Chapter 9: Confirmed, A Ruthless One

Bikinis aside, they don’t even know what a bra is?

If it were just Donal who was clueless, that would be one thing, but even Richard, a married man, had no idea. This could only mean one thing: bras, at least in the modern sense, hadn't been invented yet.

Oh, my...

Logan felt truly heartbroken. How could this era treat women so cruelly? He had been here for too short a time; otherwise, he would have realized it sooner. Well, realizing it now didn't seem too late. Logan didn't know who had invented it originally, nor did he care—now, it was clearly up to him.

This was absolutely not for the sake of making money, but for the health of women and to add more fascinating things to this dull world.

So, how could he benefit the women of this era as quickly as possible?

Right, he had *The Sun* as a natural promotional platform; newspapers were the social media of this era. So, was he about to start "influencer marketing"? Or rather, "live-streaming" in this age?

As expected, the end of the universe is influencer marketing!

However, he would likely be branded as a "friend to all women." After hesitating for only half a second, Logan smiled suggestively. That was... just perfect! Surely, no one would refuse to be a "friend to all women," right?

"Al Capone is truly a fascinating man!" Logan suddenly blurted out.

"?" Richard and Donal looked at him with confusion.

Logan didn't offer an explanation, only saying to Richard, "The newspaper office needs to hire people immediately."

"Live-streaming" and "influencer marketing" were not things two people could handle alone. Donal slapped his thigh. "I told you guys you should expand. You should have changed offices long ago. Look at those Italians; when they run a newspaper, they buy the whole building."

Wait, didn't they want to say something about the *Dissolute Journal* run by the Italians? Why did the topic suddenly jump to hiring and buying buildings? Richard, still bewildered, had even more question marks.

***

In fact, the moment *The Windy City Dissolute Journal* was released, all of Chicago seemed to fall into a state of massive confusion. What was this? Openly promoting prostitution?

The newsstand owners who had previously displayed the "Page Three Girl" from *The Sun* prominently now didn't dare to repeat the same operation. Good grief, *The Sun* could at least use the "missing person notice" gimmick as a cover, but this was not even pretending! Even the name of the paper was "Dissolute"—could they be any more genius?

Even the newsboys, who were still quite young, felt that selling this paper was like handling a hot potato. Of course, refusing to sell it entirely was impossible. If they couldn't sell it openly, couldn't they sell it on the sly?

And so, today’s Chicago was a silent one. At the newsstands, buyers acted like spies meeting for a handoff—a shared glance, a furtive exchange of papers, and then hurried departures. Some clever men, thinking, "What a happy day this is," bought many copies at once—not to read, but to collect. Who knew how long these happy days would last?

This was foresight.

If the previous hype from *The Sun* allowed their peers to play dumb and ride the wave, this *Dissolute Journal* had crossed the line of social decency! They didn't even have to wait until the next day; by noon, mainstream media had already published emergency extras to denounce it.

"Morality has fallen to such a state; it is no longer tolerable!"
"Ban it! The newspaper must be banned immediately, without mercy!"
"A ban isn't enough; the people behind this must go to hell!"

This was said by Reverend Edward Kosner.

Reverend Edward Kosner was nearly exploding with rage! From the moment he saw *The Windy City Dissolute Journal*, his mind was filled with "How dare they..." and "How could they..."

When *The Sun* first appeared, he was already furious. At a time when he was sparing no effort to promote the "de-smutting" of the cultural scene, the former *Light News* had rebranded into the even more explicit *The Sun*. To say this wasn't a provocation was something even the dog at the church door wouldn't believe. Naturally, *The Chicago Catholic Daily* was also the most staunch opponent of *The Sun*, offering no ambiguous tolerance.

He didn't just shout about it; he had already organized a conservative opposition group and was preparing to march and protest at *The Sun’s* office! And now, an even more provocative one had arrived!

If *The Sun’s* provocation was like peeing on his head, this *Dissolute Journal* was like choking him to death with that same act and then continuing to pee on his grave! Could this be tolerated? Reverend Edward couldn't endure it for another minute.

"A march! We must launch a protest march immediately!" This city could not be allowed to continue its descent into depravity!

***

When Logan heard the news and dashed to the scene like a gossip-hungry groundhog, the parade had already surrounded the *Windy City Dissolute Journal’s* office. Reverend Edward, draped in a black cassock, stood at the front of the crowd, holding a Bible high like a sacred banner. Behind him was a dense mass of protesters, mostly solemn citizens in stiff attire, carrying signs covered in slogans:

"God judges you!"
"Desecrators, get out of Chicago!"
"Close the gates of hell! Restore morality!"

The line moved forward slowly but firmly, the chants growing louder and louder: "Purge the filth!" "Morality will prevail!"

The newspaper office doors were tightly shut, but in front of the office stood a row of tough-looking men who clearly weren't to be trifled with. They stood with their arms crossed, mouths twisted into malicious, hooligan smirks, blocking the path of the protesters.

"Move aside! The Lord’s people will cleanse this filthy place!" Reverend Edward’s voice was shrill with excitement as he tried to push forward.

The tough guys barely raised their eyelids, waving their hands as if shooing away annoying flies, standing their ground against the angry crowd.

"Fight, come on, fight!" Logan, the mischief-maker, chanted like a spell while holding his camera.

"H-hell... is it really worth it, kid?" After a while, a breathless Donal finally caught up. He had his underlings watching the Italians' office, and when they noticed the commotion, they had notified him. As soon as Logan heard, his eyes lit up; he grabbed the camera from the office, dropped a "bring the film" instruction, and vanished.

To be a gossip-monger without enthusiasm is to have a broken brain. After finally catching his breath, Donal saw the standoff and laughed, "Yo, the Italians are playing for real, huh? They value this office so much? They actually sent this many guys to protect it."

"Oh, look, isn't that Reverend Edward Kosner, the one who insulted you in the paper? So, he’s the one leading the trouble!"

Logan raised an eyebrow. "How do you know him?"

Donal chuckled, not wanting to admit he had had him followed, hoping for a chance to put him in a burlap sack and teach him a lesson. He just looked at the situation ahead. "This is dog-eat-dog; it’s funny, truly funny!"

Logan snapped two photos, lowered his camera, and looked thoughtful. "I suspect these guys weren't specifically sent to guard the office."

"Why?"

"Can they predict that someone would come to protest?"

"That makes sense. Then now..."

"I suspect they were originally here to watch the prostitutes being photographed."

Donal thought about it and found it perfectly logical. "Beauties selected from half the prostitutes in Chicago, lining up to take nude photos—what kind of spectacle is that? If it were me, I’d definitely want to be on the scene to watch."

"But so what?"

Logan stroked his chin. "That means a lot of those prostitutes must be trapped inside."

"I seem to recall you saying the Chicago police chief hates prostitutes the most?"

"Yeah, his family broke apart when he was a child because of a prostitute. He arrests them without mercy, and they are terrified of being caught."

"This gets interesting." He looked at Donal. "Can you go call some of your men over? The clever ones."

Donal smelled something malicious and narrowed his eyes. "What are you planning?"

Logan leaned into Donal’s ear and whispered a few instructions. Donal’s expression shifted. "Will that work?"

"Give it a try. There’s nothing to lose. If it works, the fun will be huge."

Donal was impressed. He was truly convinced. "You are a hell of a ruthless guy!"

Logan pursed his lips. "It’s too quiet right now; it’s not fun. Just tell me if you’re doing it or not."

"I’m doing it!"

***

The standoff continued, and reporters began to appear on the scene, which boosted the morale of the protesters and made the Italian mobsters even more hesitant to strike.

Suddenly, several people from the back of the crowd shouted in unison: "The police are coming! The police are coming! They’re grabbing their gear to make arrests! Everyone inside, run—!"

This panicked cry was like a red-hot iron rod plunged into boiling oil, instantly causing an explosion of chaos!

The protest line stopped its forward push, falling into a slight disorder. The mobsters blocking the way were even more chaotic. Not long after, the office door was violently burst open from the inside, and a group of colorful "beauty pageant contestants" surged out like a broken dam!

Most of them were disheveled; some wore only stockings and corsets, and some were wrapped in nothing more than a thin bedsheet, revealing large patches of startlingly fair, soft skin. Their hair was disheveled, and the heavy makeup on their faces was streaked by sweat. They screamed, covering their faces as they rushed into the crowd, trying to break out.

The mobsters also scattered, following right behind. The previously stable standoff collapsed instantly, like a kicked hornet's nest. The protesters in the front were caught off guard, knocked off balance by this surging "wave of fragrance."

Seeing this, Logan gave Donal a few more instructions. Donal’s expression changed again and again. He was wrong—this guy was a monster!

So, within seconds, someone from the back of the crowd screamed shrilly: "Catch them! The police are almost here, don't let a single one get away!"

"Purge this filth completely!"

The protesters had already been frustrated by the obstruction, and hearing this instantly ignited their repressed anger. People reached out to intercept and tear at the "incarnations of sin" trying to escape.

Reverend Edward stood in the center of the vortex, trying to turn the tide with his booming voice: "Calm down! People of the Lord! Maintain..."

Before he could finish, he felt a blur before his eyes, and a mass of slippery, cheap-perfume-scented flesh slammed into his arms. He instinctively reached out to push, but his fingers snagged onto a piece of thin fabric—a shawl that had slipped off a "contestant's" shoulder.

The "contestant" struggled frantically, and the shawl emitted a harsh ripping sound as it was torn. With a "rip," a large piece of a pink corset was instantly torn off! She screamed, and her red-manicured hands, driven by the desperation to survive, clawed fiercely at the obstacle in front of her. Three clear, bleeding scratch marks instantly appeared on Reverend Edward’s panicked, twisted face!

This was merely the beginning of the disaster; it was as if Pandora’s box had been opened. The guardians of morality followed suit, clutching tightly at the clothing of the "incarnations of evil." Meanwhile, the "contestants" and mobsters trying to get away were either pushing, grabbing for protection, or accidentally tearing at each other in the scuffle.

In the chaos, the sound of tearing fabric was endless. Shreds of cloth flew above the heads of the crowd like autumn leaves caught in a gale. The reporters on the periphery were more excited than ever, their camera flashes firing in succession.

It wasn't until the wail of police sirens finally echoed from afar that the melee slowly subsided.

The late-arriving police stared in disbelief at the scene: a mess of shredded fabric and signs on the ground, a group of terrified, half-naked women, a group of ragged, dazed protesters, and—Reverend Edward at the center of it all.

His sacred black cassock was now reduced to beggar-like rags, hanging off him in strips and exposing his equally torn shirt underneath. The three fresh, bright red scratch marks on his face were startling, with beads of blood winding down his pale skin. Most eye-catching of all was the top of his head: a shapeless, lace-trimmed pink bra, thrown from somewhere in the center of the fray, had landed perfectly on the reverend's head like a crown, swaying gently as he trembled.

Logan was the first to rush forward with his camera, aiming it at the reverend and smiling. "Reverend, smile! Say cheese!"

*Click.* A world-famous photo was born: the reverend wearing a bra-crown, face marked with bloody scratches, draped in tattered rags, eyes wide with fury, alongside a prostitute crouched down in her state of undress.

When he realized what had happened, a surge of blood rushed to the reverend's head, and everything before him turned into a spinning, grotesque hallucination. He made a strange, unintelligible "gurgling" sound in his throat, his eyes rolled back, and he fell stiffly backward, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

Logan jumped back nimbly, stating righteously, "I didn't touch him! It’s got nothing to do with me!"

"Why are reverends so fragile nowadays? Can’t they handle a little scene like this?"

Donal: "..."

He was shivering. It was truly a miracle if the guy hadn't been angered to death by him. It was confirmed: his little cousin was a total monster!

***

What left him even more dumbfounded was yet to come.

Logan rushed back to the newspaper office like a whirlwind, waving his camera at Richard. "Big news! Big news! We’re putting out an extra immediately!"

"Right, forget about the serialized novel and the Page Three girl for now; let’s just put out a special extra!"

"The theme? Naturally, the depravity of Chicago."

"The front-page headline belongs to Edward Kosner. Yes, the reverend who cursed us for being depraved."

"The title? Let me think... let's call it: 'In Broad Daylight and Before All Eyes, a Reverend Openly Tears Off a Prostitute’s Bra—Is This the Collapse of Morality or the Distortion of Human Nature!'"

Donal, who had witnessed the whole thing: ...

He felt the reverend might as well have been angered to death on the spot, otherwise, he would just be angered to death all over again once he woke up.