Chapter 781: Deadly Joke (8)_1

Ten minutes later, Bruce watched as Jack, who was sitting in the passenger seat, wiped his eyes with a tissue. He exaggerated his movements for dramatic effect, commenting in a strange, exaggerated voice, "Oh, your joke was really hilarious. I haven't laughed like that in ages!"

"What's so funny?" Bruce asked, looking straight ahead.

Suddenly, Jack leaned close to Bruce, close enough to touch his face, and asked, "Do you need to eat? Do you ever get hungry? There's bread in my car. Do you want some?"

"No, I'm not hungry," Bruce answered, but shortly after, Jack called his bluff. Placing his head near Bruce's stomach, Jack said, "I heard your stomach rumble. You must be hungry. Here, have some bread."

Jack produced an unfinished loaf from his pocket and, sniffing it fervently, said, "It's leftover from last night, but it's really quite good. You sure you don't want any?"

"No." Bruce refused again. He'd rather starve than eat whatever the Joker offered him. Who knew whether he'd hidden a bomb of some sort in it?

Suddenly, the Joker fell silent. Sitting upright in the passenger seat with that half-eaten loaf in hand, he stared at the traffic jam on the road ahead, mumbling, "Why didn't you ask me this question earlier?… Why didn't you ask it?"

"What question?" inquired Bruce.

"How do you eat when you have no money?... That's the question you just asked. You really should have asked me earlier." Jack's expression suddenly changed, and he moved to straighten his tousled hair, rubbing his eyes.

"What's the matter with that question?" Bruce asked.

"Nothing." Jack suddenly shook his head, seeming to lose the desire to speak. After a moment, he brought up another matter. "Have you made any money yet?"

"Not yet," Bruce answered while stepping on the gas. His truck lurched forward a bit before coming to a stop again.

Jack fell eerily silent, almost as if he had disappeared. Bruce steered the truck, moving in fits and starts. After spending over an hour trapped in traffic on the overpass, they were finally approaching the distribution point.

Upon reaching the distribution point, Bruce discovered that the person receiving the goods today was a stranger—someone who didn't seem entirely friendly.

Picking up the newly purchased gun, Bruce noticed their expressions change at the sight of the weapon. The bald man leading the group signaled someone from behind him, a skinny man who stepped forward and addressed Bruce in a dismissive manner: "You're new here, huh? Do you know the rules of the distribution point?"

Having quickly gotten the hang of the underworld's rules thanks to Batman's intelligence and learning abilities, Bruce didn't say much. He just loaded a bullet into the chamber and, raising the gun, said, "I only follow the rules of this here."

At this the bald man decided to speak up: "Okay, hotshot, cool it. We don't want any trouble. After all, it's a good time to be making money. If you end up in the hospital, you won't get a dime."

"Which warehouse am I supposed to go to?" Bruce asked, patting the handle of his gun, only for the skinny man to respond, "Wait in line for unloading at warehouse No. 4."

Bruce pointed the gun at him, mock-squeezing the trigger, and said, "Don't try to screw me over. Warehouse No. 4 has the smallest parking space. It takes half an hour to just turn the truck around. I want warehouse No. 8."

"Don't you get too carried away," the skinny man raised his voice, "Only the Green Street Gang get to go to warehouse No. 8. You're a hick from Cross Square and you have the audacity to ask for warehouse No.8?"

The bald man also tried to intervene: "Newbie, don't get cocky just because you have a gun. Everyone here is packing. We don't flaunt it because we don't want to waste bullets. How about this? We'll make an exception for you and let you unload at warehouse No. 5. That place is a close third in size."

Bruce wasn't swayed. He announced, "If you don't let me unload at warehouse No. 8, I'll just unload here."

With that, he turned to open the cargo doors. The bald man reacted, quickly stepping in front of Bruce to block his way and gritting his teeth: "You're cocky, kid. Who taught you this trick?"

Seeing his reaction, Bruce knew his ploy had worked. He'd learned it from an old truck driver from Cross Square whom he had treated to dinner the previous night.

The men guarding the distribution point were not afraid of guns. As they had said, who didn't have a gun around here? They might even have more bullets.

What they were afraid of was someone parking their truck smack in the middle and unloading all their cargo at the entrance. Blocking the way, the subsequent trucks couldn't get in. With enough trucks parked haphazardly, not to mention the task of clearing up the mess, they wouldn't even think about doing any other business for the whole afternoon.

If things went really wrong and a truck transporting valuable goods got stuck outside because of the blockage, when the big mafia bosses investigated, everyone would be in hot water.

Most truck drivers wouldn't pull this because they either didn't know about it or were wary of angering too many people. Bruce was not afraid, however. He had no complex network of relationships to maintain—he who is barefoot is not afraid of those with shoes.

The bald man saw it too, and in a low voice, said, "Let's meet halfway. Unload at warehouse No. 7."

"I want warehouse No. 8. No ifs, ands, or buts," Bruce insisted. He then gestured and said, "I've already taken a step back. Don't think I don't know that warehouse No. 8 isn't the best warehouse. There's another one for specialty transport right behind No. 9 on the east side-"

"Alright, alright, enough," the bald man interrupted, looking around and continuing, "You certainly know a lot. But it's in your best interest to keep your mouth shut."

With that, he waved at the men behind him: "Let him unload at warehouse No. 8!"

Bruce picked up his gun and returned to the driver's seat. Jack, who was sitting beside him, complimented him with a cheer, "Well done, Mr. Truck Driver! You've been on the job for only a week and you've already learned all the ropes!"

As Bruce maneuvered to turn, he replied, "A week is too long. I should have figured everything out within three days."

Jack lit a cigarette. Bruce frowned and said, "Don't smoke in my truck."

"Just one," Jack exhaled some smoke out the window, flicking off an ash. He then said, "Learn how to truck in Gotham in three days. Not bad. So, what do you plan to do next?"

Just as Bruce was about to speak, Jack took a deep drag of his cigarette and said, "Then you'll end your foolish experiment of living in poverty, go back to the Wayne building, and tell those shareholders that living in the slums is no big deal."

"You would tell them that these poor folks didn't strive hard enough and they deserved to go hungry."

"Those beggars squatting by the side of the road, can't they take three days to learn how to drive a truck? Since they're so lazy, they shouldn't ask for food from the rich when they have no money. They brought it upon themselves."

Jack's tone was calm, without a trace of anger, as he took a puff from his cigarette and said, "Then, on that night, you will put on a Batman suit worth hundreds of millions of dollars, go to the slums where you had experienced poverty, and give those who have troubled you a good beating."

"You would think that you had taken revenge for the people there, fulfilling their unfulfilled dream of beating up those villains."

"They don't praise you, even slander you in the newspapers, and you think they're ungrateful and unworthy of being saved."

"Then, you stand atop the Wayne building again, thinking that a hero always has to bear a bad name, and being misunderstood is your fate. The world kisses you with pain, yet you respond with a serenade, never forgetting your kind nature…"

As the smoke slowly dispersed, Jack flicked his ash out of the car window and said, "Batman, that's why I say, the man who pretends to be a bat is insane."

"Have you ever thought that this society doesn't need you at all, everything you've done is just to move yourself."

"People are very good at calling the things they don't need as "trash", both of us are trash thrown away, but only you think you're a hero."

"They see you as trash, but you see yourself as a god who saves them." Jack turned to look at Bruce and said, "Batman, we have always looked down upon you because everything you do says that what society is doing right."

"But in fact, they are so narrow-minded; everything they don't need will be called trash by them."

"There's plenty of trash discarded by society. We treat this ugly society as a game, have fun here, laugh loudly."

"Only you have a mournful face, as if the master who threw you out was something so great and expected."

Jack threw the cigarette butt out of the window and said, "With an ugly look, like a dog abandoned by its master."

Bruce turned his head to look at Jack and said, "Are you finished? Don't you have your own truck?"

"You hit the nail on the head again." Jack turned to look at him, showing a smirk, "I used to have one, but I don't anymore."

"Why not?" Bruce asked again.

"That brings us back to the previous question."

"What question?"

"How to eat without money?" Jack shrugged and asked, "How to buy a truck without money?"

"What about your old vehicle?" Bruce asked.

"Let me think." Jack tapped his temple, making a thoughtful expression, "Was it the first week of my being a truck driver...or the second? My vehicle was set on fire by someone."

"I can't recall the exact reason. Maybe it's because I didn't load goods according to the mob's request, or didn't offer favors to the warehouse managers. Anyway, on a certain day, when I went out, I saw the roaring flames..."

Jack waved his hand in front of his eyes, "I saw my new truck burn, it was a rainy night, but the rain couldn't put out the fire, the truck burned into wreckage right in front of me…"

"At first, I was crazily trying to put out the fire. The flames burned off my eyebrows and scorched my face. But then, the rain grew heavier..."

Accompanied by Jack's voice, the rain fell. The splashes hitting the ground were making a fine sound, the crackling noise of the burning fire resounded in the ears. The flames that engulfed the truck were extraordinarily fierce on this rainy night.

A dark figure stood in front of the fire, quietly watching it burn, like a traveler running out of strength in a snowy night.

Physical strength, time, effort, everything was consumed in the long, long night. He had no other firewood to burn except his future hope."

He warmed himself with the flame, hoping to not freeze to death tonight, but he didn't have to last through tonight, because there wouldn't be a sun tomorrow either.

In the rainy night, he sat down on the ground, raised his head, quietly watching the truck's flame burning. The rain didn't fall on the ground but was absorbed into his body, like a baby returning to its mother's embrace.

Watching the brilliant and intense flames, the traveler danced in excitement, genuinely happy for the final night of carnival.

Amidst the rising flames, he laughed, uttering an earth-shattering mad laughter, piercing through the dark sky of Gotham.

Because he knew, it was only because of this fire that he finally had a chance to laugh, piercing the dark clouds, enveloping the city.

It was this fire that burned away the mask he was forced to wear by poverty and hardship, allowing him to show his genuine smile, to make such great gestures.

Not like those wearing masks who walked gently into that good night, as the society wanted them to - to come noisily and die silently.