Everyday casualties: Part one

Nobody knows when a Black Clinic opened in an alley in South Los Angeles. But everyone knows that if you're injured, you can go to that Black Clinic for treatment. The prices are much cheaper than at a regular hospital, and they won't ask you any questions.

Derek, a young Mexico man whose companion was shot and appeared to be seriously injured, had no choice but to take him to this shady Black Clinic with unknown credentials.

The reason Derek made this choice was because he knew he was wanted. If he showed up in legitimate places that required identity checks, it wouldn't be long before a bunch of police officers came knocking and arrested him.

Logically, since he was the one wanted, not his wounded comrade, he could simply drop him off at any hospital. But the truth was, Derek didn't know if his comrade had a warrant for his arrest.

After all, nobody would bother checking whether they were wanted by the police for no reason, and in 1993 United States, the internet wasn't convenient enough to check such information. Many people only found out they were wanted after the police confronted them at their door.

In short, Derek dared not gamble, nor did he want to leave his companion to the police, otherwise he would have to face the siege of rival gangs alone. So, following the rumors in the underworld, he went to a Black Clinic in an alley in the South District.

The word "Tinkerer" was written in street graffiti on the half-open Roll-up Shutter. Derek reached out and pushed the Roll-up Shutter up, opening the main entrance fully.

The storefront is quite shallow, like the storefront of a butcher shop, with a transparent refrigerated glass case blocking most of the way.

However, the glass cabinet was not powered on, and it was empty inside, with no valuables displayed.

A call bell sits on the glass cabinet. Underneath the bell is a note that reads, "Someone is here; please ring the bell if needed."

Derek had intended to bypass the glass display case, open the door leading inside, and enter the back of this seemingly closed butcher shop to see if it was the rumored Black Clinic.

The door, secured with a standard horn lock, was locked. Derek tried several times to open it, but to no avail. Even banging on the door and calling out, "Is anyone home?" received no response.

Does this mean no one's home? So I've come all this way for nothing. Frustrated, Derek could only retreat to the glass cabinet and impatiently press the call button.

The summoning bell, struck repeatedly, not only rang but also made heavy slapping sounds. Derek seemed to be venting all his anger on the bell, wanting to smash it to pieces.

In the blink of an eye, the locked door opened from the inside, and a rather peculiar-looking white man stepped out. His hair was half white and half black, covering half of his face. A long scar ran from his forehead to his cheek, making it very noticeable.

He wore a white shirt that looked like something a 19th-century aristocrat would wear, with ruffles on the lapel and cuffs. The collar was tied with a black ribbon in a bow tie. He paired it with black trousers and black leather shoes.

Many people would believe this person was a stage actor, but Derek seriously doubted his medical skills. Could he be a quack doctor, a nurse, veterinarian, or tailor just there to fill a quota?

In the United States, if you don't go to a legitimate hospital, the unlicensed doctors you can find are mostly physicians who have been involved in serious medical accidents or who have voluntarily or involuntarily taken the blame for others and have been kicked out of the medical system.

If these kinds of people hope to return to the system, they can only keep a low profile and wait for someone to take pity on them and give them a helping hand.

But if someone deliberately chooses to practice medicine illegally and gets caught, they probably have no hope of returning to the legitimate system. Hospitals will never hire someone with such a tainted reputation.

Besides these types of people, there are also those with relevant medical backgrounds who haven't been able to enter the formal medical system, who come to make up the numbers. After all, those who come are mostly people who can't be brought to justice, and as long as they still want to save lives, they can't care whether these people have proper qualifications or not.

Then there are those who have no medical background at all, but are simply bold enough to treat others. Derek intuitively felt that the actor who looked like an aristocrat was probably the last type—just plain bold.

The one who opened the door was naturally Henry, known in the underworld as "The Tinkerer." Although he ran Black Clinic, he wasn't there 24/7. He spent most of his time at his rented apartment or doing his own thing.

Instead, they placed a call bell in the clinic's disguised facade. The seemingly ordinary bell actually contained a device that could emit extremely high-frequency sounds, the unique sound of which was inaudible to ordinary people.

The device would alert him, within the Los Angeles area, that a patient had arrived at his Black Clinic. He would then change his appearance, don a special uniform, and return to the clinic to address the patient's problem or resolve a medical issue. The Tinkerer glanced at the Latino men supporting each other. One had been shot in the abdomen with only one bullet hole; it seemed the Negasonic Teenage Warhead was still inside him, and he was still bleeding. The other had multiple abrasions and contusions, but they weren't serious.

"Bring him in," the Tinkerer said, turning and entering the room, making way for the narrow passageway.

With a skeptical attitude, Derek helped his companion inside.

The clinic was quite rudimentary, containing only a hospital bed, a table, a chair in front of the table, and a window that had been completely smashed.

The cabinets were dilapidated, and the fluorescent light was very dim, flickering from time to time.

"Watch out for the broken glass on the ground," the Tinkerer warned, then kicked the glass aside to clear away the shards in front of him.

Derek, who had helped the person in, asked upon seeing the situation, "What happened?"

"Probably a thief broke in yesterday, trying to steal something valuable. This neighborhood is predominantly Black; you'll get used to it," the Tinkerer replied, then pointed to a nearby hospital bed and said, "Put him on it."

The hospital bed sheets were far from clean, with bloodstains still visible. The only thing that wasn't offensive was that the stain was dry, not wet.

This doesn't mean someone bled on it recently, but whether the sheet has been washed and is clean is unknown.

Seeing the young Latino hesitate and not put his companion on the hospital bed, the Tinkerer said directly, "If you don't want treatment, leave. There's still hope if you take him to a proper hospital now. I won't force you."

After much deliberation, Derek placed his unconscious companion on the hospital bed and said, "He's been shot."

"I'm not blind," the Tinkerer said, but instead of rushing to help, he held out his hand and said, "Fee for saving a life, five. Money first, then I'll help."

"Walter!"

"If you don't give it to me, get out," the Tinkerer said decisively.

Derek, seeing his companion's wolfish appearance, pulled out all the money he had and slammed it heavily onto the exaggeratedly dressed man's hand. He added menacingly, "You'd better pray he's alright!"

"Don't worry, it's a minor injury, you won't die."

The Tinkerer, having accepted the money, then contentedly took out his medical tools from his briefcase on the table and began to treat the person.