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"I need to hit the head real quick." Hank started to stand, but Ron grabbed his arm. Something about Hank's expression seemed off.
"Hold up there, partner. You look like you've seen a ghost. Or maybe you're about to make some brown magic happen in your pants? Because if that's the case, by all means, sprint to that bathroom like your life depends on it."
Ron dramatically held his nose and waved his other hand in front of his face. Hank, caught red-handed trying to escape, abandoned his bathroom excuse and reluctantly sat back down.
"You got me. Maybe I am scared. You might've heard I actually spent some quality time at the border recently. But I'm betting you have no clue what I witnessed down there."
To keep from alerting their targets, Hank's voice dropped to barely above a whisper, like he was trying to contain all the nightmares from the past few weeks inside his chest where they couldn't escape.
Ron placed a reassuring hand on Hank's shoulder. This middle-aged cop was the real deal, no doubt about it.
"Look, I may not know the gory details, but I can fill in the blanks. Drug dealers are the absolute scum of the earth. Even after they've paid every penny in back taxes, I'd still find a way to shut them down permanently. These parasites are a waste of perfectly good oxygen."
As someone who'd lived through enough chaos in his previous life, Ron had zero tolerance for the drug trade. Even back in college, when half his dorm was experimenting with what they called "harmless" weed, Ron wouldn't touch the stuff. He knew it was a slippery slope—start with the mild stuff, get bored, then chase the next high until you're completely hooked.
"No way! You have no idea what I've been through!" Hank was getting worked up again. "Have you ever seen an informant's severed head mounted on a freaking turtle shell like some sick trophy? I doubt it!
And I guarantee you've never watched a turtle bomb explode and turn your partner—a guy you were just sharing coffee and donuts with—into hamburger meat that couldn't be reassembled with a jigsaw puzzle!"
"What makes you think I haven't seen worse?" Ron shot back with trademark sarcasm. "You think I became the IRS's top field agent by kissing ass and filing paperwork? I've been inside El Chapo's operations. The stuff I witnessed there would make Stephen King lose his lunch!"
Ron's expression turned ice-cold. Hank couldn't even maintain eye contact, but Ron grabbed his head with those surprisingly long arms and forced him to look directly at him.
"But so what? That just reminds me how much work there is left to do. Should I get on my knees and politely ask these scumbags to find a new career?" Ron practically hissed the words through clenched teeth.
"So," Ron gripped Hank's head tighter and nodded toward the two muscle-heads who'd just completed their little business transaction, whispering in his ear like a football coach calling a play: "If you don't want me to lose all respect for you, let's divide and conquer. We each take one of these morons and find out where they're getting their supply. Sound like a plan?"
Ron released Hank's head, drained his beer like it was a shot of whiskey, and strutted toward the dealers' table with the swagger of a man looking to start some trouble. Hank sat stunned for a moment, then knocked back his own beer and reluctantly followed.
"On your feet, gentlemen!"
"What's got your panties in a twist, suit boy?" The two gorillas weren't happy about their drinking session being interrupted. They stood up, flexing like they were auditioning for a bouncer job, clearly ready to teach these overdressed city boys some manners.
"I'm pissed off just watching you breathe. It's like you're personally polluting my air supply."
Ron casually unbuttoned his top two buttons and spat directly in the face of the bald mountain who matched his height. "What a joke! No talent, just another small-time punk who thinks he's tough. And that shiny dome of yours—what are you, trying to cosplay as Mr. Clean? Who exactly are you trying to intimidate here?"
The insulted giant immediately threw a haymaker at Ron's pretty-boy face, but Ron was ready for it. He deflected the punch effortlessly and had enough time to deliver a precision kick to the guy's family jewels.
The mountain screamed like a banshee, folded in half like a lawn chair, and hit the floor clutching his damaged goods.
The other brute quickly realized he wasn't dealing with some random office worker. He tried to pull his fist back from Ron's iron grip, but it was like trying to escape from a bear trap. Pure panic set in—he'd never encountered anyone this strong before.
"Ptooey!" Ron spat again, this time with the kind of arrogant expression that made you want to punch him just on principle. "Is that seriously all you've got? Did you use up all your energy screwing the neighbor's poodle? Poor little guy probably didn't even feel anything!"
Ron's tone dripped with fake sympathy, leaving everyone wondering if he was feeling sorry for the thug or the allegedly unsatisfied dog.
"You're dead, pretty boy!" Unable to free his trapped hand and further enraged by Ron's creative insults, the mountain man swung his free fist with everything he had, determined to rearrange Ron's face into abstract art.
Ron kept that infuriating smirk plastered on his face like he was watching a boring TV commercial. Hank mentally screamed "Duck!" but before the warning could leave his lips, Ron twisted the trapped fist with surgical precision, sending the entire 250-pound man crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
Hank's panicked warning morphed into an impressed "Holy shit!" but his admiration quickly turned to alarm.
The first guy, who'd been rolling around on the floor nursing his bruised manhood, had somehow found the strength to stand up. He grabbed a beer bottle from a nearby table and glared at Ron with murderous intent.
"Behind you!" Hank shouted, diving toward the bottle-wielding maniac. But midway through his heroic tackle, a glass ashtray exploded against the guy's skull with a satisfying CRACK!
Thud! The would-be attacker dropped like a marionette with cut strings, leaving Hank grasping at thin air.
Ron casually stood up from his throwing position and delivered a precision kick to the fallen man's ribs, making him curl up like a scared armadillo. Then he stomped down hard enough to wake the guy up from his bottle-induced nap.
"You little shit! Trying to get cute with a sneak attack! I'll teach you! I'll teach you about proper bar etiquette!" Ron continued his educational stomping session, delivering about seven or eight "lessons" before finally cooling off and turning back to Hank.
"Sorry about that, buddy. Guess I got a little carried away and didn't save any action for you. You're not gonna hold it against me, are you?"
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