The Art of the Deal

"This wretched place, not even a blade of grass grows here..."

The silicone prosthetic belly got hot from the sun, and when it was stuck to his stomach, he sweated profusely, and it itched so much that he wanted to reach inside and scratch it.

Old Zhou glanced around, and taking advantage of the fact that no one was around, he stealthily reached under the hem of the floral shirt and grabbed a couple of handfuls through the silicone.

After grabbing it, I didn't dare to use too much force, for fear of picking the glue off my belly button in the street, which would be a huge mess.

After wandering around for about ten minutes, Sing Sing finally spotted a convenience store. The glass door was covered with colorful stickers that read, "Hunters Welcome," "No Loitering," and "No Change Required."

Pushing open the door, I saw a large, fat man with a red beard sitting behind the counter, currently wiping a double-barreled shotgun with a gun cloth.

"Boss, two iced Americanos, extra ice, and four cans of Budweiser, ice cold."

"No."

Sing Sing Chow frowned. "No iced Americano? A latte will do."

"Outsider, do you have some kind of misunderstanding about yourself?"

Redbeard stopped what he was doing, his triangular eyes drooping as he stared at the strange creature in front of him, sporting a shiny bald head and a large, oily belly.

"First, hot drinks are restricted items and can only be sold to brothers and sisters in Christ who hold baptism certificates from the local parish."

"Second, caffeine is a potent stimulant, and consuming it can easily breed rebellion and lustful thoughts. Third, state law stipulates that the maximum alcohol content of beer cannot exceed 3.2 degrees."

Sing Sing stood in front of the counter, completely stunned.

Are you kidding me?

Just a couple more steps west and you'll reach Nevada, where the slot machines in Las Vegas are deafeningly loud all day long, and bikini-clad bunny girls strut down the streets.

So, by venturing dozens of miles east into this desolate salt flat, coffee has been elevated to a spiritual illicit substance?

Even the alcohol content of beer has been reduced to a level suitable for children?

Old Zhou put on a fawning smile, secretly pinching a crumpled five-dollar bill between two fingers and pushing it forward along the counter:

"Hey bro, be a little flexible, I came all the way from Vancouver to pick up my truck, my throat's practically burning. You must have some high-concentration stuff secretly hidden in your kitchen, give me two cans, consider this five dollars as something I dropped on the ground..."

A crisp click.

He cocked and locked the shotgun, pointing it at the beer belly beneath Sing Sing's floral shirt. "If you keep arguing, I'll assume you're a bootlegging smuggler from across state lines."

A wise man doesn't fight a losing battle; Director Zhou has always been well-versed in the rules of workplace survival.

Sing Sing raised his two hands, each adorned with a gold ring, and with a grin, backed away. He swaggered to the nearby freezer, grabbed two cans of beer, slapped the coins on the counter, and slipped out the door.

Greasy Lao Zhou

Pull the tab, gulp it down, and all you taste is the artificial sweetener flavor.

With a map in hand, Director Zhou arrived at the used car market on the outskirts of the city, but no matter how he looked at it, he felt that the place was just a garbage dump surrounded by broken wire mesh.

Upon seeing customers arrive, the parking lot owner warmly introduced the vehicles.

He casually mentions a leaky Ford that costs eight thousand dollars, claiming it can haul a ton of cargo all over Utah.

Sing Sing walked around the car twice, then reached out and patted the car door. "Are you kidding me?"

"Look at this oil leak! It'll leave an oil stain half a mile away; you won't even need GPS to find it."

"The seat is so worn out it's practically exposing the foam; sitting on it would snag my floral shirt. The idle is shaking like my great-uncle's Parkinson's's hand—peak condition? I think he's about to have a stroke!"

Director Zhou's well-trained tongue rattled off a torrent of words.

The list goes on from carbon buildup in the intake manifold to severe brake disc wear, and even the aging wiper blades affecting the airflow are dragged into it.

They forced the owner to sell a scrapped car worth 8,000 yuan for only 1,200 yuan, and then extorted half a tank of gasoline from the owner, the contents of which were unknown.

The boss was drenched in sweat from the spray, clutching his chest as he plopped down on the old tire, nearly passing out on the spot.

"God is my witness! I, Jimmy, have been dealing in used cars on this salt flat for thirty years, and I've never seen a buyer with such an ugly attitude!"

The old man, his hands trembling, reached into his pocket for his blood pressure medication, shouting angrily, "Your skin is so thick it would make even the corner of a city wall bow down in admiration!"

"Even a robber pointing a gun at me would be more reasonable than you. If I were to talk to you any longer, I'd have to pay you back even for the lollipops I bought for my granddaughter!"

Sing Sing smugly twirled the car keys on his fingers, then patted him on the shoulder. "You're being petty, aren't you? Do you think robbers would leave you 1,200 yuan in cash after stealing your car?"

The clean version is still more comfortable.

I have to buy this piece of junk; God knows how many days I'll be stuck in Wendover.

If he keeps wandering around the streets empty-handed, claiming to be a used car dealer, not only Silver Peak's informants, but even the patrol officers on the street will become suspicious of him.

Sing Sing got in and started the engine three times before it finally started belching black smoke.

He pulled out the slip of paper A Le had given him; the address was Old Feng Sichuan Cuisine on the outskirts of town.

The restaurant is tucked away among a row of auto repair shops. A faded old wooden sign that used to read "Old Feng Sichuan Cuisine" now has two dots completely missing from the character for "cuisine," making it look more like "Old Feng Sichuan scum" at first glance.

Pushing open the door, you're greeted by the pungent aroma of chili peppers and Sichuan peppercorns, which seems to hit you right in the head.

Sing Sing was greatly shocked. He was amazed that Chinese restaurants in Chinatowns abroad would even make twice-cooked pork into a sweet and sour porridge with a pineapple flavor to cater to foreigners' tastes.

This little shabby restaurant in the desolate salt flats tastes exactly like the food stalls in the old alleys of Chengdu.

Are these locals used to the food?

Or is it because their business is too good?

Two truck drivers wearing dirty vests sat by the window, wiping away snot and tears from the spiciness while stuffing rice into their mouths.

A lean old man sat behind the counter, wearing black-rimmed reading glasses, and was making a loud clattering sound as he worked on his abacus.

Following the code, Sing Sing shouted at the top of his lungs, "Boss, a plate of twice-cooked pork! Extra garlic sprouts, no Pixian chili bean paste, stir-fried with Lao Gan Ma sauce! The rice has to be firm, so firm it could kill someone!"

The sound of the abacus stopped.

Old Feng took off his reading glasses, wiped them, shouted to the kitchen to prepare the ingredients, and led him to the innermost cubicle.

She pulled back the curtain, poured him a glass of cold water, and said in a very low voice, "You finally made it here. Things have been incredibly tense around here lately. Last month, the bureau sent two newcomers to try and find out about Silver Peak's cargo route, and the very next morning, their bodies were found floating in the shallow puddles of the salt marsh."

The curtain was lifted, and a large plate of glistening, oily twice-cooked pork was slammed onto the table.

The edges of the meat slices curled into pretty lamp-shaped indentations, exuding a fragrant aroma, and were covered with bright red chili flakes and garlic sprout segments.

Having downed two bottles of non-alcoholic soda and with his stomach churning, Director Zhou was too preoccupied with formalities to bother with pleasantries. He grabbed his chopsticks, picked up two large pieces of fatty meat, and stuffed them into his mouth, his mouth watering from the heat.

"Take your time, no one's going to take it from you. There's plenty more in the pot."

Old Feng sat opposite him, took out a pipe without a filter, and lit it.

"Starting three months ago, people have been disappearing around Interstate 80. About twenty people have been gone. They're all undocumented workers, homeless people, and a few Mutants 've wandered over. Sigh... they're all orphans and unregistered individuals."

"Those local cops, paid by taxpayers, just drive around in their patrol cars, casually fill in 'left the country on their missing persons report' and call it a day. Silver Peak and his gang are cunning and ruthless; they only pick on these spineless, unsuspecting victims."

With his mouth stuffed full, Sing Sing asked indistinctly:

"Have you seen a woman in a black dress in town or on the streets lately? She has a striking blood-red diamond mark on her forehead, and her eyes are bloodshot, like a rabbit possessed."

Old Feng frowned, pondered for a long time, and slowly shook his head. "I've never seen such an eye-catching woman. But for the past two weeks, every night around two or three in the morning, there are always heavy container trucks without license plates turning off the highway, carrying heavy loads."

Which way to go?

"Abandoned Wendover Air Force Base."

Old Feng muttered under his breath, "The place where the bomber squadron that dropped the atomic bomb during World War II stayed has been abandoned for decades. The ground is full of nuclear and air-raid shelters dug back then."

Before he could finish speaking, a customer at the front desk slammed his hand on the table and shouted, "Check, please!"

Old Feng quickly agreed and handed him an oil paper package containing two still-warm hard- Nick Fury: "Take this to tide you over. You won't find a mouse hole even after driving dozens of miles through the salt marshes. That abandoned base is really creepy, so be careful."

After paying for the meal, Sing Sing walked out of the restaurant, patting his stomach which was full from the twice-cooked pork.

The attempt to tame it failed, and it grew three arms.

The beat-up Ford took two more tries to start before it finally got going, and it wobbled onto Interstate 80.

After driving for more than ten miles, Sing Sing glanced at the rearview mirror.

A spherical machine floated above and behind the car, following at a leisurely pace for about a hundred meters, with crooked white paint lettering sprayed on its exterior.

MOJO-TV