American Adventure: My Uncle is Don Quixote

Onyx United Building, 11:00 AM.

A strange atmosphere permeated the 17th-floor office. No one could focus on their work; they were all huddled together, whispering.

According to the secretary’s hushed gossip in the breakroom, they learned that their boss, Blake, had canceled all his meetings that morning and had been holed up in his office, refusing to see anyone.

"I had just watched him go in," the secretary said, recounting the story vividly. "Then he suddenly let out a shout. I was about to go in, but he immediately stopped me and wouldn’t let me in no matter what."

"Huh?" Her friend looked astonished. "What happened?"

"I don’t know," the secretary said, shaking her head. "Who can say? It’s not like Blake has some weird fetish, right? Where he couldn’t hold it in and something just... fell out the moment he got into his office?"

"No way, right?" another person said with a frown. "That’s too messed up."

"Who can understand the fetishes of the rich? Besides, we’re just guessing," the secretary said with a pout, then shook her head and added seriously, "Right, don’t tell anyone about this."

"Don’t worry."

"No problem."

By around 10:00 AM, almost the entire 17th floor knew: the boss, Blake, had come to work with a toy stuck up his ass. It fell out the moment he entered his office, and now he was in there drying his pants.

The secretary said so herself.

Just as they were whispering among themselves, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Vincent, the other core partner at Onyx, burst out of the elevator, drenched in sweat, his tie askew.

The moment he rushed in, everyone on the 17th floor couldn’t help but look at him, their expressions filled with amusement.

"Where’s Blake?" he yelled at the secretary. "Is he still in his office?"

"Yes," the secretary nodded. "But Mr. Blake said—"

"To hell with that. Blake’s the one who called me."

With that, Vincent pushed open the heavy, solid wood door and stormed inside.

The office had excellent soundproofing, so no one knew what was happening inside. But that didn’t stop them from letting their imaginations run wild about the two incidents.

Vincent and CEO Blake had always been extremely close. They often ate together, commuted together, and were practically inseparable. Rumors and little stories about them had been circulating at Onyx United Building for ages.

"You think maybe Vincent’s the one who put the toy there?" one of the managers whispered. "Look how worried he seems. They must have really overdone it last night."

"It must have been wild," another person nodded. "Why else would he lock himself in his office? Isn’t that what the secretary said?"

The moment Vincent burst through the door, he started yelling at Blake.

"Blake, what the fuck is wrong with you, calling me over at the crack of dawn like my dad just died?" he roared, glaring at Blake. "I was on a goddamn golf course on Long Island—"

Before he could finish, his gaze went past Blake—who was sitting at his desk, his face as black as thunder—and landed on the desk itself.

On the desk lay a steel safe door, one finger-width thick. Its once-flat surface now looked as if it had been twisted by two opposing, immense forces, resulting in extreme and permanent deformation. The metal hinges had been brutally ripped apart, which was the main reason the door had come off.

What stunned Vincent even more were several deep indentations along the edge of the door.

He swallowed involuntarily and walked closer. He subconsciously reached out, hovering his own fingers over the indentations to compare them.

’Aren’t those the marks of someone’s four fingers pressed into the steel?’

He felt his head buzzing.

"How... How the fuck was this done?" His voice cracked as he jerked his hand back, as if the steel plate might bite him. "A hydraulic press? Some kind of robot? This is a safe door!"

"I don’t know," Blake said, scratching his head as he looked up at Vincent in confusion. "When I opened the door this morning, it was already in this goddamn state."

"Blake, are you fucking with me?" Vincent spun around, his eyes a mixture of suspicion and terror. "How is this possible? Did you check the security footage?"

"There are no cameras in this room," Blake said, still staring at the deformed safe door in bewilderment. "As for the other cameras, I checked. The security guard was downstairs all night. No one came to this floor last night."

"April Fools’ is still six months away," Vincent sneered. "Are you sure you’re not messing with me?"

"If I wanted to mess with you, I wouldn’t need to go to this much trouble."

"Fack!" Vincent pointed at the handprints. "So you’re trying to tell me that someone found out about the safe that only we knew about, snuck in here invisibly during the night, tore open a finger-thick safe door with their bare hands, and took the ledger, the gun, and the money?"

"That’s right," Blake said, scratching the top of his head. "I think that’s exactly what happened."

"Are you fucking taking me for a retard?!"

Vincent exploded in fury and slammed his hand on the desk.

"Did you hide the ledger?!" he roared at Blake. "What the hell are you trying to do? Who did you sell out to?"

"I sold out to your mom’s big tits and pussy!" Blake exploded back, leaping to his feet. "Use your brain, Vincent! If I was the one who took the ledger, why the hell would I call you here?! If I could tear through steel with my bare hands, I’d be out there playing Homelander!"

"You’re still treating me like a retard!" Vincent refused to believe him, pointing at the prints and shouting, "You explain this! What the hell is this thing?"

"How the fuck should I know!" Blake threw himself heavily back into his executive chair. "I swear to God, I really don’t know."

Vincent panted heavily, looking at Blake, who seemed like his whole worldview had just collapsed. He just couldn’t believe a word he was saying.

’A person, even if they were some special forces soldier, a world-class strongman, or a bodybuilding champion, could never twist open a steel plate this thick with their bare hands.’

’This isn’t a Marvel movie.’

He rubbed his face, and a strange thought popped into his head: ’What if the real world isn’t what we think it is?’

’All those things you see online—the Illuminati, the Lizard People, the mutants, those special projects... could they all be real?’

He immediately shook his head, trying to shake the thought away.

"So what do we do now?" He patted his own chest. "I need a smoke. You got any weed?"

"I’ve got ketamine, want some?" Blake pulled open a drawer and took out a small baggie. "I’ve already done four lines. Any more and my heart’s gonna explode."

No wonder Blake had seemed so sluggish when Vincent arrived, only to suddenly explode with anger.

Vincent snatched the baggie from Blake’s hand, pulled out a credit card, and cut out two lines. After snorting them, his face scrunched up into a knot, and he rubbed it hard, as if trying to smooth it out again.

"HSSS... WHOO—Alright," he said, opening his eyes. "Let’s think. Handprints aside, this Hulk must have found out where our safe was from somewhere. So, Blake, besides us, who else knew the location of this safe?"

"I suggest we take it one step further back," Blake said. "Besides us, who else knew we had a ledger?"

"That’s a little too broad," Vincent shook his head. "Everyone assumes we have a ledger like that."

"But honestly, I thought only we knew where the safe was," Blake said. "But now I’m starting to wonder if superpowers really exist."

"Thinking about that stuff is useless. First principles, understand?" Vincent corrected him. "What do we do now? Should we call the cops?"

"This is a burglary. We should have the New York City Police Department check for fingerprints. If he has a record—"

"But what are we supposed to tell the police?" Blake said sarcastically. "Tell them, ’Hey, a Superman came and stole our little black book with the names of dozens of congressmen, officials, and millionaires. Please help us find him, and then arrest us and sentence us to 400 years in prison’?"

"Look on the bright side," Vincent scoffed. "It might be more than 400 years."

"And if we do call the cops, what happens when someone comes asking if there’s a risk of them being implicated?" Blake continued. "How do we explain it? We wouldn’t even make it to the airport before someone throws us in a sack and dumps us in the Hudson River to feed the fishes."

"Then what do we do? Not call the cops?" Vincent was worried now too. "Should we call a cleaner?"

"Looks like that’s our only option." Blake stared at the suspected fingerprints on the safe door, feeling the hair on his arms stand on end. "We can only hope this damn thing is some kind of trick, designed to slow down anyone trying to catch him."

"Exactly," Vincent said, trying to reassure him. "In this day and age, how could anyone just rip a safe door open? It must have been done with liquid nitrogen or hydraulic shears to create the effect."

...

When the cleaner showed up carrying bags of all sizes, the expressions on the faces of the 17th-floor employees changed yet again.

"Wait, what’s that he’s carrying?"

"I couldn’t get a good look, but based on the shape... was that a small circular saw?"

"Huh?"

Why would someone need to bring a circular saw to the boss’s office? And what’s more, after partner Vincent went into Blake’s office, he also, uncharacteristically, hadn’t come back out.

Now, some unremarkable stranger was showing up with all sorts of tools and equipment, especially that circular saw slung next to his bag, which really got their imaginations going.

After another round of discussion, they arrived at a new development in the story—

Vincent and Blake had played so rough last night that the thing inside Blake hadn’t just fallen out—it was stuck.

That’s why they needed a lone man with a circular saw to come and save Blake’s ass.

’That has to be it.’