"A snack cart? You want to buy my snack cart?" The vendor revealed a strange expression. For a shriveled living corpse, the changes in his face were a little too complex, making him look more frightened than anything else. "Not for sale. Stop talking to me and get away."
That reaction was interesting. The more the other party wanted Deathstroke to leave, the less inclined he was to go.
"How much could a snack cart like yours be worth? I'll pay ten times the market price." Su Ming stood beneath the floral umbrella, eyeing the bread and sausages with interest. "I rather like your umbrella, so name your price."
"Why can't you understand? I said it's not for sale." The vendor shook his head. His murky yellow eyeballs shifted, agitating at the corners as though he were keeping watch on something with his peripheral vision. "Leave now. Don't drag me into this."
"Fine. If you explain why wanting to buy your stall would drag you into this, we'll leave immediately." As he spoke, Su Ming shrugged, indicating that the gorilla on his shoulder was also part of "we."
With a white plastic bag with eyeholes over his head, Bobo looked somewhat like a member of the Ku Klux Klan. It clashed badly with his black fur, so he remained silent.
"Don't you understand anything? Selling hot dogs here is my job. If you want to buy it, that means you don't have a job yourself. People without jobs are criminals!" The vendor lowered his voice. By the latter half of the sentence, it sounded like a growl echoing from the depths of a dry well or tree hollow.
"Interesting, Slade. It seems people without jobs meet with some misfortune here." Bobo spoke from inside the bag, making the plastic rustle