Chapter 68: Another Law-abiding Day
Just as Constantine felt a chill from the pronoun used for the angel, on the other side, Ian, whom he had come to deeply fear, finally arrived at the gym he had been thinking about for the past two days.
The sunset’s afterglow sprinkled on the neon signboard of “Big Muscle Domination Gym,” the pink-purple lights appearing especially ambiguous in the evening mist; it probably shouldn’t be open in Metropolis but in England.
His old home before crossing.
The rotten heavenly kingdom also lacks such a gym.
“A color scheme full of bromance, Jonathan actually loves coming to a place like this; it’s way too easy to misunderstand.” Ian stood at the door with hands in pockets, looking up at the gym’s signboard.
He had no intention of going in and showing off his physical quality that surpassed ordinary people by ten times. Some pretenses don’t have to be put on; mature pretentious people only put on pretenses that give a sense of accomplishment.
“Where are the drug dealers hiding?”
Although Ian already had a Desperate Chemistry Teacher, he still wanted to meet the legendary dragon sooner; after all, even if the Desperate Chemistry Teacher could make a dragon, he would need Ian to get the raw materials.
A law-abiding citizen and top student of Metropolis nine had no such channel. As Ian pondered whether he should ask someone, he saw a hooded black man in a hoodie walking toward him.
“Hey, brother, I can tell you need help. Wanna know about quick fitness secrets?” The black guy flashed teeth white enough to endorse black toothpaste.
“Swimming and fitness private lessons? Sorry, I don’t need them.” Ian thought he had run into a salesperson pushing private lessons; gym doors always refresh such NPCs.
“Brother, I’m not a coach; I’m a chemist.” The youth glanced around, lowered his voice, “Latest formula, works in three weeks; technology can give you a strong body.”
“Trust me, with a body full of muscles, girls will be unable to walk when they see you.” The black youth’s tone was full of bewitchment; he really understood what a teenager in his teens pursued.
But Ian didn’t buy it.
“You mean muscles like these?” He lifted his shirt under the school uniform, revealing perfect abs, then pointed to his still somewhat youthful face.
“What I need isn’t girls unable to walk when they see me, but to protect myself when facing girls.” His words were utterly serious, and even the black youth found them somewhat reasonable.
“Alright, I admit, you’ve got that damn Hollywood look.” The black youth told the truth, then smoothly showed Ian his Nike backpack.
“Maybe I misjudged; you’re not a fitness newbie. But brother, you surely haven’t tried my products; no side effects and great results.”
“You can get even bigger; believe in yourself, believe in the power of technology.” He tried hard to exploit the gym-goer’s greed, pushing his tech potion.
“Have you used it yourself?”
Ian asked a question most newbies would ask.
The black youth replied instantly.
“I don’t need technology; my muscles are pure natural talent… just occasionally use a bit of technology.” His answer was resolute, with a brainless certainty.
“Yeah, I can tell, Metropolis Arnold.”
Ian nodded.
“You mean I look like Arnold Schwarzenegger? You’ve got a good eye!” The black youth immediately perked up. “For your sharp eye, I’ll give you nine off today.”
“Three hundred US dollars a bottle; suggest trying ten bottles first, nine off is 2600 US dollars.” He tried calculating, so the result was quite a result.
Right or wrong was secondary.
It at least matched the average black education level in America.
“I’m still a minor; is this really okay?” Ian pulled out his student ID, lost and found again—probably the old father stepped in, so it reappeared in the drawer.
The black youth didn’t look.
“That’s exactly why you need not to lose at the starting line, right? Know Superman? I think no one doesn’t know Superman; he used my family’s ancestral technology since he was little.”
Bragging without drafts is also a traditional skill of black brothers.
“Is that so.”
Ian pretended to believe.
“Then give me one case—no, two cases.”
After pondering a moment and estimating the other’s possible stock, he spoke up, making the black brother instinctively shudder.
“You sure?”
The black brother sized up Ian’s clothes.
“If you have enough money, no problem—of course, I’m just a merchant.” His implication was clear: he was distancing himself from any relation to Ian ascending to the happy planet.
“Mm.”
Ian nodded.
So the black brother led him to an unmanned alley common in Metropolis, where a rundown Ford was parked; he opened the trunk bound with iron chains using the most primitive key.
Over ten iron chains.
Over ten keys.
No surveillance camera.
The black brother knew well what to trust—definitely not his other brothers on this street.
“One case eight thousand, nine off for you, six thousand nine.” His math level remained stably average; who knows if he thought “69” looked close to nine off.
Regarding this.
Ian didn’t mind.
Anyway, he was a superhero; it was time for intermittent duty fulfillment.
“Look at the sky! Wonder Woman! She’s not wearing clothes!”
This trick worked especially well on blacks.
While the black instinctively turned to look at the sky.
“Don’t sell contraband to minors, bastard; you’ve betrayed this city!” Ian played deep-voiced little clipper for once; before the black could react, he punched.
Right in the big head.
Though not an intentional full punch, Ian’s strength could probably take down ten Ip Mans without issue, so the strong black bro rolled his eyes and passed out on the ground.
“Another day saving Metropolis’s pure innocent minors.” Ian pulled out his half-drunk cola, dumping the flat drink into the trash can.
“Human! You bully too much!”
The trash can’s complaint was brief.
Ian used the empty bottle to pour in bottle after bottle of the small potion tech drugs; bacterial contamination didn’t matter—this was just enhancing a buff.
Three cases of tech potions.
Exactly filled one cola bottle. He took a sip; taste was good, so he decided to use the trash can as the first experimental subject to try muscle injection effects.
Demons have muscles too.
“Mobile phone.”
Ian used the black brother’s iron chains to bind him to the street lamp, then instinctively and skillfully searched out the black bro’s mobile phone.
“Hello, is this Officer Beckett?”
He called the female police officer who took him home after the convenience store event. “I’m the innocent citizen Ian Kent—the one you gave your personal number to last time, saying I look punchable and prone to mishaps when going out.”
“No, I wasn’t stabbed or killed; my corpse hasn’t learned to call the police yet.”
“I just ran into another criminal again; luckily, I was saved by a Nylon Stockings Superman who refuses to reveal his name, deeply hates contraband, and wants to neutralize it.”
Ian sometimes had to brush up his existence.
Independent NPCs fear having no popularity most.
Also fear too much popularity.
The balance between mediocrity is a matter of degree.
“No, not Superwoman in nylon stockings; it’s a new member of the Superman family. He said his training time is just two and a half days—appearance? I don’t know why I couldn’t see his face clearly.”
“Everything I said is true; I don’t like lying, just occasionally little white lies—huh, it works fast. Nothing, I’m drinking the new version of Coca-Cola.”
After reporting to the police, Ian turned to look at the little black bro under the street lamp.
“One hundred, two hundred, three hundred.” Ian counted out three hundred US dollars, checked the call time on the phone, and stuffed in three cents in coins into the unconscious black’s pocket.
Honest transaction.
Promised three hundred US dollars a bottle.
Ian would of course respect market price—he was America’s law-abiding citizen, not even liking to take small discounts like that.
Such lofty character.
Probably hard to find a few in Metropolis.
