Chapter 232: Cutting Open

"What's going on? What did you do to me?" The old white fatty showed panic in his voice for the first time.

The Repairman explained: "A simple half-body anesthetic won't sustain the surgery. But you need to stay conscious, and you need a shorter recovery time. Eastern medical acupuncture can compensate for some of these shortcomings."

Westerners' common flaw: they attribute everything to mysterious Eastern methods, and then blindly believe.

In fact, most publicly available Chinese medical texts contain no method for inducing paralysis or blocking nerve sensation with golden needles—only techniques for relaxing tendons and promoting blood circulation.

To say it's impossible isn't quite right, because the Repairman, on his own, had figured out some methods. Perhaps this knowledge, within traditional Chinese medicine, was passed orally and through example, never written down. At least, he couldn't find any usable records.

But in the end, it was merely the Repairman's own guesswork—not systematic research, nor large-scale human trials. So he could only accumulate experience during the treatment of wounded soldiers, slowly adjusting his needle techniques.

Even today, without the spinal needle, the Repairman could make this old white fatty lie still on the operating table, fully conscious—not just able to see, but also to curse.

But for safety's sake, he added one extra shot of Western anesthetic, in case his self-developed methods weren't reliable and the fat man jumped up.

This wasn't the Repairman deliberately making things uncomfortable—it was part of his plan…

When the old white fatty was fully under his control, the Repairman disinfected the area and swiftly made a Y-shaped incision over the affected site, peeling back the skin to reveal what should have been the internal organs.

White subcutaneous fat filled the surgical field, protecting the organs extremely well—no bright red viscera visible at all.

To be honest, this was the first time the Repairman had ever seen such a sight.

Previously, those who had asked him to perform surgery were mostly gaunt beggars, so thin they looked like they could be dragged off by dogs. Even becoming a fat man was a luxury—they never had so much fat.

The Repairman picked up a large syringe and began liposuction; when one syringe was full, he placed it carefully aside and switched to the second. This fat would later be reinjected—he couldn't just dispose of it.

On one hand, he hadn't been asked to perform liposuction. On the other, if the fat wasn't returned after the excision, it would affect organs already accustomed to certain pressure levels, causing fascia laxity and skin wrinkling.

Moreover, liposuction wasn't about blindly sucking out all visible fat. Besides even extraction, a certain amount had to be preserved to protect organs and cushion friction between them.

So the Repairman only temporarily removed fat within the surgical field until the liver and gallbladder were exposed.

The nurse responsible for instruments timely handed him the scalpel. Based on her experience, the next step was to deal with organ adhesions and clear the area for excision—the scalpel was the most basic tool; the rest depended on the surgeon's preference.

The Repairman took the scalpel and swiftly separated the adhered organs, exposing the liver and gallbladder. Then he used hemostatic clamps to pinch off the vessels he intended to cut.

Scalpels, clamps, and other useful tools were simply laid inside the old white fatty's body—seemingly haphazardly placed, yet somehow stuck in place, scattered about without clear order.

Next, the Repairman did something utterly baffling to everyone: he took off his rubber gloves and tossed them into the waste bin, then walked out.

While other assistants and nurses stood confused, the old white fatty—half-anesthetized but mentally alert, able to see his own surgical site—shouted excitedly: "What are you doing?"

The Repairman didn't bother answering. He stepped outside the inflatable operating room, picked up his extinguished cigar, relit it, and walked back into the sterile operating room, cigar dangling from his lips.

Nearby, the old white fatty's subordinates had noticed the anomaly in the operating room. They stopped loitering and gathered around—but none dared to enter the sterile space.

The Repairman took a deep drag on the cigar, then exhaled a thick cloud directly onto the old white fatty's face. He said seriously: "Your life price: one million Diao."

"Fuck! Is this the time to talk about this?!" the old white fatty roared. His roar made his men—those with guns draw them, those without grab whatever weapons they could—fierce and threatening… but still standing outside the operating room. No one dared to rush in.

The Repairman acted as if he saw no threats outside. He grinned and said: "Is there a better time than now? I'm not raising the price—it's still the one million Diao I mentioned. If you don't pay, I walk out."

"Ahhhh! You fucking bastard, I'll kill you! Kill you!"

The Repairman chuckled, coldly watching the group storm into the operating room—some pointing guns at him, others waving whatever weapons they'd found.

The top henchman who had "invited" him here even pressed his gun barrel directly against the Repairman's forehead—clearly ready to shoot at the slightest provocation.

But this time, the Repairman paid no attention to these threats. He'd never feared them before—but now he wouldn't even pretend to cooperate. He lifted the cigar above the surgical field and flicked the ash directly inside.

"Ahhhh! What are you doing, you fucking bastard! Kill him! Kill him!" the old white fatty screamed at his men.

The Repairman calmly said: "Don't worry—flicking ash in won't kill anyone. Haven't you seen Rambo? The hero uses gunpowder to disinfect wounds and stop bleeding. Hot ash won't cause bacterial infection."

A nurse whispered beside him: "But it will cause inflammation and postoperative adhesions…"

The Repairman laughed. "Don't worry. Even if this fat man dies, he won't die from something this trivial."

"Shoot! Shoot him dead!" the old white fatty, unable to bear it, roared.

"Before you shoot!" the Repairman shouted, drawing everyone's attention, then spoke slowly: "You must first confirm someone can clean up this mess. Otherwise, if I'm gone, you have only two choices."

"Let this fat man die here; or call 911, summon an ambulance to take him to a proper hospital to finish the surgery and close the abdomen."

The Repairman turned with interest to the others. "If anyone wants to do that, hurry up. This is your chance to rise—you don't think this fat man will survive after you pull the trigger, or walk free outside, do you?"

"Your only savior is me. Oh, wait—not quite. You could still go kidnap another surgeon who can do this operation. Maybe it's not too late. But you'd better move fast."

(End of Chapter)