The ultimate blue sea

Chapter 61-Xu Ruchong

11235 believed that he performed physical labor—whether he was killing people or singing—so he thought that he should be constantly replenishing his physical strength. Therefore, he looked rather vicious when he was eating, so vicious that if a person eating at the same table as him wanted to be polite and serve him some food, they would have to take advantage of the time before he had picked up his bowl and chopsticks.

His record was eating up a whole bowl of rice in three mouthfuls. Both his mouth and his esophagus seemed to be made out of rubber, able to expand and contract without limit.

An elderly man with a head of silver hair sat at his left hand, pushing a plate of some smoked chicken legs towards him. He was just about to speak when 11235 stuck out a chopstick to block the plate. This non-mainstream killer took a few seconds out of the many pressing affairs of eating to give the man a rather gloomy look. "I don't eat that, and I don't capture people."

Then he put his head down. "When it comes to the living, don't come to me. And I won't go out with the stupid cunts."

The man's self-restraint was excellent. He said nothing, only lowered his head and smiled. In a low, soft voice, he said, "Don't keep taking the contrary position to Dr. Zheng..."

"Zheng Qinghua?" 11235 didn't even raise his head. His mouth was full of rice. He said indistinctly, "He's the chief of the stupid cunts."

The man frowned.

11235 glanced at him, then put more rice into his own empty bowl and rudely swept up all the dishes on the table. His bowl was piled high over the brim. Then he set to it again, as though trying to drown himself in food. Even so, it didn't keep his beak from talking: "Let me tell you, Fei, you pay for my upkeep and have me kill people for you—that's fine, no problem, that's what we do. But you don't pay me to capture people or say pretty words, right?"

The man sighed, feeling that he had raised a wolf. He had been giving it good food and drink for years, and if he couldn't hope that it would be devoted, at least it should have gotten familiar with him and not bite anymore?

"I'm done." 11235 stood up and wiped his mouth. He very insincerely said, "Thank you, I'll go."

"Slow down." The man took something like a playing card out of his coat pocket. With its reverse side up, he slid it over the table to 11235's hand and said in exasperation, "Go and do your job."

11235 whistled, brought the paper up before his eyes, and glanced at it. He was a little doubtful. "Do you need me for this person? Can't your little whoever-it-is handle it?"

The man laced his fingers together, put his elbows on the table, and quietly said, "Just in case."

11235 took another look at the name, photograph, and serial number on the card. With a forced smile, he commented, "Besides which, you and your little whoever-it-is, sir, you're really, you know."

He made a very obscene hand gesture. As though worried that the man wouldn't understand, he specially explained: "You're real motherfuckers."

Then he fearlessly picked up his big bag containing both a guitar and a gun from the door, and looking pleased with himself, very festively said, "I wouldn't have thought that would be a hereditary trait. What a wonderful world! So wonderful."

The grey-haired man's face was ashen. His hands even began to shake. But what could he do? Years ago, when that damn 11235 had nearly driven him to a heart attack, he had made countless oaths that in the future, when he found someone more capable, the first thing he would do would be to get rid of this thing.

Over a decade later, 11235 was still hopping, whereas he himself...

The man sighed and looked at the backs of his hands, beginning to break out in age spots. His fingers still had a slight uncontrollable tremor. He took a small pill bottle out of his pocket and swallowed a handful of pills. He closed his eyes, took some deep breaths, and finally stabilized.