American Zombie Detective

Chapter 186 Fat Brothers and the Devilish Muscle Man

The main control room of the hunting base.

When the scene of the Gentlemen's Squad freezes on the moment Harley Quinn combs her hair, everyone in the control room is stunned!

The initial enthusiasm generated by the Asylum Squad vanished instantly; the technicians' expressions were replaced by horror, many turning deathly pale, as if the terrifying Harley Quinn might leap out of the screen at any moment.

"My God—what—what is that thing?" someone whispered in a trembling voice.

"Calling! Calling! Gentlemen's Squad, please respond! Doctor! Professor! Lawyer! Respond if you hear me!"

The person in charge, Carlos, was the first to react, shouting into the communication microphone, clearly in a hurry.

As a mid-level member of the organization, Carlos knew a little about many secrets, so his fear of these things was slightly less, but he wasn't unafraid either.

Once. Twice. Three times!

The communication channel was filled with only the crackling of static, like the silence of death.

Just as a silent panic gripped the control room, Mr. K's voice came through a concealed microphone: "Immediately dispatch drones to the target location for reconnaissance. Technical team, continue attempting to establish a connection!"

"Yes, boss!" Carlos, as if he had found his anchor, immediately responded loudly, then turned to his subordinates and roared, "Didn't you hear me? Quick! Confirm the location, prepare for drone takeoff! You, maintain the connection—"

The technicians hurriedly began operating the equipment.

However----

Just as the coordinates were determined and the location was entered, before the drone even took off, the Gentlemen's Squad's tactical tablet miraculously connected and quickly established communication!

The main screen remained completely black, with no image, indicating it was likely broken. However, the doctor's voice was clearly audible, filled with extreme anger, rage, and uncontrollable roaring:

His voice was filled with extreme anger, lingering fear, and a hoarseness from surviving a catastrophe, as he roared madly: "—It's a violation! This is a blatant violation! Those lunatics in the asylum deserve to go to hell! Bastards! They actually—"

They actually made a Harley Quinn doll! Yes! The one you see! They even made its head detachable to scare us!!!

The doctor's voice cracked with emotion: "These lunatics! They attacked us to hoard the points! These bastards—just because of this! We—"

We accidentally killed a journalist—the journalist is dead! Did you hear that? They broke the rules!

Everyone in the control room was stunned.

Harley Quinn's lifelike doll?

That terrifying scene that could give anyone a nightmare was just a prank prop? What a bunch of lunatics!

The overwhelming sense of absurdity and the bittersweet feeling of being mocked dispelled the previous fear, and the tense atmosphere suddenly relaxed. Many people breathed a long sigh of relief, and some even couldn't help but mutter curses under their breath.

"Fuck! It was fake!"

"I knew it—how could such a thing possibly happen—"

"These people in the asylum are truly—fuckly living up to their name!"

Carlos felt the weight lift from his chest, and he quickly leaned closer to the microphone: "Doctor! Doctor! Calm down! How is the situation?"

"What else can we do? The reporter is dead!" Even when facing members of the organizers, the doctor's voice was still indignant: "The doctor and I are together, and the lawyer—that guy broke his leg, we don't even know how he is! I'm requesting that, according to the rules, the mental hospital's participation be disqualified, and they be eliminated!"

Carlos hesitated for a moment. This matter was indeed troublesome. The asylum's actions had resulted in the deaths and injuries of the Gentlemen's League, but—to call it an attack seemed a bit of a stretch.

He dared not act on his own and immediately asked respectfully, "Boss, regarding the gentleman's team's complaint—should we rule it a violation?"

There was a moment of silence from the loudspeaker as all the staff held their breath.

A few seconds later, Mr. K's emotionless voice rang out again, tinged with a hint of sarcasm: "The rules forbid hunters from attacking each other, but using items to intimidate doesn't seem like an attack, does it? An interesting strategy, but not against the rules. It's their own mental fortitude that's lacking. Tell the doctor the match continues."

With Mr. K's final ruling, Carlos immediately felt confident: "Doctor, did you hear that? Mr. K's ruling is in: the asylum's actions do not constitute a violation. The game continues. I regret the loss of the reporters, but please regroup."

On the other end of the tactical tablet, the doctor seemed extremely dissatisfied and cursed a few times, but ultimately had to accept reality, his voice lowering: "————Damn it, I got it."

Carlos then asked, "Your equipment seems to be malfunctioning. Do you need a backup?"

"No time to wait for the drone!"

The doctor answered quickly, seemingly unwilling to complicate matters: "We need to go into the monastery immediately to try and score points. The spare equipment can be delivered tomorrow along with the supplies. Bye."

Communication was cut off.

Carlos immediately directed the technical team: "Quick! Edit the doctor's audio recording and our reasoning for the ruling, add sufficiently violent and sensational commentary, and release it, emphasizing the asylum's tricks!"

The edited information, once released, indeed sparked a new wave of excitement among dark web gamblers.

Fear quickly turned into amazement and curiosity about the "madhouse's" crazy behavior, and their betting volume saw another significant surge. Gamblers were extremely impressed by the madhouse's outrageous operations.

At this moment, on the second floor above the office, in a huge, luxuriously decorated room.

The decor here is completely different from the high-tech feel of the lower level. It's covered with thick carpets, dimly lit, and has abstract, dark-toned paintings on the walls. It's so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat.

Mr. K sat on the sofa in the shadows, holding a half-cup of scarlet Egon Miller.

Countless screens were mounted on the opposite wall, monitoring not only the workers' shed and office area, but also various betting odds, points, and even images visible on the dark web.

On the screen, the betting volume fluctuation curve caused by "the mental hospital intimidating the gentlemen's alliance" was slowly rising. A sense of control surged up in his lower abdomen, and a cold smile involuntarily curled up at the corner of his mouth.

Just then, a pure black satellite phone in his arms, without any markings, began to vibrate silently. Mr. K's smile instantly froze.

He pulled out his phone almost as if he'd been electrocuted. After seeing the caller ID, he immediately jumped up, his whole body stiffening. Then he bowed and respectfully pressed the answer button: "Master."

A gentle, magnetic voice, as kind and benevolent as a vineyard under the California sun, came through the receiver: "What happened during the Gentlemen's League live stream?"

Mr. K dared not conceal anything and immediately gave a brief and clear report on the situation of "the mental hospital making mannequins to intimidate people." He concluded by saying, "I have ruled that the mental hospital has not violated any rules, and the competition can continue."

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

The silence lasted less than two seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Mr. K, and cold sweat had already trickled down to his temples.

He didn't know which of his words was wrong, so he could only hold his breath and wait.

The gentle voice finally rang out again, but the warmth in it seemed even stronger: "K, you've watched so many Demon Fighting Tournaments with me, haven't you learned to see with your eyes and feel with your heart yet?"

'

His voice remained gentle, yet carried an undeniable pressure: "The actions Harley Quinn made weren't something a puppet could pull off. I sensed an ancient technique. The doctor's statement... is problematic!"

Mr. K's heart clenched, and he immediately said, "Master, it was my oversight! I will immediately send out a cleanup team to deal with it—no, all three cleanup teams will be sent out to completely eliminate the destabilizing factors."

"A cleanup team? No—" The voice on the other end hesitated for a moment, then made a decision: "A regular cleanup team probably won't be enough. Here's what you'll do: immediately contact 'Fat Brothers' and 'Devil Muscle Man,' and have their teams go as well."

Mr. K was stunned for a moment, almost thinking he had misheard: "Master? Send—send them?"

Those two are one of the ultimate weapons used to deal with unexpected events at the final level of the Demon Fighting Tournament, or to suppress certain disobedient special participants, or to handle an incident during an outer hunt.

"Yes, it's them."

The gentle voice affirmed his instruction, "This matter might be more complicated than it appears. As you said, an internal incident would be best; let them act as insurance. But what if—something that shouldn't have been there has infiltrated my game?"

The voice remained gentle, but that warmth had turned into a scorching fireball: "Then let the Fat Brothers and the Demon Muscle Man turn everyone into a footnote in the history book."

"Yes, Master! I will contact you immediately!" Mr. K dared not question him in the slightest.

"Yes, try to maintain the betting situation, but if it becomes uncontrollable—" He paused, "eliminating the threat should be the top priority."

"Understood, Master."