radicalducati Chapter 236 Old Kohler
Chapter 236 Old Kohler
Chapter 236 Old Kohler
"what?"
After hearing Clubs 5's "suggestion" of disguising himself as a substitute for the Punisher, Klein almost thought he had misheard. Even with the Joker's control over his face, he nearly couldn't hold back.
You want me to impersonate a Punisher? You're sending me to my death! Night Watchers are at least reasonable, but Punishers are a bunch of thoughtless bastards! If I impersonate them, I might get physically executed by lightning and storms at the slightest provocation! At that point, even Mr. Azik might not be able to save me...
Seeing Klein's expression of wanting to complain but forcibly holding back, Club 5 seemed to chuckle with great satisfaction.
"It was just a joke!"
"—" This joke isn't funny at all. Klein silently complained to himself, while subtly adjusting his expression.
"Alright, I'm not teasing you anymore. As a newcomer, you did a good job this time," the Five of Clubs' tone became serious, with a hint of approval. "To escape from Kreste Cecima's clutches is commendable."
"You flatter me, I was just lucky." Klein bowed slightly, adopting a very humble posture.
"No, merit is merit, and it should be rewarded." Club 5 waved his hand, took out a slightly thick envelope from his pocket, and handed it over.
"Here's 1000 francs in cash, plus a gift voucher worth 300 pounds, which can be used at any of the Society's shops."
Over a thousand pounds! My boss, the Five of Clubs, is quite generous when it comes to material things. I misunderstood him. Klein was delighted and quickly reached out to take the envelope.
However, when he grasped the envelope, he found that the other person's fingers did not loosen. He tried to pull back, but his superior's fingers were as firm as iron clamps.
"Huh? You really accept it!" Clubs 5 suddenly exclaimed, his tone exaggerated and surprised.
What!
Klein's mind went blank for a moment, his outstretched hand freezing in mid-air. Shouldn't I have taken it back? What does this mean?
Was his boss hinting that he should hand over a portion of the money? Or was this just a test to see if he was greedy? In an instant, various thoughts flashed through his mind, leaving him somewhat at a loss, and the smile on his face stiffened.
Just as he was hesitating whether to let go, the five of clubs suddenly loosened his grip and laughed again: "Just kidding, you've worked so hard, you deserve this money."
Another joke nearly caused Klein to lose control of his expression. He quickly retrieved the envelope, carefully tucked it into his inner pocket, and placed it close to his body.
He composed himself and looked at the 5 of clubs.
"Sir, there's actually another question I don't understand."
"speak."
"Why are our signal flares displaying the symbol of the Church of the Earth Mother? This seems to have nothing to do with us."
"Oh, that's normal. You'll understand if you reason it out carefully," the Five of Clubs explained. "First, to conceal our identities, we absolutely cannot use the society's own symbol. But to be misleading, the symbol cannot be a meaningless pattern."
He pointed to each one with his finger: "Secondly, if we use the symbols of secret organizations like the Aurora Society or the Witch Cult, it will only attract the Punishers and the people of the Mechanical Heart, making things even worse."
"Therefore, we can only choose from the seven major churches of the true gods. The Church of War and the Church of Night are sworn enemies, and using the symbol of the God of War will only attract more Night Watchers. Similarly, the Church of Storm, the Church of Knowledge, and the Church of Eternal Sun are not on good terms, and whether we use the symbol of the Eternal Sun or the symbol of the God of Knowledge and Wisdom, we will definitely attract the Punishers."
"After this selection process, the Church of the Earth Mother Goddess is the most suitable choice. It belongs to the righteous gods, so it won't cause excessive stress to the official extraordinary beings. At the same time, the Church has a relatively good relationship with the three major churches, so it won't cause unnecessary trouble because of a signal flare."
So there's so much to it. After listening to the other party's clear and logical explanation, Klein secretly marveled.
"Alright, Q&A time is over." Club 5 changed the subject, leaning forward slightly, and that unsettling smile that made Klein a little uneasy returned to his face. "I heard—you really like money, right?"
ah·..-·
"Well, I don't think anyone dislikes money," Klein replied somewhat awkwardly, his lips twitching.
"How about I let you become a tycoon?" Clubs 5 said with a laugh.
"Charles recently had a task related to the economy and stocks, and he needed someone capable, without connections, and short of money to impersonate a wealthy person."
"Ah—but I know absolutely nothing about this." Klein was somewhat surprised. Although he had indeed bought some stocks before transmigrating, the background and rules of this era were too different from those on Earth, and those experiences were not applicable.
"It's okay, someone will teach you how to do it," the Five of Clubs added. "Besides, you can't be a detective anytime soon."
"Why?" Klein was taken aback; he hadn't taken on any tricky requests lately.
"Didn't Charles tell you? That short guy who asked you to find someone last time filed a complaint against you with the union." Club 5's tone carried a hint of schadenfreude. "She accused you of trespassing and defaming your employer. To give her an explanation, we have to temporarily lower your detective rating and, during this period, prohibit you from taking any cases."
Hiss—Klein gasped, feeling a sharp pain in his teeth.
Eastside.
Regarding the issue of firearms manufacturing, Lorne carefully examined the shares he currently held.
In some large gun factories, his shareholding was too small to interfere with the factory's operations. His adoptive father had indeed invested in numerous arms companies, but they were too scattered, with most barely breaking even and making any profit. Getting involved in wrangling with other shareholders would only waste a lot of time.
Ultimately, he set his sights on a small factory—Logit Arms Factory.
The factory had about 300 employees, and ownership was highly concentrated, with the vast majority held by the factory manager. Lorne's shares made him the largest shareholder besides the factory manager.
When Lorne wrote to the other party expressing his intention to acquire the factory, the other party immediately showed great interest, indicating that they could meet at any time to discuss the details and that they could offer a very favorable price.
This enthusiasm, however, aroused Lorne's suspicion. After exchanging a few letters, Lorne decided to come and investigate in person.
At dawn, Lorne, dressed in a formal suit, walked into the never-ending mist of the East District.
A pale, yellowish mist hung in the air, blurring the figures of passersby. The chill of the early morning seeped into their clothes.
As he walked, he saw a middle-aged man in his forties or fifties, with graying temples and wearing a thick jacket, not far ahead. He was shivering and taking quick, small steps in place, trying to generate some warmth.
Lorne didn't pay much attention and walked straight past him. But perhaps the thick fog affected his vision, the man didn't see where he was going, tripped, and accidentally bumped into Lorne's arm.
Thief?
Because of his past experience of being robbed by Hazel, Lorne subconsciously entertained the thought.
But when he looked back, he found that the middle-aged man had not left. Instead, he was bending down and anxiously searching for something on the dirty ground.
Lorne stopped and scanned his surroundings, finally spotting a small matchbox about half a meter from his feet.
He picked it up casually; it was very light. He shook it, and it seemed there were only a few matches left inside.
He turned around and handed the matchbox back to the man.
"Thank you, thank you!" The middle-aged man was overjoyed and sincerely thanked him, accepting the matchbox.
His face was pale, his beard was a messy tangle, and the weariness in his eyes was almost palpable.
He sighed and added, "Another sleepless night. I don't know how many more days I can hold on. I hope God will bless me and let me enter the workhouse today."
The homeless man, Yao Luon, understood immediately and casually asked, "Can't we sleep in places like parks or train stations?"
"No," the man shook his head with a wry smile, "If I sleep there, the police will come and drive me away, saying it will affect the city's appearance."
He sighed and said, "However, in this kind of weather, if you fall asleep outside, you might never wake up again. It's better during the day; at least you can find a warm place to stay."
As he spoke, he pulled a crumpled, cheap cigarette from his pocket and carefully struck a match to light it.
Nicotine seemed to have restored some of his energy, and he walked ahead of Lorne, the two of them heading into the depths of the fog one after the other.
He hadn't walked far when he suddenly stopped, his eyes fixed on something on the ground ahead.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, his face full of hesitation.
Lorne followed his gaze and saw what appeared to be an apple that had been bitten and was beginning to rot and turn black.
Just as the middle-aged man reached out his trembling hand, preparing to pick it up and put it in his mouth...
"Eating it will make you sick." Lorne's voice wasn't loud, but it clearly interrupted his actions.
The man froze, shrugging helplessly with a bitter expression. "I haven't eaten for almost three days."
this--
These simple yet desperate words left Lorne stunned.
"Have you been around this area?" he asked after a moment of silence.
"right."
Are you familiar with the factories in the vicinity?
"Well—I wouldn't say I'm very familiar with it, but I do know where there are staff shortages and layoffs." Although he was a little surprised that the other person was asking this, the middle-aged man answered truthfully.
"Alright," Lorne looked at him, "I have something I'd like to ask you. How about we go to the coffee shop and talk about it?"
The middle-aged man paused for a moment, then a smile of surprise and gratitude spread across his face: "No problem! Of course, no problem! It's much warmer in the coffee shop than on the street."
The simple reason that it was warmer than the street made Lorne sigh softly in his heart.
Inside the cheap roadside café, the warm air contrasted sharply with the chilly atmosphere outside.
The tables and chairs here were covered with a layer of greasy residue that couldn't be wiped off, gleaming in the dim light. Because the walls and windows provided shelter from the cold wind, the shop was quite busy, and the sounds of people talking and clinking cutlery mingled together, making it much warmer than the street.
The air was filled with a rich aroma of food: stewed meat, bread, and the sour smell of cheap coffee.
The middle-aged man invited in by Lorne swallowed hard, his eyes revealing undisguised longing. But he quickly noticed Lorne's gaze, and forcibly suppressed that longing, lowering his head slightly with a hint of awkwardness and reserve.
Lorne found an empty seat against the wall, gestured for him to sit down, and then ordered food.
"A pot of hot tea, a loaf of dark bread, a serving of margarine, a bowl of oatmeal, and a bowl of stewed lamb—oh, and a cup of coffee."
The food cost him a total of 15 pence.
Soon, steaming hot food was served and placed between the two of them.
"Is this all for me?" The middle-aged man looked at the stewed mutton and bread in front of him, asking with a mixture of anticipation and surprise, his voice trembling slightly.
"Except for that cup of coffee," Lorne replied with a smile, pulling the dark brown liquid toward himself.
The middle-aged man didn't immediately make a move. He rubbed his calloused hands and asked hesitantly, "Sir, what exactly do you need my help with?"
Lorne picked up his coffee cup and blew on it to cool it down. "I'm in the East District to discuss a business deal and want to know the real situation of some of the factories nearby. You know, when those factory owners are dealing with someone like me, they'll definitely exaggerate the positives and never tell the truth."
He looked at the other person and said frankly, "Since you often operate in this area, you should have some understanding of the general situation of the factory, such as worker treatment, whether they frequently recruit, and what the atmosphere is like in the factory, right?"
"I see," the middle-aged man nodded. The reason was reasonable, which made him lower his guard considerably.
"You eat first," Lorne gestured. "You'll have the energy to talk when you're full."
"Thank you—thank you so much, you—you are such a good person." The middle-aged man's voice choked with emotion, and his eyes were slightly red.
"Have some porridge first, don't eat too much greasy food all at once," Lorne advised.
"I know, I know—I had an old friend who died like that." The middle-aged man picked up his spoon and tried to slow down his eating.
He would occasionally pick up his teacup and gulp down a large mouthful of hot water, as if to wash away the food he hadn't had time to chew.
Lorne picked up his coffee and took a small sip. He didn't urge him, but simply waited quietly for the other person to finish.
"call.-
After a long while, the middle-aged man finally put down his spoon, wiped the last drop of gravy from the bowl with bread, and swallowed it. He leaned back in his chair, let out a long sigh, and a satisfied smile appeared on his face.
"I haven't eaten this much in two months, no, almost half a year. In the workhouse, the food was just enough."
3"
"What's your name? How should I address you?" Lorne asked.
"Kohler, sir. You can just call me Old Kohler."
"Old Kohler," Lorne put down his coffee cup and got down to business, "Do you know the Logert Arms Factory at 12 Iron Carbon Street?"
"Hmm—" Old Kohler fell into thought. "I know, it's a small family—I went to see them when they were recruiting, but I wasn't selected. They have very high standards for people."
"High requirements? What kind of requirements are there, such as being proficient in using the machine?" Lorne pressed.
"No," Old Kohler took a sip of hot tea to moisten his throat, "They require that people must have experience in manufacturing weapons and pharmaceuticals, and that they must be skillful and steady-handed. The requirements for operating the machines are not so much."
"This feels less like recruiting people and more like recruiting craftsmen," Lorne muttered to himself.
According to Old Kohler, the mechanical engineering of this gun factory is probably not very advanced. It seems that there is no qualified assembly line at all, and the weapons are made entirely by hand by craftsmen, lacking standard procedures.
"And recently, that factory seems to have laid off quite a few people," Old Kohler continued, as if recalling something.
"Layoffs?"
"Yes, a friend of mine from the workhouse, who used to work there, said he was laid off three months ago because they couldn't afford to pay salaries anymore."
"this--"
According to this logic, the business of this counterfeit firearms company is currently in a very precarious situation. No wonder the manager was so enthusiastic in his letter.
However, this isn't all bad news. When it comes time to acquire one, the price can definitely be driven down further. But the question is, can he make it profitable after taking over? Although Lorne is very confident in his weapon designs, production itself is a major problem. "Old Kohler, are you busy later?" Lorne asked, looking up.
"I think I'll try my luck at the docks again and see if I need to make an emergency trip today," Old Kohler replied truthfully.
"Hmm," Lorne took out a 1-sol note from his pocket and handed it to the other person.
"I'll buy you half a day. You come with me to Loggert Arms Store and tell me about the surrounding area while you're at it."
"No, no need, sir!" Old Kohler waved his hands repeatedly, somewhat flustered. "You've already treated me to something..."
"One thing at a time." Lorne shook his head slightly, placed the banknotes on the table, and pushed them over. "The food was for the consultation fee, and this money is for your time."
"Okay—okay. Thank you, sir, you're very generous." After hearing Lorne's explanation, old Kohler hesitated for a moment, but finally accepted the banknote.
Half an hour later, Lorne and Old Kohler walked and talked until they arrived near Gunner.
During their conversation, Lorne learned about Old Kohler's past. He had once been a skilled technician with a happy family. But a few years ago, an infectious disease took away his wife and child, and he himself spent a long time in the hospital. When he was discharged, his job was gone, his savings were gone, and his home was gone. Having lost everything, he could only wander aimlessly at the bottom of this vast city.
Sigh—this is an era that can starve people to death. Lorne sighed inwardly.
In fact, he had thought about this question more than once: if extraordinary power is so magical, why hasn't it been used to develop productivity?
Although he had never witnessed the power of a truly high-sequence individual, his previous knowledge of the abilities of mid-sequence, no, even some low-sequence extraordinary individuals, was enough to bring about revolutionary developments in all walks of life, including clothing, food, housing, and transportation.
It may not make society incredibly wealthy, but at the very least, it should be able to keep people from starving.
But why didn't they? Why didn't the church, the government, or secret organizations do this?
He couldn't figure it out.
Ultimately, Lorne could only attribute it to his extraordinary power, which was too easy to lose control of and too dangerous for ordinary people.
Or perhaps it's also mixed with some human greed.