Starting from scratch, Batman crushed my dream of getting rich

Chapter 249 The Origin of the Calamity

“Let me introduce you.” Constantine patted the middle-aged man on the shoulder and said to Ma Zhaodi, “One of my old friends, in fact, I should say my best friend, Chas.”

The man extended his hand and shook hands with Ma Zhaodi: "Hello."

"And who is this? Uh, what's your name again?"

Constantine then realized that, until now, he knew nothing about this visitor.

"Ma Zhaodi, an enthusiast of the occult, is currently unemployed. You can call me Old Ma."

Constantine raised an eyebrow. How could an unemployed man who speaks American English be so generous?

There was something off about the man, but since he was the employer and the deposit had already been received, he didn't want to ask any more questions for the time being.

If this teammate really has a problem, we can just sell him off to save our own lives.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, He forced me to do it, He forced me to do it."

On the sofa, Lester, still in a state of panic, kept repeating these words. His mental state was quite bad, and Constantine could hardly get anything out of him.

Chase glanced at the puddle of mud on the sofa and asked, "Where the hell did you find this guy?"

"In the bathtub, you believe it?" Constantine sneered. "I thought it was a giant spider crawling out of the pipe."

“Let me reintroduce you, Gary Lester, who used to be my friend, but we had a little trouble in Jody, England—and then we went our separate ways.”

Constantine gestured for Chas to get to what he was doing, then lit another cigarette: "The last time I heard from him was in Morocco. I heard he was writing some book, something like whining about drugs, alcoholism, boys, weird fates and stuff. He's really ruining himself. Luckily he doesn't self-harm, or he would have been."

"Didn't you used to be in a band too?" Chas casually replied, "Something like rock and roll, rebellion, individuality, and stuff like that."

"I'm not using this as an excuse to indulge in debauchery and ruin myself."

At this moment, Ma Zhaodi watched as Chas fiddled with the things he had brought for a long time before finally sucking them into the syringe. He immediately understood what Constantine meant by "having his fill." He shook his head and then patted Chas on the shoulder.

"Forget it, just flush that stuff down the toilet. I'll help him calm down."

“Hey, hey!” Constantine, who was flipping through the Sun newspaper, spoke up: “This guy is already pitiful enough. We have to get something out of him, at least to make him relax. It’s not like he’s using any kind of torture drugs—wait, you’re Singaporean?”

“I am Chinese,” Ma Zhaodi said. “You should know our opinion on this thing.”

"Alright, alright, my friend, you have to know one thing: when in Rome, do as the Romans do—this is London, England. You can't control every drug addict, especially since you paid me to find out the truth, remember? Sometimes, we have to make a little sacrifice for something more important."

At that moment, Lester, sitting on the sofa, saw the syringe in Chas's hand and, like a lost soul finding water in the desert, cried out in a pleading voice, "Give me that thing, Constantine, please, stop torturing me! Give it to me!"

"You see, even if you stop him today, he'll still buy it himself in a few days."

“That’s his business.” Ma Zhaodi reached into his pocket and took out two candies, then took off the detachable hood of his coat. “But I won’t give him the injection by default. I’ll choose another method.”

Constantine watched as he tossed the two candies into Lester's mouth. Strangely, the next second, Lester's emaciated body, his sunken skin and bones, suddenly became plump; the dark circles under his eyes, the bloodshot eyes, the pale, sickly face, the needle marks on his arms, and the bite marks all vanished rapidly.

Ma Zhaodi then placed the hat on the other person's head. Similarly, in the next moment, Lester's eyes changed from confusion and fear to calm and rationality.

In fact, Ma Zhaodi could have chosen to spend $10,000 to help him recover, as the two options would have the same effect. However, he didn't want to do that because it would be a waste—the addict in front of him was already terminally ill. Not only had he developed a physical addiction, but he was also completely psychologically dependent on the drug. His chances of relapse were 100%.

Seeing Lester's condition, Chase breathed a sigh of relief. He picked up the bag and turned to walk into the bathroom.

Ma Zhaodi then turned to Constantine, whose eyes were deep and unfathomable, and gestured: This guy has calmed down, now it's your turn to ask.

So Constantine approached Leicester, his mind still reeling from what had just happened. This new client didn't seem to be just a simple "mystic enthusiast." Ordinary enthusiasts wouldn't have such unheard-of candy, and the kind of hat that could instantly restore one's sanity was even more unheard of.

Having been in the same room with him for so long, I hadn't realized at all that the hat was a magical item; it didn't seem to be the type of magic I was familiar with.

“Guys (his special nickname for Lester as a friend),” he began. “I was thinking of using some hypnotic techniques, but you seem very calm right now. I suppose I don’t need to tie you up?”

“No need, Constantine.” Lester had completely calmed down by now. He stretched out on the sofa. At this moment, although he still really wanted to take drugs, he was able to control the urge for the time being because he knew that there were more important things to do.

"That happened when I was in Tangier, Morocco, and that's what made me who I am today."

Tangier is hot, extremely hot.

Leicester, wearing sunglasses, walked down the streets of the old town. His short-sleeved shirt was soaked with sweat, and the scorching heat kept rushing into his throat, almost suffocating him. The air was distorted and deformed by the sun.

The people here, however, all wore headscarves and robes. The merchants in the city were already used to this kind of weather and busily hawked their wares along the streets. A beggar with a broken leg huddled in a shady corner of an alley, weakly begging for food. Children wearing hats tugged at passersby on the street, asking if they wanted to buy a boy or a girl.

Twenty dirhams each, four pounds, five US dollars, forty yuan.

Very cheap price.

But Lester ignored the crowd around him; at that moment, he was in great pain, and his addiction was acting up again.

He wanted to get some goods in the city, but he was penniless.

(End of this chapter)