American variety show: Sniper Elite

Chapter 136 Operation (Part 1)

7th Street in the early morning was shrouded in mist. The asphalt paving was cracked, and wild grass grew in the cracks.

Although it's less than 300 meters from the police headquarters as the crow flies, it feels like it belongs to another dimension. The morning light reflecting off the marble exterior of the police station can even reach the trash cans at the street corner.

Nine and a half out of ten shops had their rusty roller shutters pulled down, and the one that wasn't had a mannequin from twenty years ago displayed in its window, with wire mesh casting neat shadows on the glass.

At the entrance of the only pawnshop that was open, the owner was fiddling with a needle left behind by someone the night before, using the sole of his shoe.

The alleyway was filled with the sour smell of urine mixed with cheap alcohol.

In a cluster of tents made of colorful plastic sheets, a homeless man with a missing leg is lighting a cigarette butt from last night with a match, while the cries of a baby come from the next tent.

Gasoline drums lined the street, their fluorescent graffiti gang markings peeling off. In the drum closest to the alley entrance lay half-burnt teddy bear. At night, these drums would become braziers, providing light for the drug addicts.

An old-fashioned truck loaded with cast iron sewer pipes turned onto 7th Street.

The truck was painted the orange-yellow of a municipal engineering vehicle, but the mottled rust and scratches hastily repaired with white paint made it look like it had been temporarily requisitioned from an abandoned parking lot.

Inside the cockpit, a white man with a full beard, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, and faded anchor tattoos on his thick arms, squinted as he surveyed the street through the dirty windshield.

The pawnshop owner was wiping his counter with a rag when he was startled by the roar of an engine. He looked up and, through the diamond-shaped mesh of the security wire mesh, saw the truck slowly approaching, its cargo bed piled high with cast iron pipes, which rattled and clattered with each bump.

"Are the idiots in the municipal council lost?" the boss spat, spittle flying onto the rusty roller shutter.

The street's sewer system had long been completely clogged with all sorts of garbage and drug syringes. The last time I saw a municipal maintenance worker was when he first took over this pawnshop.

The truck drove past the pawnshop at an almost leisurely pace, and the owner could clearly see a few greasy strands of blond hair swaying gently beneath the driver's orange helmet with "Bob Architecture" printed on it.

Just as the truck was about to pass the pawnshop, the owner noticed that the nylon straps securing the pipes had broken.

"Whoosh—" The first strap broke.

Then the second and third straps on the vehicle broke off one after another.

Dozens of heavy cast iron pipes were freed, rolling and colliding, making a series of deafening clangs on the asphalt road.

The boss backed away in terror, watching helplessly as a pipe as thick as a bowl rolled toward him, changing direction less than three inches from his toes, and crashing into a fire hydrant on the side of the road with a thud.

A column of murky water shot skyward, forming a rainbow in the morning light. The entire street was instantly transformed into a maze by a crisscrossing network of pipes, the lingering echoes of clashing metal reverberating between the buildings.

The truck eventually came to a wobbly stop in the middle of the road.

The driver pushed open the car door and jumped out of the driver's seat. He took off his hat and scratched the back of his head with his fingers.

"Whoosh—thud thud!" The piercing siren, accompanied by the low-frequency roar of the horn, came from the other end of the blocked street. A convoy of four police cars with low-visibility paint was blocked by scattered pipes.

The first two Dodge Charger police cars had their red and blue lights flashing, while the two Ford Interceptors behind them had their crash bars almost touching the trunks of the cars in front.

The officer in the first vehicle opened the door, his badge gleaming in the morning light. He raised a megaphone: "Municipal authorities! Clean these pipes immediately!"

The truck driver slowly walked toward the pile of pipes, his oil-stained work boots crunching in the puddles.

He bent down and grabbed the edge of a pipe, his arm muscles tense, but the pipe didn't budge. He straightened up, shrugged dramatically in the direction of the police car, wiped his palms on his overalls, leaving two black oil stains.

The police convoy waited in place for about ten seconds with its lights flashing. The officer in the lead car spoke a few words into his walkie-talkie, and then the four cars turned around one by one and slowly drove out of 7th Street and onto Elson Street.

The driver watched the taillights of the last police car disappear before turning to look at the pawn shop. His gaze first swept over the rusty "Pawn" sign, then fell on his peeling paint truck, and finally settled on the cast iron pipes scattered on the ground.
“I’m going to mortgage all these pipes and vehicles,” the driver said.

The boss was taken aback at first, then put on a professional smile: "Of course, you're welcome." He stepped aside to let the doorway open and gestured for the door to come in.
-
On the side of Elson Street, a heavy garbage truck was parked crookedly, occupying an entire lane of the already narrow two-way road.

A Black recycling worker, wearing a fluorescent yellow reflective vest, leaned lazily against his truck, his mask hanging loosely on one ear, revealing his stubble-covered chin. He casually picked up a black garbage bag and tossed it into the truck bed with a dull thud.

The occupied lanes made the already narrow street even more congested. Passing cars honked their horns frequently and accelerated past the garbage truck, their rearview mirrors almost scraping against the protruding metal parts on the vehicle.

The recycling worker ignored him, even leisurely lighting a cigarette, the smoke drifting in the morning light, mingling with the stench emanating from the garbage truck.

Whenever a vehicle passes by, the garbage truck's massive size forces drivers to slow down and carefully navigate this man-made bottleneck.

A deliveryman on a motorcycle angrily gave the middle finger, but the recycling worker just shrugged and continued his leisurely work pace, as if the traffic paralysis of the entire street had nothing to do with him.

When the convoy of four police cars appeared at the end of the street, the Black garbage collector leisurely stubbed out his cigarette and rubbed it with his stained work boots.

He slowly opened the driver's side door and sat in the worn-out seat. With a roar from the diesel engine, the behemoth slowly climbed onto the sidewalk, its rusty wheels rolling over the curb.

"Beep beep beep!" The lead police car honked its siren briefly as it passed, and the four police cars filed through the cleared passage.

The garbage truck did not stop.

The driver jerked the steering wheel, and the massive vehicle lurched along the lane. A plume of black smoke billowed from the rusty exhaust pipe as he began to crawl forward, completely ignoring the angry honking from behind.

Several drivers leaned out and started cursing, but the recycling worker just kept his distance, focused on the police convoy ahead.

This mobile roadblock brazenly occupied the street, forcing traffic to a standstill. A taxi attempted to overtake on the sidewalk but was startled by the garbage truck's sudden sharp turn, causing it to swerve and nearly crash into a fire hydrant on the side of the road.

The recycling worker saw this in his rearview mirror, smiled, and deliberately slowed down, causing the line of cars behind him to grow longer and longer.

(End of this chapter)