Marvel: Ma'am, I'm your husband's boss

But that's their job.

They could only grit their teeth and pretend they didn't see it.

There was a woman sitting on the left side of Melanie and the other person.

A woman with bruises and swelling on her face.

She was wearing a long dress that looked extremely gorgeous, as if she was going to a fashion show. She wore a top hat on her head and light tulle covered her eyes.

Dressing like this would have been a very normal thing in the 19th century.

But now this outfit seems a bit out of place.

Or it would be more accurate to say that it is ancient.

However, compared with Tang Jing, who was dressed in a kimono and wore a white raccoon mask on his face.

This outfit looks much more normal.

Angela Maria.

Feeling the pain from the bruise at the corner of her eye, Angela tightly grasped the sherry in her hand. Her fingers turned white from using too much force. Her eyes were staring at Fisk who was sitting in front of her like sharp swords. This damn bastard actually did that in front of Sister Maria, her own sister... Damn bastard!

Angela's face flushed slightly.

When she thought of certain things, she felt her breathing becoming more rapid, and she quickly took a sip of the sherry in her hand to calm herself down.

Fisk turned his head.

Angela quickly looked away.

He stood up and walked past Angela.

I pulled open the curtain and walked into the economy class at the back.

When the gunmen saw Fisk, they immediately shut up while chatting in low voices.

Fisk held up a glass of sherry and looked at the gunmen.

These gunmen were all prisoners from the first and second batches.

The time gap between them joining San Fisker was not very long.

But the treatment of the two groups of people was completely different.

The first batch of gunmen had all followed Fisk to Miami. Those who survived were the elite among the lucky ones. The second batch of gunmen have not made any major contributions so far, so there is a big difference in level between the two batches of gunmen.

The first group of gunmen raised their glasses at the same time.

The second group of gunmen could only drink Coke.

“I hope you all can come back alive this time.

As long as he can come back alive, I will give him half a month's vacation.

If you die... you can only blame yourself for being unlucky.

But you'd better not die, because I won't give you a pension!" Fisk said, looking up and pouring the sherry in his hand into his throat.

He made a joke.

However, all the gunmen looked at each other, some of them not knowing whether they should laugh at this time, until a smart guy took the lead and drank the wine in his hand, and then the others drank up the wine and Coke together with a sense of relief.

"Good luck, gentlemen!"

Fisk turned around and went back to the first class cabin, his face as cold as a statue.

He had a premonition.

This time, there may be few gunmen who can return alive.

But what does it matter?

They are consumables!

Chapter 134 Chaotic Paris!

Paris, a city regarded by countless people as the capital of romance and art, hides a chaotic side beneath its prosperous appearance.

The streets are crowded with people, and the noisy sounds interweave into a chaotic movement. The sound of car horns, the cries of vendors, and the quarrels of pedestrians come one after another, filling people's ears with unbearable noise.

Traffic jams are commonplace, with narrow streets choked with vehicles and drivers honking their horns angrily but unable to move an inch.

In the subway station, the crowded crowd surged like a tide, people pushed and squeezed just to get a place in the small space.

The air was filled with the stench of sweat and various unknown smells, which was disgusting.

Garbage can be seen everywhere on the subway tracks, and rats run around unscrupulously.

The homeless huddled on the street corners, wrapped in tattered blankets, their eyes empty and desperate.

The messy luggage piled up beside them is out of tune with the surrounding bustle. Street artists perform hard, hoping to get a few coins, but are often ignored by passers-by.

Graffiti covers the walls of old buildings. These wantonly splashed colors are not an expression of art, but a symbol of chaos and disorder. The graffiti on the walls and the mottled wall skin complement each other, as if telling the vicissitudes and helplessness of this city.

As night falls, some corners of Paris become dark and dangerous.

Criminal activities are quietly growing, and robbery and theft occur frequently.

Dark alleys have become hiding places for criminals, and innocent passers-by are terrified when passing by.

However, this does not mean that it is safe during the day.

As an old revolutionary base, political demonstrations frequently take place here.

No matter what the policy is, it is bound to attract angry crowds waving banners, shouting slogans and clashing with the police.

The burning roadblocks and broken glass made the originally beautiful streets devastated, but it must be said that this is also a beautiful landscape.

Paris, this charming city, is struggling in a vortex of chaos. Behind its romantic veil is chaos and disorder that is difficult to conceal.

"Well, is this a strike?"

Fisk has arrived in Paris.

He looked out the car window at the protesters who were violently clashing with the police in the distance, and said with some amusement: "I mean, it doesn't mean that the people of Paris will go home to eat at night even if they are on strike.

How come they are still on strike now? "

"Well, it seems to be because of this!" Erica held up the newspaper in her hand, Fisk glanced at it and said, "Why don't you read it to me?"

Because the newspaper is in French.

“France is being rocked by a massive strike wave that has paralyzed several key economic sectors.

Thousands of workers marched in the streets of major cities, shouting their demands and expressing anger over working conditions and new economic policies.

Transport workers, teachers, health care workers and many others have banded together to form a united front demanding real change.

Public transportation has been severely affected. Subways, trains and buses have stopped running, causing indescribable chaos on the roads. Passengers are forced to find other ways to travel, causing serious traffic jams..." Erica's French is very fluent. After all, she lived in France for a while, but she still has some slurred pronunciation when reading certain words.

This made Angela, who was sitting in the back row, curl her lips in disdain.

She took the newspaper and read it again from the beginning.

Fisk understood the general meaning.

It turned out that the French government had adjusted its new economic policies and wanted to vigorously develop aerospace.

But the country doesn't have that much money.

Therefore, they want to cut previous benefits and thus withdraw some of the money to develop the aerospace industry.

This led to the birth of the strike.

From frugality to luxury is easy, from luxury to frugality.

You want to take back the benefits that have been given out.

But it is not as simple as imagined.

Fortunately, the strike only lasted for a few blocks.

After passing the most congested blocks, the road ahead suddenly became clear.

The Eiffel Tower in the distance seemed to be right in front of us.

Feist lives in a B&B located in the center of Paris.

It was rented by the third group of Gunners who did not leave Europe.

The entire building was rented out.

It also shares an underground parking lot with several surrounding buildings.

He opened the car door and got out.

The air was slightly turbid, which Fisk disliked.

The air quality here is really bad.

He thought the air quality in New York was bad enough.

Didn't expect it to be worse here.

However, I adapted quickly and took the elevator upstairs.

Fisk did not go to rest, but went straight to the top floor. As soon as he walked out of the elevator, the faint stench of corpses hit him in the face. Several gunmen were taking out the frozen bodies from the freezer.

Some of these bodies have been broken into pieces.

Some were disemboweled.

Some are shriveled, like skeletons, with no extra fat on their bodies.

Fisk watched all this with an expressionless face.

Their souls have dissipated because time has passed too long.

If their souls were still there, Fisksk might be able to peek into some of their memories.

"How long did it take you to arrive at the scene after you noticed something was wrong?"

"Less than three minutes, boss." The man who spoke was a bearded man. He was tall and extremely sturdy, like a standing brown bear, except that the edges of his brown-black beard were covered with pale skin, which looked like the sequelae of excessive blood loss. Both of his arms were wrapped in white gauze, and red bloodstains could be vaguely seen seeping out from the edges of the gauze.

"three minutes?"