Chapter 145 Cobert's Happy Life (Part 1)

The first law of Gotham is: here, things will always go in the wrong direction. If you have a bad premonition about something, it will definitely come true.

And the second law of Gotham is: in Gotham, no matter how correct your starting point is, how clever your method is, or how perfect your plan is, they can make you a piece of shit in the end.

This vocational school, co-founded by more than a dozen big gangs, is located in the living hell of the East District. Because of the construction and renovation here, the hardware facilities have become the best in the entire East District. It is also the only place in the entire East District where the environment and atmosphere are relatively suitable for schools.

Note that it is relatively suitable.

When Schiller came to the living hell again, it had changed a lot.

Although the renovated living hell is still so complicated and crowded, it is at least no longer old and dilapidated. The alleys are still very narrow, but at least it is clean. The corridors are still very narrow, but at least there is enough light and there are signs to prevent people from getting lost.

The vocational school is opened in an empty room on the 8th floor of the building on the east side of the living hell. Outside is the terrace on the 8th floor, which can be used by students for free activities.

Originally, this was to be designed as a laundry room, but due to the change in the route of the water pipe, it was left vacant.

The great location with a terrace was of course controlled by the largest gang here, the Mooney Gang, and the Mooney Gang was forced by more than a dozen other big gangs to hand over this location to open a vocational school for them.

So far, the style of things has been normal. Although this matter itself sounds a bit absurd, it has not exceeded Schiller's understanding of Gotham.

As Schiller expected, the gangs warmly welcomed his arrival and invited him to give a class here.

There are no special requirements for the content of the course. Simply put, what you say to the children of the Falconer family, you also say something to these students.

Schiller had expected this a long time ago, so he did not refuse. He walked up to the podium and planned to talk about the history of Gotham City and the development of the gang industry as usual in the Falconer Manor.

This classroom is relatively large, at least compared with other rooms in the living hell, it is already spacious.

But the 40 or so students below were already packed. When Schiller walked to the podium, he glanced down and found that everyone below was still young, the oldest was no more than 20 years old, and the youngest was probably in his early teens.

This is also normal. The gang leaders are not stupid. Of course, they know that a drunkard in his 30s or 40s will not have any future even if he can come to school.

And these young people, even if they have some bad habits now, at least their brains have not been poisoned by alcohol, and they must learn things faster than middle-aged people.

Schiller has a habit. No matter where he teaches, the first thing he does at the beginning of the class is to call the roll.

As a result, this class did not even have a roster. The gang leader watching under the stage could only take a piece of paper and let the students write their names on it.

The paper turned around, and when Schiller collected it, he covered his forehead and said helplessly, "Well, it seems that the situation here is worse than I thought."

But he tried his best to maintain the professionalism of a teacher. Schiller said, "First of all, I need you to write your real name, not your nickname. Who is this person called Tire? Can you raise your hand for me to see?"

A little fat man raised his hand, and he smiled triumphantly at the side, and then shouted, "It's me! Teacher! I am the tire! The tire that will explode!"

"Okay, then tell me what your name is? What's your last name?"

"My name is Tire. My mother and people around me call me that because I was born fat."

" Then you must have a last name, right? "

The little fat boy frowned and said, "My father died before I was born, and I don't know his last name. As for my mother, I only know her name is Bonnie..."

"Okay, sit down." Schiller continued to look at the paper and said, "Then who is this man called... Red Truck?"

A black man wearing a red jacket, lip studs and nose rings stood up and said, "It's me! I'm the racing king of this area! Teacher, do you want to transport goods? Find me! From the living hell to Elizabeth Street, I can drive there in 10 minutes!"

"Then you really are..." Schiller paused. After thinking about it, he found that if he drove from here to Elizabeth Street, it would take at least 40 minutes. Did this person fly? Can he get there in 10 minutes?

Another voice immediately rang out in the classroom: "Come on! You ride a motorcycle, what kind of goods can your motorcycle transport?"

Schiller looked up and saw that the person who spoke was a white girl with tattoos on her arms. He asked: "What's your name again?"

"I don't have a name. Most people here don't have a proper name. You can call me Rocket, the most powerful one. Whoosh - hahahaha..." The girl and the classmates around her laughed.

Schiller sighed, and he continued to look at the name on the paper. His eyes kept moving down along the finger, and soon he found a different handwriting.

The handwriting of most people on this piece of paper looked like a ghost painting. The strokes of English letters were simple enough, and they could be written like worms crawling. However, among this pile of worm-like handwriting, there was one handwriting that was very special.

Not only were the letters written neatly, but there were also some traces of cursive writing. Schiller read out the name: "Oswald Cobblepot..."

He was about to look up to see who it was, and then he was suddenly stunned. Why did this name look so familiar?

It couldn't be such a coincidence?

As a result, as soon as he finished reading the name, a short figure sitting in the corner stood up. He was pale, his eyes were sunken in his eye sockets, and he had an unpleasant-looking hooked nose. He raised his hand and said, "It's me, teacher."

Schiller opened his mouth. He felt that what he wanted to ask was a bit inappropriate. After all, the boy who raised his hand looked like he was only in his teens, probably younger than Bruce.

He couldn't go up and ask, will you become the famous villain Penguin in Gotham later?

That's right, Oswald Cobblepot, a name that sounds very special, should not have the same name in the whole Gotham. If it's not unexpected, this should be the Penguin in his youth.

Schiller looked at Cobblepot carefully, and he found that this boy was gentle and refined except that he was a little short and gloomy.

After all, you have to see what kind of monsters he is in. Most of the students sitting here are in the same style as the red truck, wearing various bright coats, with six or seven holes pierced in their ears, most of the blacks have dreadlocks, and the whites have strange hairstyles and tattoos all over their bodies. They sit on the chairs like they have thorns on their buttocks, moving seven times a minute. If it weren't for the gang bosses standing by the wall, they would have made a big fuss long ago.

In this environment, Cobblepot looks very normal, even a little gentle.

He wears a suit that is obviously a bit old. This suit doesn't fit well, and I don't know where it came from. He wears a plaid shirt inside, and the collar is meticulously groomed, and even the cufflinks are completely buttoned.

He has black hair and trimmed sideburns. There are no messy piercings on his face, and no obvious tattoos. Except for the hooked nose that makes him look a little gloomy, he looks pretty good.

For some reason, Schiller was even a little moved when he saw the Penguin. It turned out that there were still normal children in the living hell.

That's right, compared with these second-generation black people with a chaotic style, the Penguin can even be regarded as following the rules.

Schiller thought about it and found that this might be normal. Originally in the comics, the Penguin was a gangster boss with aristocratic complex and liked to pretend to be elegant. He often wore a top hat, held a cigar, and had a luxuriously decorated restaurant.

Although this little penguin has not developed to that stage yet, there are already some clues. His clothes and appearance are very old-fashioned, like a person from the 19th century, which is inevitably a bit out of place.

Cobblepot sat alone in the corner of the classroom, not participating in the whispers of others at all, but just looked at Schiller in a daze.

Schiller thought he looked familiar, but he couldn't remember where he had seen this future penguin. He thought about it, but found that he couldn't remember, so he put it behind him.

Schiller cleared his throat, and the class became quieter. He said, "A teacher should have come to give you a lesson before, but I have to rectify the discipline in this class. There are two things in total."

"First, make a list. I don't care if you have a name before. Anyway, now you have to make up a name for yourself. There is only one person on this list who writes well, Cobert, so let him come. After you make up the name, tell him, and then let him write it on a piece of paper..."

"The second thing is to choose a class monitor to be responsible for arranging the schedule and arranging the class and the end of get out of class time... The fat guy named Tire, I see that you have good popularity, so you should be chosen. After each teacher finishes class, you go and ask him what the next class is. At the right time, I will record it on the schedule. "

The little fat boy opened his mouth, obviously not expecting such a big thing to fall on him. He looked at a gangster boss standing by the wall for help. The boss glared at him, and the little fat boy had to say: "Okay, but, teacher, I don't know how to spell the names of some subjects."

"Then go find Cobert, he should know how to do it. I think his handwriting is good. Let him write out the schedule and post it on the wall."

Cobert obviously didn't expect Schiller to give him the task. He seemed a little restrained, without the villain temperament of the future. He muttered a few words in a neurotic way, but didn't say anything in the end.

Schiller didn't treat him specially, or he had his eyes on the future Penguin.

He was telling the truth. In the whole class, only Cobert could write in a way that people could understand, and he could remember and spell such a complicated name correctly. If he didn't give it to him, there would be no one else.

As soon as Schiller called for the end of get out of class, the classroom below became chaotic. Cobert was still hiding in the corner, not saying a word.

Looking at this scene, Schiller shook his head. In a city like this, even providing the most basic vocational education is a long and arduous task.