A Tour of Hell’s Kitchen

In the early morning in New York, a ray of light shone through a gap in the curtains. Schiller, still asleep, was awakened by the Symbiote’s voice.

"I’m so hungry, I’m so hungry, I want to eat brains… one brain, two brains, three brains…"

Schiller sat up helplessly and said, "You can get hungry?"

The Symbiote ignored him and merely whined to itself. As Schiller got up and washed, the Symbiote asked, "Aren’t they coming?"

"Who?"

"Those brains."

So superheroes were just brains in its eyes?

But if one had to put it that way, it wasn’t entirely wrong. After all, there weren’t many superheroes with brains, and most of them had gathered around him.

"I’m so hungry, I’m so hungry, I’m so hungry. I want to eat the blue-eyed one’s brain first, then save the brown-eyed one for the next day…"

Schiller discovered that the Symbiote really could get hungry. It constantly transmitted a sensation of hunger into Schiller’s mind through brainwaves, making Schiller a little hungry too.

He went to the kitchen first, opened the refrigerator, and took out some chocolate to eat, but the Symbiote showed no sign of stopping its cries of hunger.

What puzzled Schiller was that he had stayed in DC for quite a long time this trip. As a result, on the night he met the Godfather, he had been so sleepy he was nearly delirious.

Schiller was not someone who needed much sleep. When he worked, he relied on coffee to stay alert and could sleep only four hours a day for an entire week without feeling tired.

But the day before he came to Marvel, merely staying awake for one day to look after Gordon had left him exhausted and drowsy. This made Schiller think of his ability to travel between the two worlds. Where had that ability come from? What limitations did it have?

After thinking for a while, Schiller realized he could not find an answer from the clues he had. So he decided to deal with the Symbiote’s hunger first.

The Symbiote wanted to eat brains. Schiller actually did not mind finding a few criminals in Hell’s Kitchen and eating their brains. He was not Batman; he had no intention of following any no-killing rule. Hell’s Kitchen might not be as Gotham as Gotham, but it was not hard to find a few utterly vicious thugs there.

"Will you bite their heads off in one bite?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No, of course not. You should know that dining has etiquette. We can’t be so bloody; that’s far too uncivilized. You can burrow straight into their heads and eat their brains, but don’t make a mess of blood…"

"Fine, that works too…"

It really had wanted to bite their heads off in one bite!

Schiller thought that all Symbiotes had one ancestor, so they were astonishingly alike in certain ways.

Schiller got dressed and went out, intending to stroll around Hell’s Kitchen and see whether he could run into a few unlucky robbers.

Hell’s Kitchen might not be as blessed with talent and wholesome in local customs as Gotham, but it was not bad either.

As soon as Schiller reached the convenience Shop on the corner, he saw someone in a black down jacket enter with both hands in his pockets. Telepathy vaguely sensed his current emotions. Schiller watched him from across the street, and sure enough, he pulled a handgun from his pocket and pointed it at the boss behind the counter.

Just as Schiller was about to head over, he saw the Shop boss pull out a larger gun from beneath the counter and point it at the robber. The unlucky thief raised his hands, slowly backed away, and then bolted out of the Shop.

Well, his luck was not very good. The first robber he encountered was an idiot, and a rookie at that. Robbing people in Hell’s Kitchen with only a handgun? It would be a miracle if he did not get riddled with bullets.

Schiller continued onward, crossed a small bridge over a drainage ditch, and passed behind an old clothing store.

Hell’s Kitchen was somewhat like Gotham. Though it was chaotic, wicked, and crawling with criminals, it also possessed a captivating vitality and energy.

Not far from Schiller’s clinic was a famous graffiti street. Every building there was a riot of colors, their structures resembling stacks of colorful shipping containers. The alleys were narrow and cramped, and the various storefronts were filled with retro styles from the 1930s. Even the hot dog stand had a metal canopy over its cart, whose body was covered in all kinds of exaggerated, colorful graffiti.

It had to be said that such a vibrant style seemed absurd in the Slums when one thought about it carefully, yet it looked remarkably harmonious. Compared to Gotham, this place had far more sunlight and vitality.

If Gotham was filled with people swept along by evil and sin, with souls struggling to survive through crime, then Hell’s Kitchen had more than criminals. It also had rebels who did not want to be bound by worldly conventions and had voluntarily fled orderly society. They lived here freely and happily, bringing a different kind of energy to the place.

The griddle sizzled as a hot dog was flipped over. The youth in an apron woven with orange and red had brown skin and blue eyes. He raised the spatula in his hand, then turned and swiftly scooped up some potato wedges. In a cheerful Mexican accent, he said, "Want some of my special chili? It’ll keep you awake all day! Free of charge!"

"You’re from Mexico?" Schiller asked, standing in front of the hot dog stand.

"You wouldn’t believe me if I said I was a native-born American, but that’s the truth. It’s just that my mom smuggled me over when I was very young. We crossed the border back then."

The Mexican youth’s tone remained cheerful, just like his hot dog-making movements, carrying South America’s distinctive fiery charm.

"She works at a garment factory on the east side of Manhattan now. I’ve loved cooking since I was little, and I inherited some fine skills from her. Gonzalez hot dogs are definitely the best in all of Hell’s Kitchen! You won’t find Mexican hot dogs this authentic anywhere else!"

"But isn’t Mexico known for tacos?"

"Come on, you Americans can’t get used to corn tortillas. I used to make tacos too, but nobody bought them."

"You can make them? Then make me one. When I visited Mexico before, my favorite things were the burritos and avocado soup."

Gonzalez snapped his fingers and flashed a warm smile. "You’ve got excellent taste. Gonzalez burritos are the best in all of Hell’s Kitchen too!"

As he spoke, he began preparing the ingredients for the burrito. Several children came running over while kicking a soccer ball. Drawn by the smell, they gathered around the hot dog stand. Gonzalez waved his hand and said, "No corn chips right now. Come back later."

The children stretched their necks to look and found that there really was nothing they wanted to eat, so they kicked the ball away again. As Gonzalez flipped the corn tortillas, he said, "Those little brats come here every day asking me for corn chips. They can finish a huge bucket in just a few minutes. Though, come to think of it, I was the same way. When I was little, I always felt like I couldn’t get enough to eat…"

"Weren’t they really hungry?"

"Of course not. That Black kid who leads them, his dad is a freight driver in Hell’s Kitchen. Anything left over in that truck would be enough to feed their entire family. The other kids’ parents all have proper jobs too. Getting enough to eat isn’t much of a problem for them."

"New York’s Slums are chaotic too, but they’re far better than Mexico’s. Most people here can still fill their stomachs."

Soon, the hot dog, taco, and soup were ready. Gonzalez swiftly packed everything up with movements as dazzling as acrobatics, then handed them to Schiller. Schiller paid and left an even larger tip. Gonzalez was delighted. He tapped the countertop with his spatula and said, "You’re a friend of Gonzalez’s. Next time, I’ll give you a discount!"

Schiller waved to him and continued walking down the graffiti street after leaving.

In truth, Hell’s Kitchen did not have much criminal activity during the day. Sunlight fell across the bizarre buildings, creating more beautiful light and shadow than the orderly buildings along New York’s main streets. Tangled wires stretched overhead into the distance, while all kinds of flashy motorcycles and customized bikes were piled into the narrow alleys. Children’s laughter and shrieks could still be heard from afar.

Schiller found that, just like Gotham, this place was chaotic but possessed its own unique vitality.

If many people in Gotham had no choice, then many people in Hell’s Kitchen had not been abandoned by society. They had abandoned orderly society.

Likewise, the gang hierarchy here was nowhere near as rigid as Gotham’s. If this had been Gotham, the boss would have asked the man who had just rushed into the convenience Shop to rob it which gang he belonged to, what street that gang answered to, who his immediate superior was, and whether he wanted to start a war. It might even have sparked a small gang shootout.

But Hell’s Kitchen was different. The bosses here did not care which gang you belonged to. If you dared rob them, you had better be prepared to take a burst of bullets. Whoever you were, they would pick up their guns and defend their businesses to the death.

In some ways, the local customs here were even more wholesome. That Mexican hot dog youth might have offered warm and attentive service, but Schiller had spotted two large guns behind his cart. If some clueless gang dared come to rob him, Gonzalez would definitely show them the hospitality of Mexico.

At the same time, Gonzalez was happy to pay protection money to the gangs on this street. Gang members also liked buying breakfast from him, and he even gave them discounts.

There were not as many tragic and painful stories here as there were in Gotham. Most people made a living while pursuing freedom, living as they pleased and indulging themselves. Like the rock music often heard in American road movies, the place carried a distinctive sense of humor.

If Satan entered Gotham, he would be skinned alive by layer upon layer of orderly gangs, then invited by the Godfather to "have a talk." He might even take a blow to the head from some tights-wearing freak before the police pinned him down and sent him to an asylum. Without paying up, he could forget about getting out.

But in Hell’s Kitchen, if Satan came here, the people would grab pots, pans, and kitchenware and swarm him, chop Satan into pieces, then fry, stir-fry, braise, and deep-fry him. They might even hold an international culinary competition.

Everyone here was a cook. Their cooking skills might not be exceptional, but nearly everyone could find joy in the process of cooking a demon.

That was Hell’s Kitchen: a place that pursued ultimate freedom, chaos, joy, and wildness.

No one could be emperor here, and no one could be its savior. Not even the biggest gang.

Everyone here and their lives represented the ultimate rebellion against those dull, orderly societies. This was the largest patch of graffiti on New York’s map: a chaotic mess, yet brilliantly colorful, and impossible for anyone to erase.