I Like Dogs

IRS!

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

This department was badass—extremely badass!

As everyone knew, there were three things on Earth one must never do: ban alcohol in the land of warriors, deal drugs in China, or evade taxes in America.

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

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

IRS: No matter what you did, you didn't get to shortchange me by a single cent!

That was right. They were just that awesome!

In America, the IRS was practically everywhere. It was hailed as "America's most terrifying government department," and its deterrent power far surpassed that of the Department of Defense, the FBI, CIA, DEA, and the rest. In front of them, those agencies were just 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 desperately tight. 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 collectors went out to collect taxes, only to be driven away with guns pointed at their heads. Thus, under Lincoln's authorization, the IRS was born in response to the call of the times—pah, not the second set of national middle-school radio calisthenics.

The IRS had the right to collect taxes by force. Faced with violent tax resisters who refused to cooperate, their response was simple: Heh, so what if you have guns? We have cannons too!

With taxes successfully collected, Lincoln obtained a large amount of military funding and ultimately won the war.

So, did you think the American Civil War was won because large numbers of Black slaves replenished the army's ranks?

Was Lincoln assassinated because Southern slave owners refused to accept defeat? Was it caused by 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 words; if talks broke down, they opened fire. Of their 110,000 employees, 40,000 were armed personnel, well-equipped and possessing combat power comparable to the 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 films and television, the FBI was often used as a negative example or a backdrop to make the male lead look impressive, but no film ever dared make jokes about the IRS. That was their deterrent power.

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

Thus, Russell rented a Ford F-150 from a used-car market and headed for the neighboring state. Since Smith's phone was switched off, Russell had no choice but to hit the road directly. To avoid 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, dawdling on the highway for an entire day before reaching his destination at nightfall.

Even with master-level driving skills, he could not compensate for the lousy performance of the used Ford. Perhaps it had gone without maintenance for too long, but its tires had terrible grip.

There were many car rental businesses in America. The one Russell found was a company with ties to the gray market. It claimed to rent cars, but in reality, it simply sold them outright. The buyers did not care about the renter's identity and did not require complicated paperwork. Cash in one hand, car in the other—clean and straightforward, with no nonsense.

Nearly all these cheaply sold used cars came from questionable sources and had changed hands many times, making their true origins impossible to trace. Take the Ford beneath Russell's ass: if cars were men's lovers, then this one was an experienced public bus.

On the way, Russell encountered a police roadblock without any real danger. Relying on the Driver's License he had gotten from the Hoodlums, along with the identical-looking Asian face Europeans and Americans saw, he easily bluffed his way through.

Smith's residence was rather remote. Russell only found it after being guided by a group of kind Hoodlums. Not only did the Hoodlums give him directions for free, they even cried and begged him to take the loose change from their pockets.

The upright Russell firmly refused. When the Hoodlums saw that he did not want it, they immediately wailed and burst into tears. Helpless, Russell could only accept it.

Knocking on a killer's door in the middle of the night was not a wise choice. The man might be staying up late writing, and interrupting his train of thought might prevent him from updating on time. The consequences would be severe.

Russell had originally planned to scout the place first, then come calling the next day with some fruit. Cross had given him two thousand dollars to buy gifts, but Russell thought Americans were too materialistic. Fruit would be enough. It was the thought that counted, and he intended to deliver the sincere greetings of his old friend Cross.

The Ford drove past Smith's address, an abandoned building in the suburbs. Exposed bricks could be seen all over its mottled walls. Probably only homeless people would live there.

Russell noticed that something was off. It was not that the sanitary conditions were terrible. Since Smith was a killer, he was surely cautious by nature, and there was nothing strange about living in a sparsely populated suburb.

But what was with the dozen or so Black Buick Commercials in front of the building? Was Smith holding a lingerie party?

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

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

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

Bang! Bang! Bang...

A rapid series of gunshots came from inside the building. Russell cursed under his breath, stepped on the accelerator, 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 beneath the shadow of a large tree. Gunfire was still continuing upstairs. It had changed from an uninterrupted barrage to sporadic shots. Unless an enemy was desecrating a corpse, it meant Smith had just slaughtered a great many people.

The men in suits no longer guarded the entrance. They pulled pistols from their jackets and rushed inside, followed by another burst of intense gunfire.

Russell had no intention of rushing over to help. He counted the Buick Commercials. If every vehicle was 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 suddenly grew dense again, then, as though there had been a pause after the climax, it stopped instantly.

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. Their faces could not be seen clearly in the night.

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

Russell rubbed his chin. Perhaps... he could kill them from behind.

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

Smith had been having a miserable past few days. Because of a moment of softness, he had accidentally become involved in a conspiracy.

He was not a kind-hearted man, nor did he have any desire to become a hero. But when he saw an eight-months-pregnant woman being hunted by a group of armed thugs, he had instinctively offered help.

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

Smith had thought the incident would end with the woman's death, and he had no intention of getting involved further. But he soon discovered that their target was not the woman, but the newborn baby. Unable to abandon 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, then Smith's grand scene of showing off. With his precise marksmanship, he faced fifty gunmen alone and fought his way 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 fierce barking echoed through the alley, accompanied by hurried footsteps. In the gloomy alley, it created a suffocating sense of oppression.

"Shoot that dog! Shoot that dog, now!" Quintana said in a low voice. If they did not kill the dog, they would not be able to escape pursuit.

Smith refused without even thinking. "No. I like dogs."

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

Failure Diary

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