I Like Dogs

IRS!

Its full name was the Internal Revenue Service, America's domestic tax authority, under the Treasury Department.

This department was badass—extremely badass!

As everyone knew, there were three things one must never do on Earth: ban alcohol in Russia, traffic drugs in China, or evade taxes in America.

Americans had a saying: only death and taxes were eternal in this world!

In America, whether the income was legal or illegal, even if you were in the underworld, you still had to pay taxes to the IRS.

IRS: No matter what you do, not one cent of my money can be missing!

That was right. They were just that badass!

The IRS was said to be everywhere in America and was known as "America's most feared government department." Its deterrent power far surpassed that of the Department of Defense, the FBI, CIA, DEA, and the like. In front of the IRS, they were all little brothers.

The origins of the IRS dated back to the American Civil War. At the time, the North and South were locked in fierce combat, and military funds were once stretched thin. President Lincoln saw that this would not do—how could they fight a war without money? He immediately had the tax department work overtime collecting taxes to subsidize the military.

The miserable tax officials went out to collect taxes, only to be chased away with guns pointed at their heads. Thus, with Lincoln's authorization, the IRS was born in response to the nation's second set of middle-school radio calisthenics... Pah, in response to the call of the times.

The IRS had the right to collect taxes by force. When faced with violent tax resisters, they simply said, "Heh. So what if you have guns? We've got cannons!"

After the taxes were successfully collected, Lincoln obtained a massive amount of military funding and won the final victory in the war.

So, did you think the American Civil War was won because a huge number of black slaves replenished the troops?

Was Lincoln assassinated because Southern slaveholders refused to accept defeat? Because of class interests and political conflicts?

Heh, you were still too young!

From then on, the IRS developed an excellent tax-collection style: if they could use force, they never wasted breath; if talks broke down, they opened fire. Of their 110,000 staff, 40,000 were armed personnel. They were well equipped, with combat strength comparable to an Army Mountain Division.

In America, the largest armed organization was the U.S. Army, the second was the Coast Guard, and the third was the IRS. In American film and television, the FBI was often used as a negative example, a backdrop to make the male lead look impressive. Yet no movie ever dared to make fun of the IRS. That was their deterrent power.

Armed with the note of introduction Cross, a former IRS member, had given him, Russell had also extorted 2,000 dollars and set off with confidence. Cross had talked Smith up so much that he was undoubtedly a major player. Even if he was not as formidable as Cross, he could not be far behind.

Thus, Russell rented a Ford F-150 from a used-car market and headed for the neighboring state. Since Smith's phone was turned off, Russell could only hit the road directly. To prevent unnecessary misunderstandings, Cross wrote a personal letter and enclosed a threaded bullet head. It was a secret signal between two middle-aged men.

Smith's city was some distance away. Russell drove southwest and spent an entire day crawling along the highway before reaching his destination at nightfall.

Even with proficient driving skills, he could not make up for the terrible performance of the used Ford. Perhaps it had gone without maintenance for too long, but its tires had very poor grip.

America had plenty of car rental markets. Russell had found one that operated in a legal gray area. It claimed to rent cars, but in truth, it simply sold them outright. Buyers did not care about the renter's identity or demand complicated procedures. Money changed hands, then so did the vehicle—clean and efficient, without any nonsense.

Almost all these cheaply sold used cars had questionable origins and had changed hands many times, making their true source impossible to trace. Take the Ford beneath Russell's ass. If cars were men's lovers, this one was already an experienced public bus.

On the road, Russell encountered a police checkpoint without incident. With the Driver's License he had obtained from Hoodlum, along with the identical-looking Asian face Europeans and Americans assumed they all had, he passed through with ease.

Smith's residence was rather remote. Russell only found it after being guided by a group of kind Hoodlums. Not only did they point him in the right direction for free, but they had even cried and begged to give Russell all the loose change in their pockets.

The upright Russell firmly refused. When the Hoodlums saw that he did not want it, they immediately began wailing and crying. Left with no choice, Russell accepted it.

Knocking on a killer's door in the middle of the night was not a wise choice. The other man might be staying up late writing, and if his train of thought was interrupted and he failed to update in time, the consequences would be severe.

Russell had originally planned to scout the place first, then bring some fruit when he visited the next day. Cross had given him 2,000 dollars to buy gifts. Russell, however, thought Americans were too vulgar. Some fruit would be enough—the gift might be light, but the sentiment was heavy. He intended to deliver the sincere regards of his old friend Cross.

The Ford drove past Smith's address: an abandoned building in the suburbs. Exposed bricks covered its mottled walls. It was probably a place only homeless people would live in.

Russell sensed that something was wrong. It was not because of the terrible sanitary conditions. Since Smith was a killer, he was surely cautious by nature, and there was nothing wrong with living in a deserted suburb.

But what the hell were more than a dozen Black Buick Commercial vehicles doing in front of the building? Was Smith hosting an underwear party?

An underwear party was impossible. Several men in suits and ties stood outside the building, wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night. They were either blind or insurance salesmen. Considering they had no guide dogs, the latter seemed more likely!

Clearly, Smith was not in a good situation. Someone had come to his door.

The men in suits also noticed the suspicious Ford. Two of them walked toward Russell, while the rest slipped their hands inside their jackets. They were all armed.

Bang! Bang! Bang...

A series of gunshots rang out from the building. Russell cursed under his breath, stepped on the gas, and sped away. Seeing this, the two men in suits did not pursue him and returned to their positions.

Russell had not actually left. He circled around and parked the Ford in the shadow of a large tree. Gunfire still continued upstairs. It had gone from constant shots at the beginning to sporadic bursts now. Unless an enemy was shooting a corpse, it meant Smith had just gone on a killing spree.

The men in suits no longer guarded the entrance. They drew pistols from inside their jackets and charged into the building. Another burst of intense gunfire followed.

Russell had no intention of rushing in to help. He counted the Black Buick Commercial vehicles. If every one of them had been full, the number of enemies would be terrifying. He had no desire to die for a stranger he had never even met.

The gunfire inside the building intensified once more, then, like the lull after a climax, stopped abruptly.

Two figures ran out of the building, a man and a woman. The man wore a black leather trench coat, while the woman was wrapped up tightly. In the darkness, their faces could not be seen clearly.

As the two ran into a nearby alley, more than twenty armed men in suits and ties rushed out of the building. The short man at their head cursed nonstop and followed them into the alley.

Russell rubbed his chin. Perhaps... he could sneak up behind them.

The fleeing man was Smith, a cold-looking man shrouded in mystery. No one knew his past, but he had the face of someone who had a story to tell.

Smith had been having a terrible few days. Because of a moment of softheartedness, he had accidentally become entangled in a conspiracy.

He was not a kindhearted person, nor had he ever wanted to be a hero. But when he saw an eight-months-pregnant woman being pursued by a group of armed thugs, he had instinctively offered his help.

In a chaotic gunfight, the pregnant woman went into labor early from fright. She herself did not survive, leaving behind only the newborn baby.

Smith had thought the woman's death would bring the matter to an end, and he had no desire to get further involved. But he later discovered that their target was not the woman, but the newborn baby. Unable to bear abandoning the infant to die, he offered help once again and sought assistance from his mistress.

A newborn needed breast milk. Smith did not have that function, but his prostitute mistress Quintana did. The unfortunate prostitute was dragged into the mess by him and brought back with him to his suburban residence.

What followed was the enemy coming to his door and Smith's grand performance of dominating the battlefield. With his precise marksmanship, he fought fifty gunmen alone, breaking out of the encirclement with his mistress and the baby.

Hiding in the dark alley, Smith thought he had shaken off the enemy. Who would have expected the Short Leader to be prepared? He came jogging over with a hunting dog on a leash.

The vicious barking echoed through the alley alongside hurried footsteps, creating a suffocating sense of oppression in the gloomy passage.

"Kill that dog! Kill that dog, now!" Quintana said in a low voice. Unless they killed the dog, they would not be able to escape pursuit.

Smith refused without a second thought. "No, I like dogs."

Quintana stared at him in dumbfounded disbelief. She had no problem with him loving dogs, but the Dog Pack did not know that!

Failure Diary

The editor told me not to stay up late writing and to take good care of my health. That way, when I became a failure, I could at least still go haul bricks at a construction site.