Hollywood Taxes: A Tycoon in TV Land

Chapter 37: Barroom Brawl

"I'm gonna hit the restroom."

Hank stood up, but Ron grabbed his arm before he could take a step.

Ron had noticed something was off about Hank's expression from the moment they sat down.

"You don't look right," Ron said, eyeing him closely. "It's like you're scared of something. Don't tell me you've got the runs and you're worried about crapping your pants. If that's the case, I'll let go right now."

He pinched his nose dramatically in mock disgust.

Hank, caught mid-motion, hesitated—then gave up the restroom excuse and sank back into his seat.

"You're right… maybe I am scared." He exhaled, voice low and tense. "You might've heard—I spent a few days down at the border not long ago. But there's no way you'd ever guess what I saw down there."

He leaned in, voice gravelly and low, not wanting to draw attention from anyone nearby. But that repressed intensity—it was like he was trying to scream out the fear and trauma bottled in his chest.

Ron reached out and rested a hand on Hank's arm. He could tell—this middle-aged man wasn't a coward. He was just a man who'd been through hell and survived it.

"I don't know exactly what you saw," Ron said gently, "but I can guess. Of all the criminals I've dealt with, drug traffickers are the most brutal. Even when they've paid their taxes and there's not a cent more to squeeze from them—I still try to wipe them out. People like that? Just wasting oxygen."

Ron wasn't just being dramatic. As someone who'd grown up under China's red flag—a model citizen raised under the ideals of socialism—he had always harbored a deep-seated hatred for drugs and everything they brought with them.

Even in school, when classmates were experimenting with marijuana—allegedly less harmful than cigarettes—Ron never touched the stuff. He understood the truth: it always started small, but eventually, people chased bigger highs. And the day that chase started was the day you became a junkie. Inevitable.

"No! You don't know what I've been through!"

Hank's voice cracked, eyes wild. "Have you ever seen a snitch's head chopped off and stuck on a tortoise shell? No—you haven't!"

"Have you ever watched a bomb strapped beneath that tortoise blow your buddy to pieces—someone who was just joking with you five minutes earlier?! You think you know, but you don't!"

"How do you know I haven't seen that?" Ron snapped back, sharp and cold. "You think I earned the title of IRS's top agent by kissing ass?"

"I've infiltrated Guzmán's factories, you know. Wanna guess the horrors I saw in that hellhole? Those bastard drug dealers? Every last one of them belongs in the lowest pit of hell."

Ron's face twisted with fury. For a second, Hank couldn't even look him in the eye—until Ron leaned in, using his longer reach to press Hank's head into a forced stare.

"So what?" Ron hissed, teeth clenched. "All that means is there's still more work for us to do. What, you think I'm gonna get down on my knees and beg them to stop selling poison?"

Each word felt like it had been carved out from stone, Ron forcing them out from between clenched teeth.

Then, he turned his gaze toward the two men in the corner—the ones who had just completed the shady exchange.

He leaned close to Hank's ear and whispered:

"So… if you don't want me thinking you're all talk, how about this—one each. We grab those bastards and ask them where they're getting their supply from. Sound good?"

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Chapter 37: Barroom Brawl (Vote for Me! Please Vote!) — Part 2

As soon as he finished speaking, Ron released Hank's head, drained his beer in one go, and swaggered straight toward the two men's table, his face practically announcing "I'm here to cause trouble."

Hank blinked, stunned for a second—but then he downed his own beer and quickly followed.

"Get up. Now."

"What's your problem, you jackass?" The two burly men stood up, their buzz from drinking clearly soured. Muscles rippled as they puffed out their chests, more than willing to teach some smug guy in a suit a lesson.

Ron sneered. "My problem? I've got a problem with the fact that you're still breathing. Every breath you take makes the air feel contaminated."

He unfastened the top two buttons of his dress shirt and then, without warning, spit directly into the bald guy's face—the one who was eye-level with him.

Seriously? Just another dime-a-dozen thug trying to look scary by shaving his head like Toretto. Ron hated guys like this—no skills, just swagger.

The bald man roared and threw a punch straight at Ron's handsome face. But Ron had been ready. He caught the punch effortlessly and, with his free leg, delivered a brutal kick between the legs of the second man.

The guy collapsed with a high-pitched scream, clutching his groin and folding like a shrimp.

The first thug's face paled. He realized this was no average suit. When he tried to pull his arm back, he was shocked—no matter how hard he struggled, his fist wouldn't budge an inch from Ron's iron grip.

What kind of monster strength is this?!

Spit. Ron hocked another loogie into the thug's face, his grin full of cocky malice.

"This is the best you've got? What's wrong—used up all your strength banging your dog at home?" he said with faux sympathy. "Poor guy. And even worse for your dog…"

"You son of a—! I'll kill you!" the man shouted, humiliated and enraged. Unable to free his right hand, he swung his left fist hard toward Ron's smirking face.

Ron didn't even flinch. That same mocking smile stayed plastered on his face, like the punch wasn't even there.

Watching from the side, Hank panicked—"Watch out!" he wanted to shout. But before the words left his mouth, Ron twisted the trapped arm in one clean motion. With a thud, the thug's massive body slammed into the floor.

"Nice one!" Hank couldn't help but cheer.

But his excitement turned to alarm in the next second—because the guy Ron had earlier kicked in the nuts had staggered to his feet, grabbing a beer bottle from a nearby table and stalking up behind Ron with murderous intent.

"Look out!" Hank yelled. He dove toward the man with the bottle—but halfway through his leap, a sharp CRACK rang out.

A glass ashtray exploded across the attacker's face.

Thunk!

The man crumpled like a felled tree, leaving Hank diving through empty air.

Ron didn't miss a beat. He stomped the first thug in the gut, folding him in half. Then he spun and drove his heel into the stomach of the would-be bottle attacker, waking him up from his brief knockout—only to be greeted by a world of pain.

"You little punk, thought you had skills, huh? Thought you could sneak up on me?!"

With every curse, Ron stomped the guy again. Seven, eight times—until the anger left his face and his breathing calmed.

Then, he turned to Hank.

"Oops. I think I took your target by mistake. You're not mad, are you?"