Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 370 We're in Trouble (First Update)

When Salomon returned to Professor Randolph's office, Professor Elliott Randolph was already quite drunk. In fact, a bottle of Scotch bourbon whiskey couldn't affect the Asgardians' constitution at all, but if someone drank whiskey like they were drinking an ice-cold cola in the summer sun, even an Asgardian (especially a commoner) wouldn't be able to hold out for long.

Laura Crawford was somewhat embarrassed, as Professor Randolph had already downed his third bottle of whiskey. She still didn't know why the professor was so upset, but when she realized she couldn't stop him from unscrewing the cap, she gave up on asking—the observant female archaeologist had noticed Salomon's hint, though she didn't yet know why, but she believed Salomon would tell her, because they had an agreement.

"Professor Elliott Randolph." Salomon smiled at Laura, who was holding a wine glass, and then handed a piece of parchment to the bleary-eyed history professor (who had once been a folklore professor). Professor Randolph glanced at the sorcerer, then at the writing on the parchment. Laura Crawford saw what was written on the parchment, and her speculation about Professor Randolph's identity once again took a turn.

Although she didn't know Salomon's target for distributing contracts, the sorcerer had already explained a small part of his work: issuing contracts to witnesses of accidental magic and ordinary participants in magical events. She believed that she signed a contract because she wanted to explore the magical world—however, for someone with such a special goal as her, Salomon would usually sign a contract in advance, and even if Laura Crawford hadn't requested it, he would primarily seek her out to sign one.

"Please sign this contract as soon as possible," Salomon said. "Agent Coulson has agreed to keep it confidential, and Kamar-Taj will not interfere with your life on Earth."

"Professor Randolph isn't an ordinary person?" As she left the office, Laura finally couldn't contain her curiosity and voiced her speculation. "I don't think I need to sign a parchment just because I heard you explain runes." Dressed in sporty denim, Laura walked down the steps, her hard heels clicking loudly on the ground, her neat ponytail swinging playfully.

The female archaeologist and the recent college graduate skipped around, saying, "Aren't you going to reveal the answer?"

“Actually, it’s kind of boring,” Salomon said. “You were involved in the S.H.I.E.L.D. object identification work, weren’t you? S.H.I.E.L.D. found everyone who knew one’s onions to do it, but you also saw how they treated alien objects—if I hadn’t resisted, they would have put me in a foam box and kept me safe. Professor Randolph was the one who knew he had onions; in fact, he was an onion farmer.”

Salomon's witty remark made Laura burst into laughter.

"This trouble is simply because Professor Randolph's treasure location has been found," the sorcerer continued. "I don't understand why he would write a poem to leave clues about his hiding place; that's a bit silly."

"Hey! Don't swear, Salomon, you're not even in college yet!"

"You should be glad the college I'm going to doesn't have any of those CIA-manipulated idiots sponsored by the National Endowment for Democracy, or I'd be swearing a lot more. Money works everywhere, but it's a bit much to let idiots who lead street riots go to school." Salomon fully expressed his disdain for the Americans. "If they weren't idiots, why would they accept CIA funding?"

"Okay, if you're going to make political statements, let's find a place to talk." Laura rubbed her stomach. "A place where we can get a good meal. My whiskey is burning up in my stomach, and if I don't eat something soon, you'll have to call the fire department."

"I can breathe fire, but I didn't know you could too."

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"Wow!" Skye carefully took the pebbles from Agent Coulson's hand.

What made her wary was none other than the runes engraved on the pebbles. Agent Coulson instructed her to handle these seemingly ordinary stones with care—after Fitz's examination, these stones also appeared to be alien material, at least in terms of spectral characteristics, similar to Thor's hammer. However, Agent Coulson didn't seem too worried; he didn't seal the pebbles in the foam box, as Salomon had assured him of their safety.

"These runestones won't trigger as long as we don't utter that word." Fitz was clearly baffled by this illogical thing. "Does it have a listener (a programmer's term) that runs a program when it detects an event? If so, I guess I know what magic is."

“I think we can take this opportunity to do more checks,” Simmons said excitedly. “Last time Salomon Damonette came, I scanned his armor and sword, and the spectral characteristics were completely different from Thor's hammer. We believe that different… you could call it magic, they all have different spectral characteristics. It’s a pity we didn’t get to do a few small experiments last time. This time we have plenty of opportunity… It’s not that I don’t believe in Salomon’s abilities, but I think we can use benzodiazepines instead of these runestones…”

"Calming pills, a good choice." Skye had clearly done her homework; she now knew what S.H.I.E.L.D.'s standard stock of medications.

"Don't break it, Simmons, remember to take precautions." Agent Coulson let the science team experiment freely, showing none of the seriousness of the other senior agents. Only Agents Grant Ward and Melinda May protested with their eyes, believing that reckless experimentation would only lead to disastrous consequences—but Agent Coulson convinced them by citing Fitz-Simons's discovery of an antibody to combat the Chitauri virus, and that he believed the science team could handle these runes.

"Remember, don't say that word." Agent Coulson clapped his hands, reminding his team members to be careful, before disembarking from the plane. He had something to discuss with Professor Elliott Randolph—S.H.I.E.L.D. needed to find the Berserker's Staff before the rioters, and he hoped Professor Randolph could tell him everything.

However, when Coulson returned to the office, Professor Randolph was nowhere to be found; only a few empty bottles on the desk proved he had been doing something. Agent Coulson looked around and instantly understood Professor Randolph's intentions.

"Friends," he said to his team members on the plane, pressing a button on his headset, "we're in trouble. Professor Randolph went to find the Berserker's Staff."

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"Think about it, women over a hundred years ago! They couldn't vote, their skirts and belts were below the knee, and they couldn't use contraception. If they wanted an abortion, they would find a back alley to secretly terminate the pregnancy, and if they were caught, they would go to jail for murder! Now, they can have an abortion whenever and wherever they want! Having an abortion is no harder than buying a McDonald's! They can even run for president..." A truck driver, holding a beer mug, spouted wild words, his speech winning applause and cheers from the drunkards who had been drinking during the day.

Salomon ignored those comments as background noise, but Laura wasn't so easily swayed. "That's just how vulgar Americans are," the sorcerer advised. "If you're so angry you can't eat your fries, well, you brought it on yourself. Who told you to experience American life?"

"I'm starting to regret it, Salomon." Laura Crawford sullenly stuffed food into her mouth, looking like she was chewing on a piece of rubber. "How do Americans even survive?"

"Frank is the most well-informed person here, and he's also my brother-in-law," the bartender said, wiping the glasses. He was a well-known good guy, never stingy when pouring beer, and always skimming off the excess foam. Without looking up, he said, "Frank, you make a lot of sense. I look forward to discussing those points with my sister at the party tonight."

Upon hearing what the bar owner said, the audience burst into laughter again.

"That's American life," Laurie Lomon raised an eyebrow. "At least I have no problem with rural America. I love it here; it's the only place I can drink. Hey! Ben, can I have a Depth Charge?"

"Of course, this drink is on you, since it's for your girlfriend!" the bar owner said.

A cheering chorus of boos erupted from inside the bar.

"Well done, kid!"

Please vote for me!

(End of this chapter)