Chapter 55: Tax Collection
Uncle Fried Chicken said something unexpectedly philosophical:
"Whether I spend it or not is a different matter. Just having money brings peace of mind."
Ron thought that if Chief Zhao from In the Name of the People heard that, he'd definitely give a thumbs up. It was exactly the kind of thing that man would say. If the two ever met, they'd probably have a lot to talk about.
But today, Ron hadn't come to chat about the ethics of drug dealing.
"Alright, let's set that aside. I'm not here for a heart-to-heart," Ron said, waving it off. "Everyone has their reasons. Honestly, I think every one of them could go on The Voice and boost ratings just by talking about it."
He pulled a tax registration form from his coat pocket and slapped it down on the table.
"How about we talk about how much tax you've skipped on that little side business you've got running behind the laundromat?"
Under the table, Ron moved his other hand slightly—click. The sound of a large-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver quietly cocking echoed faintly beneath the table, its barrel now pointed directly at Uncle Fried Chicken.
"One twitch of my finger and you'll be face-to-face with God," Ron said calmly. "So I suggest you fill in a number on that form that'll make me smile. My year-end bonus and department funding kinda depend on it."
He made no attempt to hide his greed.
Uncle Fried Chicken's brow twitched. He hated being talked to like this—especially in such an aggressive tone. Even though he had already received instructions from powerful people behind the scenes to prepare for a financial "bleed," he didn't like being forced into it. Giving up money under threat? That was humiliation.
"And what if I say no?" he replied, his voice friendly, even cheerful—like he was offering Ron a second helping of fries. "Don't forget, I have a sniper outside too. I'd actually love to see if your little 'bomb' is the real deal."
It was the kind of polite voice that could charm an old lady, but the words were pure venom. To an outsider watching, it might've looked like two friends having a pleasant chat.
Ron burst out laughing. "Hahaha~ Congratulations, you guessed it!"
He pulled out the device from under his shirt—just an MP3 player taped to a few oversized batteries. It really did look like a bomb… no wonder Fring had fallen for it.
Realizing he'd been duped, Uncle Fried Chicken's eyes narrowed in frustration.
Then Ron raised the hand that had been resting on the table, mimicking the shape of a finger gun and pointing it at Uncle Fried Chicken's head.
"But who told you I came alone? Your intel seems to be a little outdated, my dear friend."
As Ron's hand lifted, a tiny red dot appeared on Fring's temple.
His calm, smiling expression finally cracked—there was a flicker of panic in his eyes.
The direction of the dot…
It was coming from his own sniper's position.
When did his man get taken out?!
---
Finally caught up.
Ron exhaled quietly in relief. Thank God Hank was fast enough. If he'd been even a minute late, Ron would've been completely screwed.
Earlier that morning, Ron had called Hank to go over the plan.
Ron would act like he was going to meet Uncle Fried Chicken alone, drawing all attention to himself. Meanwhile, Hank returned to base, picked up a silenced pistol, and was tasked with quietly eliminating any guards or thugs Fring brought along.
What Ron hadn't accounted for was the sniper.
He had no idea Fring would be this paranoid.
And by sheer bad luck—or perhaps by deliberate manipulation—Ron had chosen a window seat, giving the sniper a perfect line of sight.
Luckily, he'd come prepared.
Using the fake "body bomb" bluff, he bought enough time to discreetly text the sniper's coordinates to Hank.
With the element of surprise and Hank's impressive skills, the sniper was quickly dealt with. Hank then turned the sniper's own rifle toward Fring—just in time to match Ron's dramatic reveal.
That was how Ron managed to pull off that ridiculously badass moment just now.
---
"Fine. How much do you want?" Uncle Fried Chicken finally asked, his business instincts taking over. He was, after all, more of a savvy entrepreneur than a reckless cartel thug—and he knew when to cut his losses.
If this was going to cost him…
Ron narrowed his eyes.
"Let me do the math. According to that little genius of yours, he can produce close to 800 kilos per batch. You're selling this stuff on the street at $35 per gram, right? Tsk-tsk… That's $28 million in pure revenue per batch. Incredible."
His tone dripped with sarcasm.
If he could, Uncle Fried Chicken would've yanked the pin from a grenade and shoved it straight into Ron's endlessly flapping mouth, just to blow his smug head into shrapnel.
Unfortunately, the power wasn't in his hands.
There was a massive revolver pointed at him under the table, and a sniper rifle aimed squarely at his head from outside. Since he made his name, he had never been in such a humiliating position.
Ron went on, grinning like the devil himself.
"Let's say we use California's legal recreational marijuana tax rate—14%—as a baseline. But your product's clearly in a league of its own, way stronger than that stuff. So even doubling that rate wouldn't be excessive, right?"
Before Fring could protest, Ron steamrolled ahead.
"Oh! And let's not forget the local 10.5% luxury tax."
"Hold up!" Uncle Fried Chicken snapped. "Why the hell is there a luxury tax?!"
Ron blinked innocently.
"Because it's a luxury item, obviously~"
He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"At $35 a gram, it clearly belongs in the same category as caviar. Come on—if you've got a problem with it, I highly encourage you to file a complaint with the FBI."
File a complaint with the FBI?
That'd be no different than turning himself in!
What was he supposed to say—
"Hi, I'm here to report a corrupt IRS officer extorting me. I sell premium-grade coke and he's charging me luxury tax like I'm pushing foie gras instead of fentanyl!"
Yeah, and the FBI agents would just laugh, cuff him on the spot, then use his money to throw a month-long party—maybe even send Ron a thank-you card while they're at it.
"…Fine. I'll pay."
Fring's hand trembled slightly as he picked up the pen—mostly from rage.
He had never met anyone so brazenly shameless in his life.
"Oh, there's more," Ron said cheerfully, as if he'd just remembered a delightful bonus.
"This entire operation? Clearly food-related. I mean, they're eating it, right? So we're also looking at food taxes. No, no—don't argue, I know there's no official inspection or FDA involvement, but the tax still applies."
He counted each item off on his fingers like he was reciting a grocery list.
"In total, let's round it to a nice even 70% tax rate. Sound fair?"
Ron clapped the table with satisfaction, as if he'd just given the man a bargain.
He even looked proud of his "generosity."
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