Chapter 31

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Protagonist:

Milton

Mins

Center of Maracan Town.

The cross atop the church spire, the brand-new statues of the Twelve Apostles, and the sturdy wall paint were all out of place in this poor little town.

On the outskirts, a "Volunteer" from the Qingteng Foundation was enthusiastically distributing supplies in hand, seemingly not at all disdainful of those dirty, foul-smelling paupers.

"Can pregnant women take it? Of course they can, ma'am! This is Pioglitazone, an American medicine, and it will be good for your child... Oh, oh, we are a charitable organization, we don't need money... Donations? You are truly too generous, the Lord will bless such a kind person as you!"

"Child fell and got hurt? This is OxyContin, a panacea not even Americans have used yet! For any pain in the future, just take one tablet and it'll be fine... Oh, no need to thank us, this is Jesus's blessing!" (Note 1)

"......"

Honk honk...

At this time, at an inconspicuous street corner, a Chevrolet Caprice stopped by the gravel road not far from the Central Church, its V8 Engine emitting a low-revving sound.

Milton cautiously observed the surroundings from the car.

Parking in this position was completely within the pharmacy's visual dead angle, and there were also fewer pedestrians; as long as one wasn't too unlucky, one basically wouldn't be noticed.

"You two, definitely pay attention to the surroundings and the walkie-talkies; I'll go interrogate at the pharmacy here first."

Luz had the pension on his mind and was a bit uneasy: "Boss, this is too dangerous, I think I should go instead?"

"I don't trust your brain." Milton refused to let a roughneck do delicate work, "You just sit tight in the car for me."

After speaking, Milton picked up the loaded Ruger Mark II, wrapped himself in his tattered clothes, and walked toward the pharmacy behind the corner.

Milton believed that with the speed of information dissemination in this era, within just one day, the people in town had at most heard his name, but were unlikely to remember his appearance.

Making himself look a bit disheveled would mean no one would recognize him.

To eliminate all flaws, Milton's entire outfit was stripped from a real patient at the Black Pharmacy.

Several tens of seconds later, Milton arrived at the pharmacy door, scanned around, confirmed that the vast majority of people were gathered at the charity foundation's side trying their luck, and that no one would patronize the pharmacy in the short term, before pushing the door open and entering.

The pharmacy owner lay lazily in a chair; seeing a customer arrive, he opened his mouth to ask: "Where are you from, what do you want? Do you have a prescription?"

"Just discharged from the hospital... Glibenclamide, no prescription."

Hearing there was no prescription, the pharmacy owner thought nothing of it and directly said: "1000 Quetzal per bottle."

"1000?!" Even while investigating, Milton frowned, "Why is it so expensive?"

The owner was extremely impatient: "First, you don't have a prescription; for me to get you medicine, I need to pull some strings. Second, there's a big problem at the Border Inspection station; now everywhere is short of stock."

Milton fell silent for a moment, then asked: "Then is there a cheaper option?"

He wanted to probe whether this owner was selling cheaper illegal medicines.

"Sure." The pharmacy owner coldly sneered with contempt, "You can turn around and get out right now; look to the right, someone at the church is giving out medicine for free, you might just have that luck and get free medicine? Or you can go to the black market on Old Street, if you can find a black marketeer, if you aren't afraid of being robbed... yesterday over a dozen people died over there, how about it, poor ghost, want to go?"

Unlike what many imagine, diabetes is not entirely a disease of the rich—in places where sugary drinks are easier to get than clean water, where people can only fill their stomachs by relying on high-sugar, high-calorie processed foods and paste-like staples, diabetes is relatively rampant.

Rich people who eat natural foods and have nutritionists plan their recipes are instead less likely to get this disease.

The owner indeed despised the poor from the bottom of his heart.

Milton glanced at the owner, said nothing more, turned around and left.

After getting back in the car, the two who had listened to the entire conversation immediately started cursing.

Brandon sneered: "Hah! I heard 'Boss' say before that this pharmacy is responsible for supplying part of the hospital's goods, has no shortage of orders, and is extremely arrogant; now it seems it's true."

Luz was also angry that someone dared speak like that to his financial backer: "If he knew that the person standing in front of him was the 'Hell Tax Collector' who killed over a dozen people on the black market, he'd have pissed his pants long ago!"

Milton was shifting gears and accelerating, driving toward the next pharmacy; after hearing this unpleasant nickname again, he almost couldn't hold the steering wheel steady, took two deep breaths, and only then stabilized his emotions.

No, I must find a way to shake off this nickname!

Milton spoke to interrupt the two's complaints: "At least it proves Pioglitazone isn't leaking from him. No more nonsense, go investigate the next pharmacy."

When leaving the pharmacy, Milton saw a blonde woman seemingly holding a camera and arguing with a Qingteng Foundation Volunteer about something.

But he had no time to bother with these; he quickly returned to the car and drove to the next investigation point.

"......"

A few minutes later, Milton pushed open the door of the new pharmacy and asked the owner the same question.

The answer received was more or less the same.

"No way, 1000 Quetzal; wherever you ask, it's this price. Unless you're bold enough to dare go to the black market; there it's all smuggled goods, no tax, and can be much cheaper."

Milton asked: "Then is there a cheaper alternative, or a cheaper plan?"

"Hmm... how about this, if you buy 10 bottles at once, I'll give you, I'll give you a 5% discount, how much is that again..."

Milton subconsciously blurted out: "9500."

The owner tapped the old plastic keys on the calculator for a while, then surprisingly praised: "Right, exactly 9500, you calculated truly accurately and quickly!"

Milton clenched his fist, then slowly relaxed it, then turned and left without hesitation.

Even if this praise were said to a Chinese middle school student, it could be called a great humiliation!

Say nothing more, go investigate the next pharmacy.

Milton got back in the car and drove toward the third pharmacy.

By this time it was around 19:00; the sky hadn't completely darkened yet, but could already be called dim.

Milton frowned and had to turn on the car headlights: "At night, there aren't many places with electricity. These streetlights are practically decorations."

"No way, how many people here can afford electricity bills? The local government won't care about this either; they only care whether their own houses have electricity."

Brandon shrugged his shoulders: "The power company can't come to urge payment either, because the cost of urging payment might be more than the electricity fees collected, so it's better to just cut the power directly."

"It's fine, there are at least those few hours of electricity every day, being alive counts as not bad."

"Sigh, let's not talk about this... better to talk about you, Boss, what exactly did you do before, your shooting is so amazing, your brain works so well, even math is this good! You're truly the most amazing person I've ever seen!"

"Who would have thought, the 'Hell Tax Collector' not only knows how to kill, but is actually a mathematician!"

You guys have no end, right!

Milton finally couldn't bear it anymore, he slapped the dashboard hard, roaring angrily: "Enough! From now on, no more calling 'Hell Tax Collector' this nickname!"

Brandon didn't quite understand: "Why, this is so imposing, my colleagues all acknowledge this nickname, shouting it out can scare people to death."

"I'm the boss, I say no calling it this way means no calling it this way! Otherwise salary deduction!" Milton directly put on the boss's airs, turned the steering wheel, parked the car steadily, "Alright, I'll go up first, you guys watch the walkie-talkies!"

What kind of annoying things are these!

With a pile of annoying things in his heart, Milton's force pushing the door this time was obviously a bit greater.

He walked to the counter not too politely, knocked on the shopkeeper's table, asked: "Got medicine? Glibenclamide."

The shopkeeper was long used to it, didn't feel anything abnormal — those punks in the slums who think highly of themselves but are actually nothing are generally like this.

He didn't even raise his head, opened his mouth to quote: "No prescription? Then 1000 Quetzal a bottle."

Milton asked as usual: "Any cheaper?"

However this time, the shopkeeper didn't answer immediately.

He raised his head, the wrinkles on his face layered together, examined Milton for a good while, as if deliberating whether to say the following words.

Clothing, temperament, nothing wrong...

Most importantly, he bought off many people, the people he bought off bought off even higher-ups, layer upon layer of protection... as long as the other party's background isn't strong to the level of provincial high officials, even calling the police is useless.

This kind of poor devil who might die tomorrow, how could he have any big background?

Rather than letting him take the money into the grave, benefiting scavengers, better to let myself earn it!

The shopkeeper's left hand secretly reached under the table, gripped a sawed-off shotgun, glanced at the door outside, voice lowered a bit: "Yes, a new medicine, only needs 300 a bottle, how about it?"

Note 1: OxyContin, namely oxycodone controlled-release, opioid painkiller, effect is 10 times morphine. Can be said to be the source of today's US drug abuse.