Chapter 30: The Ma Zhaodi Method of Stop-Loss

The thug in the tuxedo remembered Cobblepot’s instructions clearly: "Give them a taste of trouble, and let them know it’s better not to mess with the Iceberg Lounge."

In other words, no killing—just a warning.

Batman was out there throwing heavy punches, pummeling Falcone’s men. Cobblepot had no desire to escalate the conflict into a blood feud; he merely wanted to protect his interests. Trashing a restaurant was a way to save face, but if people actually started dying, there was no telling if Batman would end up chasing Falcone, only for Falcone to turn around and chase Cobblepot.

*If I can't handle Batman, surely I can handle you, Cobblepot?*

So, when the skirmish began, everyone brought submachine guns for fire suppression, but no one aimed at the people.

Then, in the middle of the fighting, a high-pitched, wailing cry rang out from the opposition.

"The manager is down!"

There was a hint of unbridled joy hidden within the sorrow.

The combatants looked at each other in confusion. "Is their leader actually down?"

"Seems like it. Should we keep shooting?"

Upon hearing this, the thug in the tuxedo looked up sharply. "What the hell? Who did that? Who shot their manager? Cease fire! Cease fire!"

As one side held their fire, the other followed suit. Only the wailing continued to echo through the empty space of the restaurant, standing out conspicuously.

"Help! Someone help! The manager is down! Call an ambulance!"

"Cough, cough... cough..." The manager, clutching his chest, wheezed, struggling to spit out a few words: "Damn it... I'm not... dead yet..."

"Oh, Manager, please don't die like this, waaaaah..."

"You... you..."

"Manager, whatever your last words are, I will definitely pass them on to your family, waaaaah..."

The manager was so enraged that he coughed violently again, the pain from his previous injury flaring up, leaving him momentarily speechless.

"Santos! Rick! Castro! Come over and look at him, waaaaah..."

*Bang!*

The manager, having finally reached his limit, regained his composure, grabbed his pistol, and fired a shot, cutting off Ma Zhaodi’s wailing.

"If you... damn it... howl one more time, I’ll put a bullet in you too. Cough, cough."

"Holy crap, great! Their manager isn't dead!"

Everyone turned to look at the Cobblepot henchman who had just cheered. Following Ma Zhaodi’s funeral-like wailing, he had become the second most eye-catching character on the scene.

The tuxedo-clad thug’s expression was complex. Although he felt a wave of relief, it was objectively insane to cheer for the enemy right in their faces.

"Idiot!" He slapped the man across the face and barked, "That’s one of theirs! What the hell are you happy about?"

The Cobblepot henchman nodded.

"Right, right. What are you happy about?"

"He should be dead..."

"Cough!" The tuxedo-clad thug interrupted his subordinate’s provocative rambling with a loud cough. Facing the strange looks from everyone in the restaurant, he braced himself and shouted, "Today is just a lesson! You all remember this: Cobblepot and the Iceberg Lounge are not to be trifled with!"

"Let’s go!"

The seemingly victorious Cobblepot men withdrew, while the seemingly defeated restaurant staff stood around with mixed expressions, lacking any real sense of having been bested in a gang fight.

After all, the highest damage output had come from their own side—a single bullet that had shattered the manager’s sanity and spiked his blood pressure.

"Ma Zhaodi..." The manager, having been helped to a chair to rest for a long while, finally caught his breath and pointed at Ma Zhaodi, roaring: "Do you have any idea how expensive that chandelier is! I told you to shoot at people! Not at the lights! Cobblepot didn't even finish trashing the place before you did it for him!"

"You’re paying that money back within a month! Or you’re finished!"

The reason he hadn't fired him was that Ma Zhaodi’s performance had improved rapidly; several new female clients he had served were now frequenting the restaurant. Most importantly, he had connections with Donald.

"Manager, I don't have the money to practice shooting, and besides, you were the one who said not to worry about it and to just 'shoot the hell out of them'..."

"Get out!"

Berated and sent away, Ma Zhaodi sighed and checked the time on his broken phone.

Ten o'clock sharp. Time to clock out.

"Yay."

He walked home with a melancholy expression, leaving behind a group of bewildered colleagues and a manager who was turning bright red once again.

The next day, Ma Zhaodi arrived for work as usual.

"The assessment of yesterday’s losses is finished," the sullen manager reported to Donald. "No casualties, damage to tables and chairs is minor, a few bottles of red wine were broken, but the biggest loss is that high-end chandelier..."

"No brothers were injured? That’s good."

"We only fought for a few minutes before the ceasefire, so there were no casualties... The overall damage to the restaurant is only about thirty percent of a typical gang fight, but if it weren't for Ma Zhaodi..."

"Philip, I promised I wouldn't have Ma Zhaodi out cutting people up. That bullet is on me."

Donald patted the manager on the shoulder. "Besides, he’s been driving that 'death trap' of a car lately."

"Huh?"

"The man has some kind of bizarre luck attached to him. I’m not sure if the chandelier incident counts as a net loss—but let’s keep him around for now." Donald turned and sat back in his chair. "Let this matter end here. As for the matter of face, the Family will collect on that sooner or later."

"Are we going to deal with the Penguin..."

"Nothing is decided yet. Don't go spreading rumors." Donald waved a hand. "The Godfather has spoken: deal with the Batman freak first, along with Gordon and Harvey Dent."

"Go get some rest. Remember, he isn't one of the Family yet. Don't let him handle a gun—be careful he doesn't shoot our own people."

Hearing this, the manager’s mouth twitched uncontrollably. Thinking of the scene where Ma Zhaodi aimed at the Penguin from behind, only to hit one of his own men, he subconsciously wiped away cold sweat.

If that were to happen again, the best-case scenario would be a regular grunt getting killed. Worse, he himself might get hit. The absolute worst case would be Ma Zhaodi taking out the boss.

Ma Zhaodi was eating the staff breakfast provided by the restaurant when he saw Philip walking over. He quickly put down his knife and fork, flashing a sycophantic smile at the manager.

"Hi, Manager, how did you sleep last night?"

The manager, who had spent the night supervising the cleanup, felt his vision go dark. Desperately suppressing his surging blood pressure, he said coldly, "Regarding the chandelier, Donald says you're off the hook."

Ma Zhaodi felt a weight lift from his heart. Donald was a man of his word; it meant he wouldn't have to find a second job or scramble to pay for the damages.

"Thanks!"

"Thank Donald," the manager frowned. "Also, that car you drive isn't very safe—what happened to the wheelchair you used to commute?"

"It got stolen," Ma Zhaodi shrugged. "I live in the East End."

"Find another way to get to work. Drive that car as little as possible." The manager sighed and shook his head. "Ma Zhaodi..."

"Yeah?"

"Go practice your shooting more often. You can use my name; you'll get a seventy percent discount."