Chapter 8: A Thrilling and Perilous Bus Ride

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Are you feeling unwell anywhere?
Damn it, how can you even ask me that?
You’ve only been living in Gotham for a year, and now you have no idea what ordinary life is like?
Mazhaodi had a thousand complaints in his heart but didn’t know where to start. In the end, his gaze instinctively fixed on the gun in Drake’s hand.
Seeing his look, Drake chuckled modestly, “I was going to give you my gun, but then I remembered that Old Jack seems to have a clearance sale today, so I asked around. You’re really lucky—he still has a Glock 17 that hasn’t been used much, with 9mm bullets and magazines included, all for just three hundred dollars.”
“Wait, clearance sale? Glock 17? The driver’s side hustle is arms dealing?”
“Don’t worry, quite a few local folks in Gotham buy these, but it’s hit or miss on quality, and they’re pretty light. Most are police-issued Glocks that people get from the station and resell, which sometimes causes trouble— but this one’s definitely fine. Old Jack wouldn’t screw me over.”
As they spoke, several tattooed, muscular men with inked arms got on the bus.
Mazhaodi, confused, took the gun into his hands. Drake thoughtfully stuffed the remaining magazines into the pocket of his coat.
He instinctively glanced at the driver again. By now, two or three people had already started queuing beside him. The old man looked relaxed, steering with one hand, occasionally turning his head to chat with passengers while handing over gun after gun to those who handed over cash.
Damn, he even pulled a one-handed drift through an intersection.
“Oh right, I haven’t even asked,” Mazhaodi said, suddenly alert, looking at the windshield like a mere decoration. “Why does the bus have no glass?”
A few gang-looking leather-clad thugs walked in through the door.
“There used to be glass, but after it broke more than ten times, the operator refused to fix it anymore.”
“More than ten times?”
“Well... since this bus starts in the East End, there’s always some small trouble happening now and then.”

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“Wait, wait...”
Mazhaodi rubbed his forehead, thinking hard. “You’re saying we’re living in the East End?”
Several provocatively dressed women boarded the bus, laughing.
Mazhaodi’s comic book knowledge was mediocre. Unlike some hardcore Batman or DC fans who knew every major event, character background, organizational structure, origins, and institution names by heart, he only had a rough impression of the East End.
Gaining a good reputation is difficult, but earning an infamous one is easy. The East End in Gotham is exactly that kind of place.
As the world’s crime capital, a city built on crime and gangs, Gotham’s name is well-known across America. The East End is widely recognized as the city’s most notorious district.
The least developed part of Gotham, the East End is rife with poverty, crime, prostitution, drugs, and arms trading. Beggars, gangs, criminals, prostitutes, addicts, enforcers, and weapons dealers are seen everywhere.
The most infamous alley, once called Park Street, is where Thomas and Martha Wayne were shot to death. Because of that shooting, the alley was renamed Crime Alley.
If you don’t know who they are, just remember the Wayne family is one of Gotham’s founding families.
“Yeah, otherwise, where do you think I’d live? The Diamond District?”
“...”
Several pale, lethargic addicts staggered from the front door to the seats at the back.
Mazhaodi watched them settle in the back seats, feeling a wave of sorrow. No wonder so many hidden talents and potential geniuses were flooding the bus. The mix of passengers was chaotic, like stuffing sulfur, saltpeter, charcoal, and shrapnel into a tin shell and sealing it tight.
You can’t say it’s guaranteed to explode, but you know that once it catches fire, it very well might. For now, Mazhaodi could only pray Drake was reliable enough not to lead him into a ticking tin bomb.
“Screech—bang!”
Suddenly, the speeding bus driver slammed on the brakes. Just as everyone was about to be thrown forward, the bus crashed heavily into another bus pulling into the lane, turning everyone into tumbling bodies.
“Damn it! You damn idiot, can’t you drive? Driving this fast in the East End, are you trying to get to hell faster?”

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“Idiot, if you say another word, I’ll shove the barrel of this gun up your—get lost, damn you!”
The other bus driver, a middle-aged Black man, responded immediately after Old Jack opened the mic for communication, matching his enthusiasm and spitting rapid-fire insults with the fluency of a famous West Coast rapper.
Their exchange grew more heated by the second, yet the street strangely didn’t get congested. Clearly, Gotham’s residents had developed exceptional driving skills and mental toughness from living this life.
Of course, they had also long abandoned their sense of morality in favor of survival.
In simpler terms, Old Jack and the Black driver were exchanging fiery insults, while other Gotham citizens just honked and swerved around them, crossing solid lines and driving against traffic.
No choice—modern life is busy. Cars, horses, mail—all urgent. An average citizen might only sell a few dozen grams of goods, serve six or seven clients, or handle three or four corpses each morning.
After all, they had to live.
“Son of a bitch!” Old Jack’s voice grew more intense and rapid, spit flying onto his beard. “I’ll show you what it means to talk sense in Gotham!”
Then, he pulled a black shotgun from under his seat.
“Bang!”
“Holy shit, he really fired!”
Mazhaodi looked utterly hopeless, trembling as he hugged the pistol in his arms. Though it had only been minutes since he got the gun, from the moment Old Jack fired, it had become one of his closest comrades in life and death.
Yet the others around him remained calm, having already drawn their guns. Even Drake patted his shoulder reassuringly.
“It’s okay. We’ll get off soon and find a safe place to hide. Old Jack will keep driving after he’s done shooting. You’ll still make it to work on time.”
Damn it—what the hell does “done shooting then keep driving” even mean?