Chapter 131: Top-Shelf Product
People who buy used cars know what they're getting—second-hand or even third-hand vehicles. But as long as the parts are intact and everything functions properly, they don't usually complain.
What no one wants, however, is a car that's been in an accident—especially if someone died in it or if it was used to kill someone.
It's like buying a house: second-hand is fine, but if someone died in it or if it's rumored to be haunted, no matter how cheap, most people won't touch it.
To sell a haunted house, you'd need a shameless real estate agent to hide the truth and offload the "tainted asset" to some poor fool with an attractive price.
Same goes for accident vehicles—they're like haunted houses. Dealerships would never disclose that a car they're selling was involved in a fatal incident.
So when the police come looking and ask for cooperation, used car dealers rarely comply. Imagine a cop telling a buyer, "This car killed someone." How could the dealership protect its reputation after that? Who would ever buy from them again?
Maybe in some other country, car dealers might work with law enforcement. But in the good ol' U.S. of A—the land of "freedom and democracy"—that's a different story.
Even if the cops apply pressure and manage to get a lead on where the car went, it may have already changed hands multiple times. By then, it's extremely unlikely they'd find any evidence linking it back to Walter or the others.
That's why selling the car to a dealership is far more reliable than dumping it in a lake.
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After a quick bite to eat, Frank and the others began cleaning out the inside and outside of the yellow sports car.
"Hey… what about Crazy Eight?" Jesse asked while wiping the car's hood, hesitant. "Should we at least give him some food or something?"
"Why would we feed him?" Frank replied calmly. "We're not letting him go. I'm not worried—he's never seen me before. But he knows you two. You let him go this morning, and by the afternoon your heads will be decorating his coffee table."
The room fell silent.
Frank continued, "You can't release him, and you obviously can't keep him locked up forever. Eventually, you'll have to deal with him. So tell me—either of you ever killed someone before?"
Walter looked at him and asked, "Have you?"
"Technically, yes. But it was self-defense," Frank said casually—though whether shapeshifters count as people was debatable.
Walter and Jesse exchanged a glance. Their eyes said it all:
"Where the hell did you find this psycho?"
"Don't look at me—I didn't know either!"
Frank smirked. "So neither of you has killed anyone. That means you don't have the guts to do it now. I don't want to either. So we'll just let him starve."
He opened the car door and climbed in.
"Hey, this thing's been modified…" Frank commented as he inspected the interior. He gave a low whistle and pulled a device from under the seat.
It was a vibration module—something used for... extracurricular activities. With the right partner, the car could practically do all the work.
Jesse looked uneasy. "So we're really just gonna let him starve?"
"Of course. A couple of days without food or water and he's done," Frank replied. "Walter, you know this stuff. Humans can go without food, but not without water."
Walter nodded. "Without water, the human body can survive for a maximum of three days. Over 60% of the body is fluid—without it, electrolyte levels spike, and once that imbalance reaches a critical point, cells begin dying off en masse… cough, cough... Sorry."
"He was knocked out yesterday afternoon. It's been a day already. Two more and we'll be ready to deal with the body," Frank said matter-of-factly.
"Letting someone die of thirst like that…" Jesse looked deeply uncomfortable.
"What do you want me to do? Hand you a gun so you can give him a clean death?" Frank offered.
"Uh…" Jesse lowered his head and focused on cleaning.
Frank turned his attention back to the car. In a hidden compartment inside the stereo, he found a small bag of crystalline powder.
"Whoa—this stuff looks pure," Frank said, holding it up to the sunlight, his eyes wide with surprise.
Frank used to be a junkie—and even now, he hadn't fully kicked the habit—so he knew his drugs. What he held was clearly meth.
But the clarity and color of the crystals were something else. Most meth is cloudy or discolored due to impurities. Pros can tell quality at a glance.
But this bag? It was almost transparent, practically glowing under the sun. Frank had seen high-end product before, but this… this was on another level.
"Oh! That's the sample I brought to Crazy Eight yesterday," Jesse explained.
"A sample? Wait… Walter, you made this?" Frank stared at the older man in disbelief.
cough cough "Yes, I made it. It's just basic chemistry. Anyone who follows the proper steps can do it," Walter said, trying to downplay it.
Frank shook his head. "No, no, no. This isn't something just anyone could make. This is an art piece."
The purity alone would send any addict into a frenzy. Even major dealers would be stunned.
Most cartel bosses have full-blown drug labs at their disposal—sometimes better equipped than legal research facilities. The competition is brutal, and their business thrives on quality.
Yet Walter managed to produce a superior product in a broken-down RV, using nothing but a bunch of glass tubes and improvised equipment.
Frank looked at him again—with a newfound respect.
This wasn't just some high school chemistry teacher.
This was a miracle worker.
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