CHAPTER 419: CHAPTER 260: COMMISSION_2

The burly man had just been vomiting bile. His forehead, once his toughest part, had caved in, and his thick neck was twisted a full 180 degrees, facing directly backward. His entire body slumped limply in the fat man’s embrace like a ravaged ragdoll, only residual muscle twitches indicating any sign of life. No one who saw him would have believed he was still alive...

...

"Heh heh heh, one person, one hundred thousand US dollars, one hundred thousand US dollars!"

The fat man wiped his face, which was smeared with sour-smelling vomit. He dropped the motionless body from his hands and turned his head with a sinister smile. His large, fat hand, capable of easily gripping a basketball, grabbed a terrified underling’s head. With a fierce pull towards himself, his other hand twisted in the opposite direction.

CRACK.

Another body with a twisted neck thumped to the ground.

The underling lay face up, his face turned towards the ground at an eerie angle well over ninety degrees. His mouth wriggled as if trying to say something, but he only spewed unstoppable bubbles of blood foam. He twitched a couple of times and then lay still.

This strength! Dean took a sharp breath. This damn fatty... he’s probably no weaker than Bill was. The problem is, this body I have now is as sickly as I was in my past life. With only this iron nail in my hand... I seriously doubt I can even penetrate his defenses!

On the other side, seeing his companion killed, the only underling still standing trembled. He dropped the steel pipe he had brought for the ambush and said, half begging, half threatening, "Doba is Iron Hook’s own younger brother! If you kill him, Iron Hook..."

But the fatso, as if he had lost his mind, maintained a vacant, sinister smile and mumbled nonstop. He wrapped his hands around the underling, who was too terrified to move, then delivered a violent headbutt!

CRACK.

The underling’s nasal bone shattered instantly, caving in.

And that wasn’t all! The fatso seemed addicted to smashing!

Strike after strike!

Splattered blood covered his fat face.

Only when the body in his hands hung limp did he satisfyingly toss the disfigured corpse aside. He looked down at the wounded on the floor, still mumbling, "One person, one hundred thousand US dollars, heh heh, one hundred thousand US dollars..."

...

Seeing this scene, everyone sensed something was wrong. This guy...is he a psychopath?!

Two of the wounded on the ground were underlings of the burly man who had just kicked the bucket; the other was the fatso’s own underling.

Seeing his boss in such a state, the fatso’s underling felt as if he were looking at a stranger. He cautiously said, "Boss, if those hunting dogs come looking for trouble later, I’ll take the blame for you..."

Little did he know, his attempt to curry favor not only failed but drew the fat man’s attention to him!

Some ten seconds later, another body lay in the small prison cell, this one dead with its eyes open.

The fat man, his massive muscles wrapped in a thick layer of blubber, was like a heavy tank in this room devoid of firearms or sharp weapons. These men had no chance to fight back before he crushed them to death as easily as if they were chicks.

Seeing his crazed state, killing even his own underling, no one dared to entertain any illusions of safety.

Two of the first burly man’s underlings, disregarding their injuries, screamed like slaughtered pigs, "Basar is killing people! He’s gone mad! Help!"

Dean also instinctively tightened his grip on the bloodstained iron nail in his hand, but it could no longer provide him with any sense of security. He doubted whether a normal small-caliber handgun could stop this mad, ferocious fatso, unless it hit an eye socket or a similar vital spot.

After killing four people, Basar, the fatso, had completely lost his sanity. His face dripping with blood, he advanced on the two men cowering and screaming pitifully on the ground.

Just when it looked like these two would also fall victim, THUMP-THUMP-THUMP. The sound of heavy footsteps finally came from the corridor outside the cell, along with exasperated cursing, "FK, I knew putting Basar in a regular maximum-security prison would cause trouble!"

The two underlings on the floor, who had retreated to a corner, calling for help as they curled up trembling, thought they were saved. They had just let out a sigh of relief, their bodies going limp.

But then another voice yelled from outside, "Stop wasting time! Hurry and barricade the door! If he goes berserk, I doubt this flimsy door can hold against Basar’s brute force! That guy’s wired wrong; when he flips out, he doesn’t even feel pain!"

After a few clinks of chains, the corridor fell completely silent.

All that greeted the two underlings was Basar, the fatso, blocking all their vision like an insurmountable wall!

...

THUD! THUD! THUD!

Dull thuds, mixed with wet sounds, echoed rhythmically as the walls vibrated.

In the deathly quiet cell, the floor, ceiling, and walls had transformed into a blood-soaked butcher’s workshop. But all other sounds were drowned out by the oppressive weight of heavy breathing. It was proof that the one responsible for all this, the culprit, was still unleashing violence!

He used the body in his hands like a hammer, its torso as the handle and its head as the mallet. After smashing with it for a while, even a brute like Basar couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed away the mangled corpse and sat down on the bloodstained floor with a thud, panting heavily.

It seemed that Basar sensed everything was over.

CREAK...

The cell door quietly opened a crack.

THUMP. THUMP.

A flashbang grenade bounced twice before being tossed inside.

Basar, the fatso, showed no reaction whatsoever.

A shivering Dean, pretending to be dead, was not stupid. He immediately hid his head in the chest of the corpse in front of him, avoiding the initial blast of bright light.