Chapter 230: Life-Buying Money

Old White Fatty tossed a stack of documents onto the table, scattering them, and asked without preamble: "Can it be done?"

Looking at the medical records, X-rays, and other materials spread out, The Tinkerer picked them up, flipped through them, and said: "Hilarum bile duct cancer?"

This is cancer progressing from stage two to stage three; besides removing the bile duct, part of the liver where cancer cells have spread and the surrounding tissue must also be excised. Since there are quite a few blood vessels and nerves nearby, the surgery is highly difficult.

If the patient is the big fatty standing right here, then clearing a field of vision within the fat mass would require quite a bit of effort.

But for such an illness, it is not considered a difficult problem at some top medical centers in the United States. There are plenty of skilled doctors capable of working miracles; some might even find the difficulty insufficient and hand it over to other junior doctors to handle.

Therefore, having such wealth yet daring not to enter a major hospital only means this person has considerable trouble on their hands that cannot see the light of day.

The Tinkerer did not answer Old White Fatty's question directly. Instead, he tossed the materials in his hand back onto the table exactly as they were and asked: "Who is the patient?"

"Me. Just say directly whether it can be cured."

"No. Goodbye." As soon as the words left his mouth, The Tinkerer rose to leave. But he had barely stood up when he was pushed back down by the person standing behind the sofa.

The Tinkerer, with a cigar in his mouth, glanced at the white youth behind him who had "invited" him, but said nothing more. Instead, the one being looked at spoke: "The boss is someone you cannot afford to offend; you must think clearly about what you are doing."

He turned to explain to Old White Fatty, who looked dissatisfied: "The exact cause of hilarum bile duct cancer has not yet been researched, so effective prevention methods cannot be found. Therefore, most people's advice is to quit smoking, reduce excessive drinking, maintain a normal weight, and so on.

"Simply put, it means maintaining a healthy body to avoid contracting liver diseases, thereby reducing the risk of bile duct cancer. But you—"

Putting aside the cigar in Old White Fatty's hand, the weight of that belly alone is probably seventy or eighty kilograms, with the whole person weighing over two hundred kilograms. He is also embracing beauties on both sides, and several empty bottles are scattered on the table.

Red wine, whiskey, vodka. From The Tinkerer's knowledge, none of these are cheap, inferior liquor. But mixing them? Even an immortal pill would turn into poison.

"—if you continue to maintain such lifestyle habits, even if I save you once, it will inevitably recur sooner or later. Rather than letting you complain afterwards that my medical skills are inadequate and ruin my reputation, I might as well give up first."

What The Tinkerer did not say was that although the patient's medical report did not mention it, from the accidentally observed condition of the tongue coating, the state of the skin, and some abnormal symptoms on the body, the other party probably also has venereal diseases.

It might even be the century's infectious disease—AIDS.

These sexually transmitted diseases are mainly transmitted through fluid exchange; blood is naturally one of the mediums.

To perform surgery on such a person, the doctor is equivalent to risking infection. Therefore, many hospitals do not accept such patients and, of course, will not perform any medical procedures for them.

Actually, mere surface contact without wounds means one cannot be infected. But the fear is touching recklessly, or wiping eyes, picking teeth, or eating without washing hands properly, thus actively swallowing the virus. In that case, one would get infected even if one shouldn't have.

The problem is whether hands are clean; this is something the naked eye cannot see under normal circumstances. Therefore, hospitals without full protective gear and corresponding isolation and cleaning measures would rather not accept such trouble.

However, Old White Fatty did not bring the person here to listen to these things. He said impatiently: "I am just asking, can you perform this surgery? You don't need to consider anything else."

"Yes." The Tinkerer spoke the truth.

Old White Fatty pointed to the side, and the lights turned on, illuminating a mobile inflatable sterile surgical operating room in the direction he pointed. Standing nearby were several men and women with relatively calm expressions, appearing to be doctors and nurses.

He continued to ask: "Besides those, what else do you need?"

Sitting majestically on a precious antique sofa chair, The Tinkerer exhaled another circle of cigar smoke before saying with an indifferent attitude: "Your life-buying money, one million dollars."

The Tinkerer's asking price stunned everyone present. Except for those standing by the inflatable operating room who probably couldn't hear, everyone else wore a look of utter shock.

Old White Fatty, being someone who had seen the world, recovered the fastest. He laughed domineeringly: "I like you very much; you are very good at telling jokes that make people laugh. And you even have the guts to say it in front of me. Not bad, very not bad."

"I am serious. One million dollars, otherwise there is no discussion." The Tinkerer emphasized again.

He locked eyes with Old White Fatty, who had suddenly fallen silent and changed his expression. Although The Tinkerer did not possess equal momentum, his expression was utterly indifferent.

In comparison, Old White Fatty was so angry he could not speak, with veins bulging on his forehead. "I have never heard of you charging such a huge medical fee. You must not think I am easy to bully."

"How could that be, Mr.?" The Tinkerer explained his behavior: "I have always been collecting life-buying money. Some lives are expensive; some lives are cheap.

"Like those two bitches beside you, for the same surgery, I would charge them between one hundred dollars and two hundred dollars, depending on my mood to decide. But as for this guy, —"

The Tinkerer pointed to the man standing behind him, the one who had invited him.

"—this guy's life-buying money is only twenty-three dollars and seventy-five cents. If I charged him even one cent more, it would be giving him too much credit. The ones I treated before were all poor people who couldn't get enough to eat. Their lives are cheap, so the life-buying money naturally cannot be high.

"But you, Mr., are different. You appear to have received a good education, live luxuriously, and have beautiful confidantes; you certainly do not want to die too soon. So here comes the question: how much money are you willing to spend to exchange for health, or just to live a few more years?"

Facts prove that there are people in this world who cannot be swayed by empty talk. Old White Fatty had no intention of listening to the logic in The Tinkerer's words; instead, he gave a signal to his subordinate.

Immediately, a gun was pressed against the back of The Tinkerer's head. He made no response, simply saying: "I ask again, can the surgery be done?"

: Is this... someone who doesn't understand the situation? Or does he have ulterior motives?

Taking another puff of cigar and exhaling thick white smoke, The Tinkerer simply said: "Yes."

Pointing to the mobile operating room nearby, Old White Fatty said: "Go make preparations. And my life-buying money is your life. If you want to survive, it is best that I can survive too."

: It seems this is just a guy who doesn't understand the situation.

Thinking this, The Tinkerer felt a bit bored. He held the cigar in his mouth somewhat listlessly and walked toward that inflatable mobile operating room, not even carrying his briefcase.

Upon approaching, he simply asked the others: "Are all the surgical tools complete?"

(End of this chapter)