A Thrilling and Exciting Bus Ride

Are you feeling unwell?

Damn, how could you even ask me that?

You've only been living in Gotham for a year, have you completely lost touch with what normal life is like?

Ma Zhaodi had a million complaints in his heart but didn't know where to start. In the end, he instinctively focused his gaze on the gun Drake was holding.

Drake saw his look and chuckled self-deprecatingly, "I was going to give you my gun, but then I remembered Old Jack apparently has a clearance sale today, so I just went to ask. You're really lucky, he still had an almost unused Glock 17 left. I bought it with the 9mm bullets and magazine for only three hundred dollars."

"Wait, clearance sale? Glock 17? Is the driver a black market arms dealer on the side?"

"Don't worry, quite a few people buy these in Gotham. But since the quality is hit-or-miss, and they're too light, and cops use them, many people sell the Glocks they get from the police station, which sometimes causes trouble for buyers. But this one is definitely fine, Old Jack wouldn't cheat me."

As they talked, several burly men with tattoos on their arms got into the car.

Ma Zhaodi dazedly took the gun, and Drake thoughtfully stuffed the remaining magazine into his jacket pocket.

He subconsciously glanced at the driver again, only to find two or three people already lining up beside him. The old man casually held the steering wheel with one hand, occasionally turning his head to chat with someone, and with his right hand, he pulled out gun after gun, handing them to passengers who offered cash.

Damn, he even drifted through an intersection with one hand.

"Right, I still haven't asked." Ma Zhaodi, jolted back to reality, looked at the windshield, which seemed like mere decoration, "Why doesn't the bus have a windshield?"

A few guys in leather jackets, who looked like gangsters, got in from the door.

"It used to have one, but after it shattered more than ten times, the operating owner refused to fix it anymore."

"More than ten times?"

"Ah, well, that's because this bus starts from the East End, so there are occasional minor scuffles."

"Wait, wait, wait."

Ma Zhaodi rubbed his forehead and thought for a long time, "You said we live in the East End?"

A few women, dressed provocatively and alluringly, giggled as they got on the bus.

Ma Zhaodi's comic book reading wasn't ideal. Unlike some hardcore Batman or DC fans or lore experts who could rattle off every major event, character relationship, organizational structure, origin, and place name, he did have some impression of the East End.

Achieving widespread fame was difficult, but becoming infamous was incredibly easy. The East End of Gotham City was precisely such a place.

As the crime capital of the world, the darkest place, a dangerous city built on crime and gangs, Gotham was a household name in America. And the East End was the most notorious district in Gotham City.

As Gotham's most underdeveloped area, the East End was rife with poverty, crime, prostitution, drugs, and arms trafficking. Beggar gangs, criminals, prostitutes, addicts, enforcers, and arms dealers were everywhere. The most famous alley here was originally called Park Row, where Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne were shot and killed. It was precisely because of this shooting that the alley was renamed Crime Alley.

If you don't know who those two people are, just remember that the Wayne family is one of the four founding families of Gotham.

"Yeah, where else would I live? The Diamond District?"

"..."

A few addicts, looking pale and listless, staggered from the front door to the seats at the back of the bus.

Ma Zhaodi watched them take their seats in the back and felt a surge of despair. No wonder so many "dragons and phoenixes" were flocking into the bus. The current passengers were a very mixed bunch, like putting sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal, and shrapnel into a tin can and sealing it.

You couldn't say it would definitely explode, but you knew it really could if it caught fire. Now, Ma Zhaodi could only pray that Drake was reliable enough not to get him into a tin can explosive that would catch fire.

"Screech--Bang!"

The bus driver, driving at high speed, suddenly slammed on the brakes. Just as everyone was about to be thrown around, the braking bus heavily collided with another bus entering the lane from the side, turning everyone into tumbling gourds.

"Damn! You son of a bitch, can't you fing drive?! Driving this fast in the East End, you trying to get to hell sooner to f your mom?!"

"You idiot, you keep talking and I'll shove this gun barrel up your a**! Get the f*** out of here!"

The driver of the other bus was a middle-aged Black man. After Old Jack initiated a voice communication request, he immediately responded with an enthusiasm no less than Old Jack's and a fluency comparable to a well-known West Coast rapper. The intensity of their exchange grew hotter and hotter, yet the street miraculously didn't get jammed. It was clear that the residents of Gotham City had developed strong driving skills and psychological resilience through their daily lives.

Of course, there was also the mental preparation to prioritize survival over morality.

To put it simply, Old Jack and the Black man started a verbal war, but the other passing Gotham citizens were used to it. They drove over solid lines and against traffic, speeding away.

There was no other way. In modern society, everyone was busy. Cars, horses, and mail were all urgent. An ordinary citizen might only be able to sell a few dozen grams of goods, see six or seven clients, or dispose of three or four bodies in a single morning.

After all, they had to live.

"You bastard!" As the argument escalated, Old Jack became more agitated, his speech faster and faster, even spitting a few flecks of saliva onto his beard, "I'll show you how to reason in Gotham!"

Immediately after, he pulled out a black shotgun from under his seat.

"Bang!"

"Holy crap, it really caught fire!"

Ma Zhaodi was filled with despair. He trembled and hugged the handgun in his arms tightly. Although he had only gotten it less than ten minutes ago, it was clear that the moment Old Jack fired, this gun had become one of his closest brothers in arms.

However, the people around him looked unfazed. They had already taken out their guns long ago. Even Drake patted his shoulder, "It's okay. We'll get off and find a safe place to hide later. Old Jack will keep driving after he's done. You'll make it to work on time."

What the hell, what do you mean "keep driving after he's done"?