting beaten up anyway—not worth it.

"What else? Pay for repairs. And get out," Schiller said, glancing at the gang members and giving a subtle nod.

The gang members understood—this was a payday. They stepped forward, rifles in hand: "Hurry up. We don't want to get violent. Pay up and leave!"

Claude spat on the ground, pulled out his wallet, handed over two bills. Schiller took one, gave it to the gang members, and slipped the other into his pocket.

Bruce, having witnessed this entire collective extortion, felt his head spin.