Chapter 55: Tax Collection
The Chicken Man said something profound: "Whether you spend it or not is different from having it. Money, as long as you have it, brings peace of mind."
Ron felt like any financial advisor would definitely give this guy a thumbs-up for that wisdom. It was deep stuff. If they knew each other, they'd probably have endless conversations about wealth management. But Ron wasn't here to discuss his drug trafficking philosophy.
"Alright, enough of the deep thoughts. I'm not here for a therapy session. Everyone I've met has their sob story anyway. I think we could all go on Dr. Phil and boost his ratings through the roof."
Ron pulled a tax assessment form from his jacket and slammed it on the table. "How about we discuss exactly how much tax your laundromat operation has been dodging?"
Ron's other hand, resting casually on the table, shifted slightly. With a quiet click, the hammer of a large-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver cocked under the table, aimed directly at the Chicken Man.
"Right now, I could send you to meet your maker with one squeeze. I suggest you write down a number on that form that makes me happy. My annual bonus and department budget depends on it."
Ron made zero effort to hide his greed. Fring's eye twitched slightly. He despised being talked to so aggressively. Even though he'd received orders from his superiors and was prepared to pay up, he didn't appreciate being strong-armed and humiliated into handing over the cash.
"What if I refuse? Don't forget, I have shooters positioned outside too. I'd like to test whether that bomb of yours is actually real." The Chicken Man used the sweetest tone to deliver the most vicious threat. To any observer, their expressions would have made them look like two old friends having a pleasant chat.
"Ha! Congratulations, you called it!" Ron pulled the device from under his shirt. It turned out to be an old iPod and several batteries duct-taped together. It certainly looked explosive enough. Fring couldn't help but feel irritated.
Had he just been fooled by this improvised prop?
Ron's hand on the table formed a finger-gun, pointing it at the Chicken Man's head. "But who said I came alone? Your intelligence seems a bit outdated, my friend."
Ron slowly raised his finger-gun until it was level with Fring's temple. A small red laser dot appeared on the Chicken Man's head, and a flicker of genuine panic finally crossed his otherwise calm and pleasant face.
That angle... his own sniper! When had he been taken out?!
Finally worked!
Ron secretly breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God Hank was fast, otherwise this bluff would have been a complete disaster.
It turned out Ron had called Hank before leaving to coordinate the day's operation: Ron would pretend to go solo and meet the Chicken Man at the restaurant to draw everyone's attention.
Hank, meanwhile, would return to base to grab a suppressed rifle and take responsibility for clearing out Fring's security and muscle. Ron hadn't anticipated the sniper.
He'd never imagined the Chicken Man would be so paranoid, and he'd just happened to pick a window booth. Of course, he couldn't rule out the possibility that he'd been deliberately guided to that seat.
Fortunately, Ron had come prepared. He'd initially used the "human bomb" gambit to rattle Fring, then secretly texted the sniper's coordinates to Hank.
Between his calculated moves and Hank's impressive marksmanship skills, they'd quickly neutralized the sniper and repositioned the rifle on Fring—perfectly timed with Ron's dramatic reveal. That's why Ron could be so theatrical.
"Fine, what's your price?" The Chicken Man, always more pragmatic businessman than desperate drug dealer, chose to cut his losses.
Ron's eyes gleamed. "Let me run the numbers. According to your boy genius, he can cook up nearly 800 kilos for you per batch. And you're moving that stuff for $35 per gram on the street. Wow, that's gross revenue of $28 million per production run. Impressive!"
Ron's tone dripped with sarcasm. If only the Chicken Man could have pulled the pin on a grenade and stuffed it down the smart mouth across from him.
But unfortunately, the other party now held all the cards. Under the table was a large-caliber revolver aimed at him, and outside, a sniper rifle trained on his skull. Since building his fried chicken empire, he'd never been in such a humiliating position.
"Let me think about this. Based on the 14% excise tax on recreational cannabis, which is now legal in California, your product is clearly superior quality. Even doubling that rate wouldn't be unreasonable, right?"
Ron grinned, cutting off Fring before he could respond. "And then there's the 10.5% local luxury tax."
"Hold on! Why would there be a luxury tax?" The Chicken Man was stunned.
"Of course it's a luxury product, so it gets luxury tax treatment!"
Ron said matter-of-factly. "At $35 a gram, it should definitely be classified as luxury goods, like premium caviar, right? Of course, if you have any objections, you're more than welcome to file an appeal with the DEA."
File an appeal with the DEA? What's the difference between that and turning himself in? What would he say? "Hi, there's an IRS agent here demanding taxes on my operation. The crystal meth I'm distributing is incredibly high-purity, but he's taxing it as a luxury good!"
You think those DEA agents would arrest him with a smile, then use Fring's money to throw month-long office parties and send Ron a thank-you card?
"Fine, I'll pay it. Anything else?" The Chicken Man's hands were trembling with rage.
He'd never encountered someone so absolutely shameless.
"Of course, your product is technically a consumable no matter how you look at it. After all, people ingest it. In that case, there should also be a consumption tax. And while there are no FDA approval procedures, taxes still apply. Plus... adding it all up, I'm calculating your total tax liability at 70%."
Ron counted off each tax category on his fingers for the Chicken Man's benefit, then slammed his hand on the table with righteous indignation.
(End of Chapter)
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