Chapter 2116: Superman's Gotham Adventure (Part Seven)_1

Clark did not rush over immediately to question the children about what was happening. If they had a well-planned scheme to distribute these drugs to children, they must have been prepared for an attack.

If that was the case, Recklessly rushing over might not only prevent him from catching the puppet master but might also put these helpless children in danger.

So, Clark lowered quietly and silently maneuvered around the building of the orphanage to an abandoned construction site nearby. From there, through the orphanage wall, he observed what delivered the boxes of orange juice.

He saw a box of orange juice slowly rise from the entrance of a sewer, but the arms holding it up were not human. Clark observed with his super vision and found it looked like a kind of tree root.

He couldn't confirm it because theoretically, tree roots couldn't move in this way. Simultaneously, Clark had no recollection of any tree whose roots could grow to such a size.

Clark took a step forward, intending to look down at the bottom of the well. At that moment, there was a loud boom, and a wall of the orphanage was blasted open.

Clark instantly rushed out from behind the fence. Once the dust and smoke disappeared, the children were unharmed. However, a group of people with baseball bats and hammers emerged from the smoke.

When they came closer, Clark found that these people looked like a bunch of hippies. Their hair was dyed in all imaginable colors, with metal rings slung over their noses, lips, and ears. Tattoos were inappropriately displayed all over their skin, and most of them were wearing colorful vests with metal studs and leather boots.

As soon as they barged in, the children dispersed and ran off. But Clark noticed that while these kids were running, they were also carrying away as much orange juice as they could.

One of the hippies quickly rushed toward the closest kid. Clark immediately ran over to stop him. But to his surprise, their target was not the child, but the small box of orange juice in his hands.

The tall man charged and snatched the orange juice. The kid widened his eyes in disbelief, reaching out in an attempt to grab it back. He was however, dragged back by his companions, both of whom crawled back into the house and firmly closed the door behind them.

The accomplices of the hippies immediately rushed to knock on the door, shouting, "Open the door! Give us that damn juice. Open the door, you little bastards, I swear I'll blow your heads off with a shotgun."

Clark stopped in his tracks, trying to rationalize the situation. Were the children trafficking drugs while the hippies were trying to stop them?

Regardless of whether these unexpected guests were here to hijack it for themselves, it seemed that they too were against the children selling the juice. Perhaps this could be used to his advantage.

So instead of confronting the group straight away, Clark took off and flew to the roof to watch the scene below from a high vantage point.

Clark knew very well that these children only seemed weak compared to him, but comparatively there weren't many people in the world stronger than him. Generally, these children were much stronger than others their age. This became apparent from the muscle mass and tendon development they exhibited.

As expected, a hippie approached the window, hoping to look inside the house, but instantly a burning stick was thrust into his eye socket. He collapsed to the ground, screaming in pain as he held his bleeding eye.

The others fought back aggressively, smashing windows and banging on the door. Clark heard shrieks from inside the house and quickly flew in through a back window.

"Don't be scared, children, I'll help you barricade the door," Clark reassured as he single-handedly lifted a heavy sofa and threw it against the door. With a kick, he pinned the sofa against the door, then leaned a side table against the couch for extra reinforcement.

The children were dumbstruck by his strength. An older boy led the charge, shouting, "Quick! Team one, grab the guns! Team two, seal the windows! Don't let the Joker Gang's bastards get in!"

The children followed his orders, their small figures darting around the rooms in the orphanage. They were as agile as fish swiftly swimming against the current. With great precision, they nailed wood boards over the windows to block them from the inside, all while resisting the violent onslaught from outside.

A few girls on Team Two filled pots with water and set them on the stove to boil. Others timed their moves just right to pour boiling water from the second floor to below, causing chaos outside.

Clark stood guard at the main entrance of the orphanage's building. They noticed the Hippie Boss and his cohorts, who were constantly charging at the front door, revise their strategy and begin dismantling the door after they realized that Clark was an immovable object.

They must have been experienced thieves, as it didn't take long for them to unhinge the two heavy solid wood doors.

When the last door fell, they were greeted by the sight of Superman, Clark, whose handsome and stern face looked like it was carved from stone.

Bang, bang, bang.

With his fists retracted, Clark dusted his hands and walked over to the fallen door. In one hand, he lifted one side of the door, aligned it back onto its hinges, and used both his hands to force it back into place. With a loud thud, the door was embedded into the doorframe again.

Then he pushed at it from both sides, with a click, the door was squeezed back to where it was earlier- seamless and airtight.

After the disheartened oddballs outside retreated, the children instantly flocked around Clark. Their eyes wide-open in awe as they looked at him, not out of malice, but brimming with pure astonishment.

"Oh my God, you're so strong. How did you build these muscles? Could you teach me?"

"Did you see that? That punch of his, I bet that bastard's nose has been shattered."

"Whew! Cool as hell!"

The boys mimicked the boxing stance, swinging one fist forward and the other back, rubbing their noses from time to time, as if they too could become boxing champions if they were as strong.

"Alright, alright kids." Clark uses his large hand to gather the children around him and says, "I see that you're not the type of kids who want to hurt others. So if you knew that this drink contains a large amount of psychedelic drugs, why would you still sell it?"

"You mean to say, you'd like to believe we're not drug dealers?" The leading boy summarizes Clark's meaning accurately with his arms crossed, and says, "But I have to tell you an unfortunate truth, we didn't deal drugs before, not because we were good, but because it wasn't our turn."

"First of all, we're not children from the Gotham slums, most of us are orphans from the neighboring middle-class streets who lost their parents in accidents. We don't get a share of the business in the slums, otherwise we wouldn't be waiting in the welfare home for adoption."

"Secondly, even the children in the slums can't get a turn dealing drugs on ordinary days, they're lucky if they can get some gofer work. They're a bunch of idiots who don't understand the importance of unity."

"So what's going on?" Clark knelt down and asked, with a hand on the boy's shoulder: "Could you tell me who gave you these juices?"

"It came down to this because of a lack of manpower." The boy shrugged and said, "Someone wanted this drink to be spread throughout the city at the fastest speed, so they found us."

Clark turned to look at the sewer outside the window, thinking he would have to investigate it, so he didn't need to spend his precious question on this.

So he turned his head back towards the boy and asked, "Who attacked you? Why did they attack?"

"Oh, those were bastards from the Joker Gang, I heard in the daytime that the welfare home next door was being attacked by them. I was wondering if they would come after us later, and sure enough they came."

"As for why they attacked us, we don't know, but as you saw just now, they didn't seem too pleased that we took away the juice."

"They're a bunch of hopeless addicts!" A girl popped her head over to interrupt, "I bet they can't afford their own drugs, so they want to take it out on us. Dream on!"

"You guys didn't drink those juices, did you?"

At Clark's question, the other children looked at him like he was an idiot. The leading boy snapped his fingers and pointed his thumb at Clark, saying, "See, I told you he's from Metropolis."

"Listen up, big guy, the main ingredient of the psychedelic drug in this thing is methylenedioxyphenethylamine. It's a powerful chemical hallucinogen, unlike marijuana or opium. Even someone with your stature would feel like combating a trash can for three hundred rounds after a hit."

"Any neuroactive substances must be taken according to body weight. If you have been anesthetized in a hospital before, you would know that too much can kill. Drinking it would be suicide for us."

The boy's string of technical terms stupefied Clark. He at most knew the acronyms, and was unclear about the difference between MDMA and MDA, let alone accurately reciting their full forms.

Could this be another case of love being the best teacher?

"I know you're thinking that we know how deadly it is, yet we still sell it to others, meaning we're murderers. But you don't understand. The standard of safety for this stuff can be applied anywhere in the world, except in Gotham."

Clark stared blankly at the boy. Was this the level of language logic a child who looked no older than 10 supposed to have? His phraseology sounded like that of a spokesperson who would appear at press conferences when government officials made mistakes, and even seemed like they'd been in the job for at least 30 years, having cleaned up for more than 20 mayors.

What's this about a safety standard for life? Isn't it just saying that Gothamites have a high tolerance?

Clark's gaze fell upon the boxes of orange juice by the children's feet.

Judging from the high he felt earlier, if anybody were to chug down a bag of this, it'd be difficult to analyze their bodily conditions from a drug tolerance standpoint—it'd likely require a genetic or biological evolution analysis.

Up until now, Clark felt that all the Gothamites he had encountered seemed mentally off.

But if each of them had taken at least one bag of the orange juice, yet only stole the fourth wheel of tricycles, urinal bowls from public toilets, plates from compactors, and alligators from unknown sources, then Gotham City could indeed be called simple and honest.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he heard a loud slam from outside the door. The moment Clark turned his head, the door crashed down and a massive hippo arrogantly stepped on the door panel and walked in.

The figure riding the hippo against the light, with mismatched pig tails and a crazed smile, hoisted a huge wooden hammer on her shoulder.