VESSEL - Extinction Countdown 972: Scum’s Greed and Brutish Lust

Lin Changrong stepped out of Shisan Bakery, facing a swelling crowd. He Dali, standing on a stool, was shouting.

“Line up! A hundred bucks each, and Boss Lin’ll handle one thing for you! Pay first, then queue! First come, first served! A big shot like Lin only comes to Sweet Potato Street once in a lifetime!”

Someone sneered, “Tch! Scamming with this? Why’d a boss listen to you?”

From her wheelchair, Li Fang raised a broom, ready to throw, and shrieked, “A scam? Ask around—my son saved his life! A boss like that, what’s his life worth? I’m helping you street folks! Oh, Boss Lin’s here…”

Before she finished, the crowd—having paid—rushed forward.

“Hey, Boss Lin! My son’s got a boil on his butt—can you look?”

“Boss Lin, my mom needs surgery, but no beds. One call from you, right?”

“Quiet! Boss Lin, which works better—Taiyi Divine Tonic or Monkey Fur Brew—for, you know, stamina?”

“Stop shoving! Boss Lin, my kid’s eyes look like Manager Zhang’s, nose like Manager Wang’s. Is my wife cheating?”

Lin Changrong’s anger rose, then turned to a bitter smile. Many in this world think help is owed. Their troubles mean others must step in. But no one owes them.

Weakness isn’t a free pass. The weak must strive; the strong may aid. No effort? Why should anyone care? Pitiful, pathetic, hateful!

His bodyguards pushed through, guiding him to his car.

Lin Changrong’s cold exit angered the crowd. Those who paid surrounded He Dali and Li Fang, demanding refunds.

He Qiang, weaving through, groped Secretary Hu. As the mob closed in on his parents, he darted to the car, slipping Lin Changrong a note with a fawning smile. “Boss Lin, I’m Ye Shisan’s brother, He Qiang. My bro’s too shy to ask, so I’m speaking for him. Please help!”

Lin Changrong opened the note, filled with tiny text. First, He Qiang’s resume:

He Qiang, male, 31, rare genius, born with business talent. Quit junior high to start ventures—catering, sales, finance, entertainment, all with great success. At 20, bought a BMW, joined high society. At 21, sold it to begin anew, aiming for a billion-dollar empire to benefit all! Now planning a global mega-project, needing five million startup funds, with tenfold returns by year’s end! This will shake world finance, amazing billions!

More followed, but Lin Changrong stopped reading. He pressed the window button, glass closing. “Drive.”

The driver paused. “Chairman Lin, Secretary Hu’s not here…”

“Forget her. Drive.”

The car moved. He Qiang ran alongside, banging the window. “Boss Lin, my bro saved your life! I’ll cut you in on my deal—call me! Call me!”

In the backseat, Lin Changrong clenched his teeth, muttering, Another rotten scum.

Snowy Flesh Mash, a quiet restaurant.

The decor was plain, with few diners. Lazy waiters didn’t greet Yi Qing and Ye Shisan as they walked in.

They took a table. A waiter approached, dropping a menu with a thud. “Pick something, then call me.”

Ye Shisan whispered to Yi Qing, “You into pain or what? Why eat here? Looks like it’s closing soon.”

Yi Qing flashed a membership card. “It’s cheap.”

“Tch, you’re odd. Spend big on clothes, but eat at this dump?”

“Clothes are for others to see. Food’s just for you. Complain again, and I’ll feed you pig slop!”

“You… you demoness!”

As they argued, two drunk men stumbled from a private room. One, with yellow-dyed hair, eyebrows, and nose hair—Yellow Hair—stared at Yi Qing, unable to look away. “Bro, this… this girl’s hot!”

The other, a Fatso, grinned slyly, setting a liquor bottle on the table. “Hey, beauty, drink with me!”

Yi Qing glanced at him, then ignored him, focusing on the menu.

“Damn, acting high and mighty!” Yellow Hair, drunk, lurched toward Yi Qing, reaching for her chest. A strong hand stopped him.

Ye Shisan.

He smiled. “Drinking? I’ll join you two.”

He grabbed the bottle, chugged it, then turned it upside down—not a drop left.

“Who’s talking to you? You think you’re worth it?” Fatso snatched the bottle, swinging it at Ye Shisan’s head.

Mid-swing, he froze—Ye Shisan gripped his wrist.

For ten years in the asylum, Ye Shisan was rated an excellent patient, helping subdue violent inmates. Some took six or seven men to control, but Ye Shisan’s grip tamed them.

Fatso was no match. Ye Shisan’s hold brought crushing pain. “Damn it! Let go!”

Yellow Hair saw his boss stuck, grabbed a chair, and swung it wildly at Ye Shisan. “You’re dead!”

Ye Shisan snorted coldly. The restaurant’s chairs were flimsy compared to the asylum’s iron beds. He’d survived worse riots.

Once, he faced a dozen inmates with steel pipes torn from walls. They broke several, but he stayed standing—they didn’t.

Crack! The chair hit his shoulder and broke apart.

Ye Shisan backhanded Yellow Hair’s face. He spun a full circle, crashing down, neck stiff.

“What’s this? Fight outside!”

A yell rang out. Seven or eight tall chefs rushed from the kitchen, holding cleavers and iron ladles, looking fierce.

Yi Qing, calm, placed a small booklet on the table.

Fatso stared.

It was a police badge.