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Chapter 232 — The Operation
🕑 Added 2025-10-28 16:12:45 +0000 UTC> “What the hell did you just do to me?”
For the first time, Old White’s voice betrayed panic.
The Tinkerer replied calmly:
> “Ordinary spinal anesthesia wouldn’t last long enough for this surgery. But you also need to stay conscious — faster recovery, less complication. Acupuncture, from Eastern medicine, fills that gap.”
Westerners had this weakness — call something mystical and Eastern, and they’d believe it instantly.
In truth, there was no such thing as “nerve-blocking golden-needle acupuncture” in any public medical text. Those books only talked about improving circulation or relaxing muscles.
Yet, to say it was impossible wasn’t quite right either — because the Tinkerer had worked it out himself. Maybe somewhere in old lineages, such methods were secret, passed by word of mouth. But he’d never found any written record.
So everything he’d developed came from his own trial and error — no systematic study, no clinical testing. Just lessons learned from patching up the wounded, refining his technique one bloody night at a time.
Now, even without that spinal injection, he could have made Old White lie still, fully awake, unable to move — conscious enough to watch and curse.
Still, just to be safe, he’d added a dose of Western anesthesia. He didn’t want the man suddenly sitting up mid-surgery.
This wasn’t about making things harder — it was part of his plan.
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Once the fat man was completely under his control, the Tinkerer disinfected the site and, without hesitation, made a large Y-shaped incision. He peeled back the thick skin layer, exposing what should have been the organs beneath.
Instead, the view was filled entirely with white subcutaneous fat — dense, glistening layers that smothered any trace of red viscera.
Honestly, it was the first time he’d ever seen anything like it.
Most of his usual patients were rail-thin — the kind of street ghosts who couldn’t afford a proper meal. Fat was a luxury they’d never dreamed of.
The Tinkerer took up a large syringe and began extracting fat, one tube at a time. Each full syringe he set carefully aside before filling the next.
That fat would have to go back later — can’t just toss it.
It wasn’t just that he hadn’t been asked to perform liposuction; leaving it unreturned would throw off the organs’ accustomed pressure balance. That could cause fascia relaxation, sagging skin, or even internal misalignment.
And proper liposuction wasn’t just random suction. You had to take it evenly, preserve enough for cushioning between organs.
So he only cleared the fat from the surgical field, just enough to expose the liver and gallbladder.
A nurse handed him the scalpel at the perfect moment.
Her experience told her what came next — separating adhesions, clearing the tissue for resection. The scalpel was the simplest of tools; everything else depended on the surgeon’s style.
The Tinkerer accepted the blade and, in a few precise cuts, freed the stuck organs, bringing the liver and gallbladder clearly into view. Then he clipped the target blood vessels with forceps, methodically isolating them.
Scalpels, clamps, retractors — all resting haphazardly inside Old White’s open abdomen. It looked chaotic, yet strangely intentional.
Then, the Tinkerer did something that made everyone freeze.
He peeled off his rubber gloves, tossed them into the waste bin — and walked out.
The assisting doctors and nurses stared, bewildered.
Old White, still half-conscious, could see the whole thing. His voice quivered:
> “What are you doing?”
The Tinkerer didn’t answer. He simply walked out of the sterile tent, picked up his half-burnt cigar, relit it, and strolled right back into the supposedly sterile operating room.
Outside, Old White’s men had noticed something was off. They gathered near the tent, tense, hands twitching toward guns — but none dared step inside.
The Tinkerer took a long drag, then leaned close and blew a cloud of smoke right in Old White’s face.
> “Your buyback price,” he said evenly, “is one million dollars.”
> “F— you! Is this the time to talk about money?!”
Old White’s roar made the guards tense up — guns drawn, weapons raised — all frozen at the tent entrance, afraid to breach the sterile zone.
The Tinkerer ignored them, smiling faintly.
> “Is there a better time? I’m not raising the price. Same as before — one million. You don’t pay, I walk.”
> “You bastard! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you myself!”
The Tinkerer chuckled, eyes cold, watching as several men stormed inside — guns leveled, others gripping makeshift weapons.
The one who’d “invited” him earlier jammed his pistol straight into the Tinkerer’s forehead. One twitch away from pulling the trigger.
But this time, the Tinkerer didn’t even pretend to care. He didn’t flinch, didn’t bargain. Instead, he flicked the ash from his cigar — right into the open surgical wound.
> “Ahhh! What the hell are you doing, you motherf—!”
Old White screamed, voice cracking in panic.
> “Relax,” the Tinkerer said coolly. “A little ash won’t kill you. Haven’t you seen Rambo? Gunpowder sterilizes wounds. High heat — no bacteria.”
One of the nurses muttered under her breath:
> “But it can cause inflammation… post-op adhesions…”
The Tinkerer laughed softly.
> “Don’t worry. If this fat man dies, it won’t be from something that small.”
> “Shoot him! Kill him!” Old White bellowed.
> “Before you shoot—” the Tinkerer’s voice cut through the chaos like a scalpel — calm, commanding, impossible to ignore.
Everyone froze.
He took a slow breath, then said, almost conversationally:
> “You might want to make sure someone here can finish this operation. Otherwise, once I’m gone, you’ve got two options:
One, let him bleed out on this table.
Two, call 911 and have an ambulance haul him to a real hospital — where they’ll stitch him up properly.”
He turned his head slightly, eyeing the room, smirking.
> “Or hey — maybe one of you wants to seize the opportunity? Pull the trigger, take his place. Think he’ll survive that? Think he’ll forgive you afterward?”
> “No,” he concluded, voice dropping low. “I’m the only one who can save him. Unless you plan on kidnapping another surgeon — fast.”
He flicked the cigar ash again, this time deliberately slow.
> “But you’ll have to hurry.”
