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Back in Los Angeles, it was already late at night. Ron was just wondering what to grab for dinner when his phone rang. Howard's overly excited voice came through the speaker.
"Ron, are you back?"
"Just got back. What's going on, Howard?" Ron asked.
"Do you remember that special steakhouse you mentioned this morning?" Howard's voice was noisy in the background, and Ron could even hear Rajesh urging him on: "The one that serves those 'energy-boosting' dishes. Can you take us there? You promised."
Thirty minutes later, Ron, Howard, and Rajesh—an excited pair—were sitting in a slightly run-down steakhouse in Little Italy. The neon sign outside simply read "Tony's," a family restaurant specializing in hearty Italian-American fare. Except for Ron and his two companions, the only other patrons in the restaurant were Italian-Americans.
Upon entering, Howard eagerly addressed the waiter in broken Italian. "Per favore, we want the biggest steak and those 'energy' dishes, please. Grazie. What would you recommend?"
"Biggest steak? That's just tourist bait," Ron said, speaking Italian far more fluently than Howard, his accent authentically Sicilian.
"Hey, paisan, don't listen to him. First, bring me three orders of rocky mountain oysters. Fried crispy, extra seasoning, but go easy on the hot sauce—these guys can't handle real food. Then bring us twenty pieces of Buffalo wings, fried mozzarella sticks, and some of that spicy Italian sausage. These two are picking up the tab."
The waiter's jaw dropped at Ron's perfect Italian.
What do you mean these guys can't handle it? Is it really okay for someone who looks completely American like you to say that? Aren't you American too?
"Holy crap, Ron, you speak Italian! That's incredible!" Howard exclaimed in amazement.
Ron shrugged smugly. "Sure, it's not that complicated. Actually, I minored in Italian Studies in college and aced every class."
Someone who had spent years watching Italian-American movies and shows, studying Italian at an American university—this was practically cheating, wasn't it?
Ron reached over and gently closed the waiter's gaping mouth. "Come on, buddy, we want the freshest rocky mountain oysters, the kind that's crispy on the outside and tender on the inside."
He stood up and whispered something in the waiter's ear, then licked his lips nostalgically. God knows how hard it is for someone with a taste for authentic ethnic food to survive on bland American cuisine.
Rajesh asked: "Ron, do these 'energy' foods really work?"
"Absolutely, it's an old Italian-American secret. If I hadn't dated this Italian girl in college, I never would have learned about it," Ron said with complete conviction.
Soon after, the authentic Italian-American dishes he'd ordered arrived one by one.
"Alright, these are rocky mountain oysters. They're made from bull testicles. According to traditional beliefs, they boost your... stamina. Sounds gross, I know, but trust me, they're absolutely delicious.
This green stuff is fried zucchini. Italians say it's packed with natural energy that'll keep you going strong all night long..."
Ron introduced each dish enthusiastically, managing to argue that even the simplest Buffalo wings had "performance-enhancing" properties. However, the mysterious origins still made Howard and Rajesh hesitant.
Seeing that they weren't touching their forks, Ron couldn't help but encourage them further. "Think about that plus-sized lady from last night. You two were struggling together. Why don't you each try one before your next encounter?"
Before he finished speaking, Howard, who had been staring at the rocky mountain oysters with a troubled expression, suddenly put on a brave face, picked up a piece with his fork, and popped it in his mouth. Rajesh followed suit immediately.
Howard chewed thoughtfully and swallowed, anticipation written all over his face. "Rajesh, how do they taste?"
Rajesh replied, "Actually pretty good."
The two exchanged glances and simultaneously began devouring everything on their plates.
Ron watched their frantic eating with amusement, calmly taking a bite of his Buffalo wing before washing it down with a long swig of beer. "You knuckleheads, I don't think your limited food experience can compete with centuries-old Italian-American tradition."
Just as the group was enjoying their meal, a waiter emerged from the kitchen with a plate: "Who ordered the Beef Cheeks?"
Ron raised his hand in surprise: "Right here!"
Howard was already fascinated by Italian-American cuisine, but remained cautious about unfamiliar food: "What's this made from? Does it also boost... energy?"
"Of course," Ron grinned mischievously: "I can't tell you exactly what it's made from. Let's just say it comes from a very specific part of the cow. Back in the old country, this was a delicacy only the wealthy could afford. But if Rajesh's religious beliefs don't allow it, I don't mind sharing this treat with just you, Howard."
Of course Ron knew exactly what beef cheeks were, but he wasn't telling. He was just messing with them—he wanted to see their faces when they finished eating and found out what they'd consumed. It was going to be priceless.
Ron's sense of humor was truly twisted.
But before Howard could respond, Rajesh forked a piece into his mouth and let out a long, satisfied moan. "Beef can be both delicious and divine!"
Soon, the three had polished off everything on the table and collapsed back in their chairs, thoroughly satisfied.
Rajesh patted his stomach. "Howard, are you feeling any effects?"
Howard puffed out his chest proudly. "Absolutely! I feel like there's a fire burning in my gut. I'm like an energizer bunny, ready to go all night!"
"Me too! Do you still have that girl's number from yesterday? I'm going to rock her world tonight!"
"Hell yeah," Howard said excitedly, jumping up. "Ron, we're outta here. Tonight's going to be epic!"
"Woohoo!" Rajesh exclaimed, doing his signature awkward dance moves as he followed. Fortunately, they remembered to pay the check before bolting.
Ron gave them a sardonic look. "The sun's setting, the stars are out, and you think you're ready to conquer the world?" "Two morons, that's just jalapeño peppers! Even Viagra doesn't work that fast!"
Whether the energy-boosting combo actually works is debatable, but Ron knew it was all psychological. Many people's so-called performance issues are purely mental. Once you fix the mind, the body often follows without any medication.
The dynamic duo was probably dealing with exactly that kind of situation. Faced with that woman's imposing figure and their own insecurities, they psyched themselves out, and then...
So had he actually done them a favor? Ron wondered, but decided not to follow those two idiots. Who knows if they'd drag him into some drama with their conquest?
Ron had already disabled the "drama" setting in his life; he didn't want unnecessary complications.
He lingered at the table a bit longer. Once the two men were well out of sight, Ron calmly stood up, wiped his mouth, and prepared to leave. But then, something unexpected happened!
"Rat-tat-tat..." A series of rapid gunshots shattered the night's silence, and the restaurant owner immediately dove behind the counter, trembling.
"Shit! That's automatic fire!" Ron immediately drew his weapon and rushed outside. But just as he reached the door, another explosion erupted from the same location where the gunshots had originated.
It was in the direction of Little Italy, not far away. Coincidentally, that was also the direction Howard and Rajesh had headed home. Could it be them? Ron's blood ran cold.
With his extensive experience, he immediately knew this wasn't a robbery. Come on! Who uses a submachine gun to rob two nerds with zero fighting ability?
And who would target them? In an instant, Ron considered countless possibilities.
Could Rajesh's wealthy family background have been discovered and made him a target?
Ron quickly got in his car, started the engine, and drove toward the explosion. He couldn't let anything happen to the two guys he'd just shared dinner with.
The explosion wasn't far away, but Ron had barely driven two hundred yards when he encountered a group of motorcycle riders. Ron was so focused on reaching his friends that he barely noticed them, but just as he passed by, six motorcycles turned around and began following him.
Ron sensed trouble; they seemed to be checking his license plate. Were they after him?
The two lead bikes approached from the left and right, boxing Ron in. The passengers suddenly stood up on the back seats, quickly drew their weapons, and opened fire on his car.
Son of a bitch! Uzis! The same weapons as before.
Coming for me? A cold smile spread across Ron's face. He immediately ducked low in his car. Instead of stopping, he yanked the wheel hard, swerving directly toward the nearest motorcycle on his left.
"Crash!"
He instantly sent the nearest bike, rider and passenger, flying through the air. Ron used the momentum from the successful hit to spin the wheel again, flooring the accelerator. His car spun around and rammed the other motorcycle into the guardrail, pinning it against a light pole. Ron kept his head down the entire time.
"Crack!" The motorcyclist, crushed between his bike and the pole, was bloodied and motionless, clearly dead.
Ron had already used the impact of the collision to kick open his car door and roll into the roadside bushes.
His fellow bikers, unaware of his escape, simply stopped, drew their guns, and unleashed another barrage at Ron's car, determined to turn him into swiss cheese. Finally, a bullet struck the gas tank, turning the car into a Roman candle and triggering a massive explosion.
Flames and smoke billowed up, and before the motorcycle riders behind their helmets could even smile in triumph, Ron emerged from the bushes with a grin.
"That was fun, wasn't it? Now it's Uncle Ron's turn to play!"
(End of Chapter)
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