In the grotesque yet vibrant city, all manner of bizarre sounds constantly rang out. Strange things flew across the sky from time to time as well, most of them in shapes too peculiar to describe.
Deathstroke and The Old Man sat side by side on a curb made of flesh. Neither spoke any further, and they simply smoked in silence.
The cigarettes Constantine smoked were the United Kingdom version of purple Silk Cut, costing around two Galleons a pack and virtually impossible to buy in China.
Mainly because cigarettes that cost roughly twenty yuan tasted like chili powder mixed with tea leaves. The burning, smoke-seared sensation in the throat was more than ordinary people could bear unless they were truly hardcore smokers, so there was little market potential for them.
As far as Su Ming's previous life was concerned, Skar Cigarettes had been popular for a while in the late 1980s. Back then, however, their name had been translated domestically as "Luck."
It was neither a transliteration nor a literal translation. Strictly speaking, the cigarettes should have been called "Silk Road." Still, Zha Kang smoking them was quite fitting—his luck truly had always been bad.
After all, if he was constantly too broke to buy cigarettes, wasn't running out of them bad luck?
Having come up with another bad joke while squatting by the roadside, Su Ming was quite pleased with himself. He even came up with the slogan for it: Smoke Skar Cigarettes and get Batwoman's signature, throat-cancer-patient-like raspy charm.
"Everyone, tell me about yourselves. Entering Nightmare was a way for me to stay alive. Why did you come in?" The Old Man's cloudy gaze swept across every face, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. "Men and women alike... don't tell me you came here for