Chapter 739 Tonight it Rains Again in Gotham (Part 1) _1

The chilly night rain in Gotham always left this modern metropolis teetering on the brink of collapse, where every night was stormy.

In the dense iron jungle, pair after pair of eyes recalled the beasts of the rainforest, with guns as fangs and ambition as talons.

In the dark alley, the arc formed by the headlights probed forward, following the moist walls. The great lights of the truck lit like blazing ghostly eyes. The mechanic shop owner shielded his eyes with his arms.

"Damn it! Is that pauper Vincent?" The lean and frail mechanic shop owner, drenched in motor oil, threw down his wrench and stood up. He cursed with a string of obscenities, "Those poor bastards should die in the sewers, not come here to mooch, a bunch of goddamn dirty vermin!"

But when the truck came closer, the mechanic shop owner squinted his eyes. He saw on the driver's seat a pallid face. The driver wore bright red lipstick, and his mouth split open to reveal a shocking smile.

The mechanic shop owner hastily retreated, and in panic, dashed into his house.

The wrench he had just discarded tripped him over, making him fall flat on his face. Even though he was down, he made every effort to crawl in the opposite direction of the door, as if being chased by a hobgoblin.

"The Joker truck! The legend is true!!" The mechanic shop owner screamed: "There is a real Joker killer driving a truck!!"

"No...no!!! Don't kill me, I've done you no wrong, I've no enemies, I have a wife and children, no!! Don't do this!!"

"Beep, beep, beep..."

The rhythmical sound echoed; the mechanic shop owner ran pell-mell towards the back door, but the moment he approached the backdoor, the entire auto repair shop exploded.

All living things inside the shop couldn't withstand the impact of the massive explosion; in an instant, they were turned into charred remains.

The fire consumed half a street. In the rainy night, the fierce fire raged higher and higher. The force of nature was no match for human's terrifying destructive desire; such absurd scenes could only exist in this dark city.

The flames flickered in Batman's eyes, lighting on his pitch-black battlesuit.

The light and shadow on his mask and cloak were two starkly different colors: the light part was insufficiently bright because he arrived late to save anyone in the devastating explosion. Yet, the shadowy part was not dark enough, for behind him, were the lights of Gotham homes.

Batman jumped down to chase the culprit behind this dreadful crime, the Joker killer who only existed in urban legends.

As his cloak swept across the windows of the buildings, shadows covered Cobblepot's face, but quickly disappeared.

Looking at the disorder on the opposite side of the street, Cobblepot lowered his head emotionlessly. In his hands was a bottle of medicine. After unscrewing its cap, he took out a pill and tossed it into his mouth.

"Shouldn't we do something, boss?" A young man who looked older than Cobblepot but was still a teenager, asked as he stood at a distance. Judging from his uniform, he seemed to be a postman.

Cobblepot didn't answer his question; he focused on the hand that had just opened the bottle.

That hand had slender fingers, skin and bones, but, when clenched into a fist, showed a sense of strength.

"Do you know? About a year ago, I couldn't even open this bottle. I would often feel weak and powerless, but that wasn't surprising as I rarely had hot food and never ate enough."

At this point, Cobblepot chuckled dryly. His face was somber, making his smile seem somewhat eerie.

But his subordinate took it in stride. He said, "Yes, me too. Who wouldn't be skinny if they don't eat enough?"

"No… this is a joke, you're supposed to laugh... because a year ago, I couldn't even afford this bottle. The price of this medicine would be enough for me to eat well for a month."

Perhaps it was the universal humor shared among Gothan teenagers, but the young postman did laugh, saying, "Yeah, I almost forgot, how could Gotham children afford such medicine? Mental illness? We would only go crazy from being too poor!"

"So, now you have excess sympathy because you're too rich?" Cobblepot slightly turned his head to gaze outside the window, where the street was still on fire.

In the flames, a dark figure was fighting the fire.

Batman's cloak had caught fire, and he had to roll on the ground to put out the flames. The charred wood from the ground dirtied his expensive armor, dimming its once luxurious luster.

"If you were as rich as Wayne, you could also afford his level of sympathy. But the question is, will we ever be richer than him?" Cobblepot said, watching the silhouette of Batman, "Just like that guy down there; the money used to repair his costume would be enough to feed all the city's children."

"That's why, many people in this city do not like Batman. They feel that he possesses too much. If they had as much as him, they claim they could do much more." Cobblepot reached out and pressed his finger against the window glass.

The fire lit his pale fingers with a warm light, but it could not make him feel warm. Because the fire was too far away, the only light here was brightness without heat.