Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

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Of course, the Tinkerer had no intention of getting himself dragged along to the LAPD precinct—or worse, the FBI’s Los Angeles field office. Practicing medicine without a license was a crime anywhere in the world. Fines were the lightest consequence; prison time was far more likely.

But neither did he want to finish the surgery too quickly and give the fat white boss a chance to escape. Completing the procedure perfectly, without any flaw or trace of hesitation, was child’s play for someone with his superhuman mind and senses.

As for abandoning the operation halfway and fighting his way out under a hail of bullets—well, that wasn’t part of his plan. He’d been paid a million dollars for this job, and he intended to earn every cent.

Besides, if he quit now and left someone else to stitch the man up, then whether the patient lived, died of post-op complications, or succumbed to infection—who would the credit or blame fall on?

Not that the Tinkerer craved recognition, nor that he wanted to kill anyone. But deep down, he wanted proof—proof that he could pull off such a high-difficulty surgery by himself.

So while keeping tabs on the police’s approach, he calmly began the closing phase of the operation.

His movements were smooth and steady—too practiced to be casual—but compared to his earlier speed, the more experienced medical staff noticed the difference immediately. He was slowing down, deliberately.

No one said a word. They all knew their lives might depend on the police arriving in time. None of them trusted this "doctor" not to get them all killed before the night was over.

If the cops did come, they’d simply insist they’d been forced to assist. The punishment might not be light, but it wouldn’t be fatal either. After all, they no longer had licenses to lose—they’d already been expelled from the medical system. As long as they survived, things couldn’t get much worse.

When the gallbladder and liver resections were tied off, the Tinkerer picked up the syringe he’d used earlier to extract body fat and began injecting it back into the original sites.

The white kid still pressing a gun to the back of his head snarled, "What the hell are you doing? You stalling for time?"

"You don’t know shit," the Tinkerer replied without looking up. "If you’re such an expert, why don’t you take over? Great chance to show loyalty—maybe you’ll even get a promotion."

"I’m asking because I don’t understand!" the kid shot back.

"Well then, let me explain properly." The Tinkerer stopped what he was doing and turned to face the man with the gun.

Both Andrew Saxon, lying on the table, and the gunman lost their composure.

"Don’t stop!" Saxon bellowed.

"Keep your hands moving!" the gunman shouted.

"How’s it my fault you’re ignorant?" the Tinkerer said, feigning a wounded tone. Then he turned back and resumed his work.

Finally, he injected the last of the fat back into place, lowered the opened abdominal wall, and began the final sutures. It should have been the moment everyone exhaled in relief—

—but from the distance came the unmistakable wail of sirens, growing louder by the second.

Panic rippled through the room. Everyone’s eyes flicked between their boss and the doctor. They wanted to know if the surgery was finished—but even more, they wanted permission to run.

Andrew Saxon understood their looks perfectly. But how could he give that order? If he said the word, how many would stay? Would any of them come back for him when the police stormed in?

The more desperate the situation grew, the calmer he became. He stopped yelling at the Tinkerer entirely, realizing that if he distracted him now, the only one to suffer for it would be himself.

All attention in the warehouse focused on three things:

the sirens coming closer,

the cars waiting outside for a quick escape,

and the Tinkerer’s hands—stitching the final incision closed.

At last, he finished tying off the final knot and snipped the suture with surgical scissors.

The white kid, still behind him, pushed the gun forward until the barrel dug into the back of his skull, finger tensing on the trigger.

The Tinkerer turned his head slightly, utterly unhurried. "Hey, don’t rush it. Your boss still has needles in him—he won’t be able to move. And that wound of his... no gauze? You really want him dying from infection?"

"Pulling out needles and putting on gauze doesn’t need you to do it," the kid sneered, thrilled at the idea of shooting him.

He wanted to see the man panic—to hear him beg. But before he could blink, the Tinkerer moved like lightning, plunging a hidden scalpel into the man’s wrist.

The kid screamed, "You bastard—what did you do to me?!"

He tried to pull the trigger—but his fingers wouldn’t move. His hand went limp, the gun slipping from his weakening grip. Terror replaced fury.

And that was when chaos erupted outside—the sound of shouts, gunfire, the sharp reports of pistols and automatic weapons echoing through the warehouse.

The police had breached the perimeter, and Saxon’s men at the outer posts opened fire. Within seconds, the firefight reached its peak.

Ignoring whether the needles were removed or the incision dressed, Andrew Saxon made his decision. Even through pain and fury, he was pragmatic.

"Forget him!" he barked. "Bring the car! Get me out of here! Leave these bastards behind—let them explain to the cops what happened!"

The Rolls-Royce that had brought the Tinkerer here was already waiting outside the inflatable surgery unit.

Saxon’s men pushed the mobile operating table through the sterilization tunnel toward the car, eager to load their boss and flee.

Those trapped inside the inflatable OR—the Tinkerer and the remaining medical staff—didn’t dare block the exit. The gangsters had guns. They didn’t.

Just as Saxon had ordered, only his own people made it into the car. Then the Rolls-Royce roared away, vanishing into the chaos.

The abandoned medical crew stood frozen, staring at the now-empty warehouse.

The Tinkerer peeled off his surgical gown and tossed it aside carelessly.

The others, who had changed fully into surgical scrubs, couldn’t even think about changing back. They tore off their bloody gloves and threw them down, hands shaking.

Then they saw the Tinkerer pick up the two heavy duffel bags full of cash, along with his own small tool bag. Without a word, he headed for the exit.

The rest—lost, terrified, and with no plan of their own—grabbed their things and followed him out.

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