Mercenary Black Mamba - Chapter 492
While Walter was considering how to get his revenge, that damn head of security went ahead and got himself stung by a scorpion. The surgeon brought up blood poisoning to scare the living daylights out of the other party, then tossed him some terfenadine.
Whether that punk lived or died all depended on his heart and blood vessels. If he was healthy, then everything should be more or less fine. But if he already had existing health problems… Well, he would be wearing an oversized wooden coat (coffin).
If he died, then Walter would be pleased by it, but what if he did not? Wazalan should consider himself lucky if that was the case.
Back then, Wazalan was simply doing his job as the security guard of the residence. Most people would have understood where he was coming from. Even if they got angry about it, they would not have planned the murder of the other party. Walter’s racism was to blame for his abnormal behavior.
Walter suffered from narcissistic personality disorder on top of paranoid personality disorder. In other words, he suffered from a complex set of psychological disorders.
Unless you were a saint, anyone would get riled up at small things and even hate the ones that oppressed them. Usually, people would respond in one of two ways to such oppression: regular people would endure and walk on by as long as they did not suffer any real harm. But those suffering from personality disorders would display a variety of retaliatory compulsions.
Patients suffering from narcissistic personality disorder fall into disorder cluster B whereby they display behaviors of privilege and arrogance that are usually accompanied by these phrases: “Do you have any idea who I am!”, “How dare you do this to me!”, and “I’m different from you!”
However, they also display complete obedience when faced with someone ‘stronger’ than them. Such a personality was diametrically opposed to Mu Ssang who did not really recognize his own position or his full capabilities. As an aside, the Korean members of the dogsh*t house (the Assembly) were all cluster B patients — narcissists.
The behavioral pattern of the patients in the personality disorder cluster A, the paranoid personality disorder, would usually go, “Provoke me, and I won’t take it lying down.”, “I’ll burn everything down to the ground.”, “I’ll get back at you hundreds, thousands of times worse.”
They would demonstrate callous and combative tendencies, with a tendency to justify their violent behaviors by saying they were merely punishing the ones that wronged them somehow.
When narcissistic personality disorder is combined with paranoid personality disorder, a highly dangerous sociopath is born. Normally, no one would fully realize the threat someone like that posed. Examples of such individuals would be Jang Pil-nyuh and Walter.
“La-la-la♪ You’re a genius, Mister Walter. Who would deal with evidence as cleanly as you? Heeheehee!”
While cackling away, Walter ripped out several pages off his prescription pad. He used this pad to prescribe itraconazole to Wazalan earlier.
He ripped up the pages to tiny pieces before dumping them into a trash can. Befitting his German heritage, he was also thorough in getting rid of evidence.
“…That stinking bastard!”
Walter suddenly stopped what he was doing and began gnashing his teeth. He did not care whether that black man lived or not. However, the one he should have killed… The one he still wanted to kill if he had the chance was someone else entirely.
Walter even employed a private investigator, but for the past four years, he could not find a single trace of the bastard called Black Mamba. Indeed, Walter was dying to kill that bastard that caused him to be separated from his beloved Edel.
He could still vividly recall that yellow bastard of a mercenary showing up in the hospital half-dead on his comrade’s back. Walter had not cracked the mystery of why Edel chose that yellow bastard dripping with dirt over him. But today, he would definitely hear the answer to that mystery.
Walter took out a metal cigarette case. Among the neatly-arranged cigarettes was a cylindrical aluminum case about two pinky joints long. Two 3mm soft capsules resembling silkworm droppings could be seen submerged within the filler inside the cylindrical case.
Although its size was nothing much, the content was actually a powerful toxin that could kill three, or even four elephants. Not only that, but it also happened to be a timed poison that would kill its victim two or three months later.
Small evergreen trees with the scientific name called strychnos nux-vomica could be found in the East Indies. Peel the orange-colored skin off its fruits and you’d get whitish gelatin-like fruit flesh and several flat seeds.
When you boiled the seeds in alcohol and distilled the solution before adding acetic acid, you would create ‘strychnine’, a drug that once ruled an era.
The strychnine’s lethal dose was 0.1g. Its toxicity was certainly nothing to scoff at. Once in the bloodstream, the rigidity and pain induced by nerves and muscles contracting easily exceeded wildest imaginations. The victim’s head and spine would snap backward until the back of the head began touching the heels. Meanwhile, bile and foam would pour out from the victim’s mouth as their limbs twisted in agony and their eyes would bulge out of their sockets.
The ingredients for the sayak (poison meant for execution) in ancient Korea were flowers in the Araceae and Aconitum families plus ‘booja’. This combination was meant to lessen the pain as much as possible during the execution.
On the other hand, the West preferred poisons that caused the highest degree of pain. Strychnine was an example of this. You were about to kill a person, so arguing about whether the methods were humane or not sounded rather nonsensical. But it still did not change the fact that the Caucasians possessed a fundamentally combative nature.
There was also another long-lasting poison called curare that did not cause pain, much unlike the strychnine. Curare was a neurotoxin the American Indians in the 16th century applied to their arrow tips. It affected peripheral motor nerves after entering the victim’s bloodstream, so ingesting it orally did not poison the target.
Curare was reintroduced to the world after it was discovered in the possession of the pilot of a U-2 plane that crashed in the Soviet Union. The painless poison that the American pilot was meant to use to take his own life — that was curare.
Walter dissolved strychnine in chloroform, then added curare to create the timed poison, ‘Langsam Tschüss Gift.’ (German; A Slow Farewell Poison)
Until it got fully absorbed into the victim’s body, curare in the ‘Langsam Tschüss’ would continue suppressing strychnine’s toxin. The victim would carry on with their life, completely unaware. But about one to two months later, curare would be gone, allowing strychnine to do its thing.
The victim would suffer from rigidity and pain unique to strychnine until they breathe their last. And there would be no trace of it left behind.
This poison was perfectly matched to Walter’s narcissistic and paranoid personality.
There was a reason why he created two capsules of ‘Langsam Tschüss.’
If Edel refused his advances until the end, he planned to drive her into literal hell of pain and spectate it from the side. A ‘romantic’ notion like [I’ll quietly let you go if you find me detestable and want to leave] simply could not exist in an individual like Walter.
Mu Ssang was capable of detoxifying the likes of botulinus toxin, so something like Langsam Tschüss would not harm him in the slightest, but it was a different story for Edel.
Even if Mu Ssang was not in the picture, she would never accept the love of someone like Walter, a sociopath.
Basically, she was in grave danger.
In the Yoa House’s back garden…
Guests began finding their seats around a lengthy table fashioned out of palm trees. The guests consisted entirely of the Black Culture plus the members of the MSF. Five chefs busily traveled between the table and the outdoor kitchen bench.
The invited guests were five doctors including Loren Giz and Roman Walter, along with twenty nurses and other support personnel from the MSF. Ombuti originally wanted only the members of the Black Culture to enjoy the reunion, but Edel wanted to invite the Doctors Without Borders as well.
The Black Culture members were fourteen in total – seven civil servants dealing with Novatopia’s development and administration, and seven warriors tasked with upholding public order. These fourteen individuals were the locomotives pulling Novatopia forward.
The civil servants were Al Aman Ombuti, Hawk Orifice, Bopal Shernion, Michelle Mulsoli, Vallé Afwerki, Bakri Jadir, and Mohammad Jadir. The warriors consisted of Samdi Burupa, Sun WooHyun, Jamal Amud, Ahmmad Marwan, Aishe Burupa, Abdul Ibrahim and Nejema Burupa.
The reason why Bakri, Mohammad, Jamal and Ahmmad and others were referred to with their names was because they hailed from reputable Arabian families.
The name of a person from an Arabian family would usually consist of eight different parts. A man’s name was made up of his honorific title, his first name, information on who his father and grandfather were, and finally, the family surname. Which meant that calling someone by their full name would require most of your day.
As many people descended from one family tree, calling people by their surnames would make it nearly impossible to differentiate who was who. For instance, the Jadir clan alone consisted of 120 individuals. This was why you usually used the name, not the surname, of someone from a reputable family.
The attendees of the feast came to only 39, but the back garden was already quite lively. The Black Culture side of the table was engrossed in the discussions of Dubai’s itinerary, Novatopia’s development and the exploration of the oilfield. Guests from the MSF were chatting among themselves, trying to guess the identity of the one called Dubaiburupa.
“Aklan crew, is Wakil planning to step into the limelight with this opportunity?” Aishe asked while lowering her voice.
“Maybe… Seeing how he is officially revealing himself to the world, he might have decided to end his career as the consultant.” Ombuti replied lukewarmly to her question.
“That probably won’t be it. I believe that Wakil is trying to switch his main persona and the second one around. He must’ve prepared the formal title of Dubaiburupa for that exact purpose.”
“Please make it simpler for me. I just can’t wrap my head around what Uncle Mohammad or the professors are saying, you know?”
Aishe complained that she could not understand what Mohammad was saying. That prompted all the eyes of the Black Culture members to focus on Mohammad’s mouth. He was the chief intelligence officer here, and he certainly boasted sharp eyes and insight befitting his job title.
“Wakil is the angel of death. We must assume that all the global powerhouse nations have noticed his existence by now after he performed many consulting operations. Surely the DGSE knows it better than anyone.
“However, Wakil metamorphosed from the angel of death to Dubaiburupa. He has transformed from a mere consultant to a transcendental leader, from the angel of death to the king of Novatopia. After joining hands with Wakil, the DGSE even prepared a clean identity called Sbard Gulbeig. When Wakil has no choice but to do another consulting operation, then he can always change back to…”
“That’s enough, Mohammad! Even if it’s among ourselves, it’s not correct for servants to predict our master’s actions.” Ombuti raised his hand and stopped Mohammad.
“Aklan crew’s words are correct. I crossed the line. My apologies.” Mohammad lowered his head.
There is a famous Korean idiom that says that birds would hear you during the day while rats would eavesdrop during the night. He indeed crossed the line while chatting to his dear comrades that had shared blood with him.
“So, simply put, it’s the issue of whether Superman is putting on his red underwear before wearing Clark Kent’s suit, or Clark Kent is putting on the business suit before wearing Superman’s red underwear. Am I right?” Aishe asked that, prompting the others to nod.
They could not bring themselves to say it out loud but still wished for it nonetheless. A king responsible for running a nation was also moonlighting as a hitman? Now that was unthinkable. One could excuse it in the past since it was for the sake of countless refugees, but with an oilfield in development now, he had no reason to force himself anymore. Honestly speaking, everyone here wanted to pack their lunch boxes and chase their master around, trying to stop him from doing anything too dangerous.
“For our king’s return!” Aishe raised the Akra glass higher.
The others roared out after her at the same time.
“But why should he stop such lucrative work, though? I mean, just doing one job equals hundreds of millions of Francs rolling into his lap, no?” Sun WooHyun, who was listening to them, chimed in while making a doubtful expression.
Thirteen pairs of eyes all shifted over to his face, locking squarely on him.
“…D-did I say something I shouldn’t have?” Feeling pressured by all those glares, Sun WooHyun began stuttering a bit. After failing in the Samaria farm, Namir’s status became a butt of a joke. Even some random cats and dogs were trying to look down on him these days.
“You dummy. Are you using your head to hammer nails or something? Wakil is the king of Novatopia. And you want the king to act as a kite (a field operative)? What will you do if something bad happens to him? Think before you run your mouth, will you?” Samdi, the Sun WooHyun-beater, mercilessly rebuked him.
“Now you’re talking nonsense, fella. Wakil is someone capable of shooting down helicopters and smashing tanks to bits, so who can even hurt him? Since we don’t have to worry about him dying, he might as well make as much moolah while he can.” Sun Woo-hyun did not yield and fought back.
The expressions of both Jamal and Ahmmad were already filled with bone-chilling coldness. Sun WooHyun did not say those things out of malice, but his words were still very much problematic in terms of his attitude towards their king.
Just before Ahmmad angrily got up from his seat, Ombuti’s radio beeped noisily. Bassel was signaling them.
One short sentence from Ombuti, and the hubbub of the back garden instantly died down. Aishe waved her hand, causing the sodium lamps around the guests to light up in a row. The members of the Black Culture and the chefs all stood at attention, waiting. The guests also ungainly got up from their seats.
A slender blonde beauty in hot pants and sleeveless top appeared first, followed by a young Asian man decked out in white gandura who was holding her hand. Right behind her was a massive reddish-brown beast. Dino always stayed within a ten-meter radius of Edel after Mu Ssang commanded it to protect her.
“Bluart, bluart! Praise be our Dubaiburupa. Let Novatopia’s glory be everlasting!”
A raucous roar rocked the setting sun.
“Well, I’ll be damned. This is kind of embarrassing, isn’t it.” Mu Ssang began scratching the back of his head.
Edel pinched his palm. “You should reply to them, love.”
“Bluart! Let’s enjoy this feast, then work hard, then sh*t everything away before starting again!”
“Wooooah! Dubai, Dubai!”
The Black Culture members roared out once more before banging their forks on the plates. Having braved life and death situations with Mu Ssang, Ombuti and the others knew better than anyone that their master hated empty formalities and could also be rather unconventional.
On the other hand, the guests and chefs were staring at the master of Novatopia with stunned faces. They could not immediately figure out whether the people here were religious zealots or die hard fans of a celebrity.
Yijihana signalled to the chefs, and they began bringing out the dishes one by one. The smell of kimchi and sesame oil soon filled up the middle of the Sahara desert.
The one person Yijihana was most focused on was Dubaiburupa. The chef had no idea that the ruler of Novatopia would be this young. He kept staring, as if in a trance, at the tall, young and handsome Asian man.
However, Walter was probably the most shocked out of them all. For one thing, never in his wildest dreams did he expect Edel to appear while lovingly holding another man’s hand. At this unexpected development, Walter rubbed his eyes several times and took another look, but the scene before him had not changed one bit.
He gritted his teeth and sucked in his moans. His clenched fists under the table trembled furiously.
How can my Edel appear while holding the hand of Novatopia’s king?!
Although it was strange for Edel to live in a house closely guarded by the special strike force, Walter ultimately did not think anything was wrong with that arrangement. That was because the residences of the MSF doctors were also guarded by the strike force.
‘No, this can’t be. You can’t do this! You… you cannot!’
Walter held back his tears. He simply could not accept this reality. The only man best suited to be by Edel’s side was him. Only he was worthy of claiming Edel as his own. And only he could make her happy.
Novatopia’s king, was it? That man was nothing more than a mere tribal chief of some forgotten corner of the Sahara desert, so how could he dare to call himself a king!
But, what was this? Her expression was brimming full of happiness, that smile etched so clearly on her face as she stared at her man! Just what was that?
Walter’s eyes gleamed sharply with jealousy..