Everyday casualties, part three

In reality, the Black Clinic didn't have a back door. What many injured patients thought was the back door was actually a small room used as a storage room, without even a window.

Besides the empty shelves, there was a single bed. It was originally intended to be one of the three burrows for a rabbit, but it has never actually been used.

On the other side of the wall of the small room was the internal passageway of the apartment building. There weren't many residents in the apartment building, so the passageway was rarely used.

The Tinkerer, using his Super Speed to achieve molecular penetration, passed through the wall, creating the illusion that the clinic was open for business from inside.

But when he opened the door and saw the person ringing the doorbell under the guise of a salesperson, his expression immediately turned displeased, and he said, "You're not hurt, get out."

As he spoke, he was about to close the door.

"Wait a moment!"

He was dressed in an inexpensive suit, but his attire was anything but formal; his shirt was half-pulled out and his suit jacket buttons were undone—a typical thug's style. Add to that the tattoos showing on his neck and wrists, and you couldn't imagine how respectable he could be.

He grabbed the Tinkerer's hand as he was closing the door and said, "Our boss wants to see you."

"This place is under Big O's protection, you know that, right?" The Tinkerer invoked the name of the landlord, Old Black.

The young white man just chuckled and said, "Even Big O wouldn't dare offend our boss. You say this place is under his protection, do you think that's any use?"

The Tinkerer struggled for a moment, but found the other person holding him tightly. He could only say with a look of disgust, "So, you're not letting me get some tools? Are you planning to make me use a kitchen knife and sewing needle to save someone when we get there? Or are you not looking for a doctor?"

"Hehe." The young man released his grip, but still threatened, "Doctor, don't even think about running away. You can't escape no matter what, you know?"

The Tinkerer suddenly became curious: Did the other person know he was a Continental Hotel? Or did Continental Hotel simply not care about the well-being of their employees?

On second thought, this situation isn't actually that bad. My relationship with the Continental Hotel is that of an outsourced service provider. Strictly speaking, I'm not really an employee of the Continental Hotel.

If someone of similar strength were to step in, would the Continental Hotel really go to war with the other side over someone who isn't even a thousand or so?

This made the Tinkerer very curious about who was behind this young white man. Was he just a clueless, naive young man?

Or is it another big shot?

The Tinkerer, eager to broaden his horizons, didn't even need the young man outside to urge him. He picked up his old-fashioned handbag, which he'd bought from the flea market and which contained various medical instruments and basic medicines, and followed along.

Before leaving, make sure to put away the call bell and change the note to "On house call" to avoid anyone coming to your door for treatment.

I am overwhelmed with the task.

After doing all this, the Tinkerer followed the young man to the alley entrance. The car that picked them up was a Rolls-Royce, a low-end version of a top-of-the-line luxury car, which indicated that the owner of this car was just rich, but didn't have the kind of power that could be seen in public.

However, even the base model is still a Rolls-Royce -Rolls-Royce; the feeling of sitting in it is just different.

This is definitely not about being overly expensive or getting excited just by seeing a hand-painted line on the body panels. It's about the design angle of the sofa seats and the feel of genuine leather, which is simply different from cheap plastic sofas with foam padding.

There were no unpleasant smells inside the car. As soon as the door was closed, the air inside and outside was like two different worlds, completely blocking out the cooking fumes and strange smells.

Especially with British and European cars, the firm suspension system makes for a completely different riding experience compared to the soft suspension of American cars.

Driving my Cadillac is like sitting on a waterbed that's not fully filled with water. If the road conditions are bad and I don't choose my route carefully, I'll be rocked so much I'll question my existence.

However, this Rolls-Royce didn't drive to a large villa in a wealthy neighborhood to match its status. Instead, it drove into a warehouse area, turning left and right until it entered what looked like an abandoned factory.

It's like seeing someone with slicked-back hair, a neat suit, and a tie, but wearing patterned trousers that reveal hairy legs, and then a pair of beach sandals.

I really want to complain, but I don't even know where to begin.

The abandoned factory was very spacious, mostly dirty and smelly. Only one area was beautifully decorated.

It looks like it was designed by a famous artist.

An art-grade floor lamp, France Rococo-style sofa chair, and an oil painting on an antique coffee table that never quite made it onto the wall, arranged in a row on easels. There's also an expensive Persia rug, so pricey it's hard to know where to even step, covering a small section of the space.

They even had a grand piano, placed to one side. A young woman in an evening gown was sitting at the piano, playing melodious music live. Her gentle touch was captivating.

Bringing him to this incongruous high-class area, the Tinkerer finally saw the main character of his visit: a large, fat Old Bai man wearing a bright red bathrobe, flanked by two stunningly beautiful women in black and white.

With his imposing physique, if I weren't in Los Angeles, I would have thought I'd run into Kingpin, a classic villain from the Marvel Universe.

But Kingpin n't be so tasteless as to haphazardly combine the good and the bad like a Frankenstein's monster.

Moreover, under the Tinkerer's X-ray Vision, it was just a large lump of fat, not muscle. Therefore, the possibility of it being that underworld tycoon could be ruled out.

Even an ordinary person without mutant abilities can beat Spider-Man; Kingpin is also a pinnacle of human achievement.

"Tinkerer, right?" the Old Bai, fat man asked, lighting a cigar with the help of two girls beside him.

The Tinkerer, acting as if he were already familiar with the place, also cut open a cigar and lit it for himself.

The Old Bai, fat man patiently waited for the person in front of him to take a large puff of his cigar and exhale a thick cloud of smoke before speaking, "What If...? I say I didn't do it, will you punish your incompetent subordinate?"

This leads to a self-proving dilemma: how can one prove that someone is who they claim to be when they do not admit it?

People who aren't very bright, or those who think they're very smart, will be stumped by this kind of question. Only truly intelligent people know how to step outside the problem itself to solve it.

The chubby Old Bai man was someone who could think outside the box. But he was also annoyed by this impolite response, and thus said unhappily:

"What If...? you're not, I'll have someone beat you up until you admit it; or tell me where the person who should be is."

"Okay, let's keep it simple. I am Tinkerer, that's true. What do you need me for?"