Hollywood Taxes: A Tycoon in TV Land

Chapter 25: The Gang's Doomsday in Koreatown

Ron's custom-built weapons case, made from special materials, remained completely unscathed by the earlier explosion. He calmly placed his Glock and its holster back into a designated slot, then reverently pulled out another holster — this one holding a hefty revolver — and fixed it securely to his belt.

Swish—

In one smooth motion, Ron drew the revolver, holstered it, drew again — repeating the motion three times with mechanical precision. At last, satisfied, he held the revolver in his palm, slowly caressing it like a deranged fetishist.

If any professional marksman had witnessed this scene, they would've been stunned to find that Ron's draw speed with this revolver was twice as fast as it was with the Glock.

But the real shock would come upon identifying the weapon in his hand: the Smith & Wesson Model 500 — one of the most infamous revolvers in the world.

Its reputation came from one simple fact — its massive caliber. This beast fired .50 caliber Magnum rounds (12.7mm), making it one of the most powerful production handguns in existence. The rounds were so large that while most revolvers could hold six shots, the M500 could only manage five.

Of course, that raw power came with monstrous recoil, making it impractical for anything outside of big-game hunting.

But Ron's revolver was no ordinary M500.

This was a legendary weapon, the only one his system had ever recognized as such in over twenty years. In Ron's eyes, the gun shimmered with a subtle, unique orange glow.

"Old Jack's Smith & Wesson M500 Revolver — the final sidearm of legendary gunslinger Jack Marston. Heavily modified to drastically reduce recoil. With this weapon, even one-handed operation is possible."

This treasure came from Ron's childhood neighbor — a grizzled war veteran who taught him everything he knew about firearms.

That man was Jack Marston. People in town said he used to be a big deal, though by the time Ron knew him, he was a frail old man who could barely walk.

But don't let the cane fool you — the old man's aim was as sharp as ever. As a kid in gun-restricted China, Ron had long yearned for real shooting experience. So he constantly visited the old vet, learning the ropes. Eventually, Jack came to treat Ron like his own grandson — even specifying in his will that his beloved revolver be passed down to him.

Along with the revolver came Ron's second system skill — a true game-changer:

"Gunslinger (Passive): A marksmanship skill passed down from Arthur Morgan, the top sharpshooter of the Van der Linde Gang. When using revolvers: accuracy ×2, rate of fire ×2, draw speed ×2. (A cowboy's final devotion to his weapon.)"

What's more, Ron discovered that this skill wasn't limited to handguns — it applied to any revolving weapon.

Case in point? He pulled out a Milkor M32 grenade launcher from his case.

---

By now, night had fallen.

After confirming over the phone that both Toretto and Andy were safe, Ron finally made his way to the Koreatown warehouse near the Confucius Temple. He lurked in the shadows of a narrow alleyway, carefully observing the building.

A few Asian gangsters lounged around the warehouse entrance, lazily playing cards. Each had a submachine gun within arm's reach — heavily armed and dangerous. Dim light leaked through the warehouse's cracked door, hinting at more people inside.

So the street racer hadn't been lying — this was their hideout.

Ron climbed to the rooftop of a grocery store across the street. He tipped over his backpack, clattering 18 grenades onto the roof. Adding them to the six already loaded in his M32 brought the total to 24 rounds. Hauling them here hadn't been easy, but with his near-limitless stamina, it was nothing he couldn't handle.

He arranged the grenades in neat rows before flipping open the launcher's sight, planting the stock against his shoulder. He aimed at the card-playing thugs. The distance required some adjustment, so he slightly elevated the muzzle before gently squeezing the trigger.

Thud—

A soft mechanical thump sounded. The grenade hit its target and—

BOOM!

The gangster exploded into chunks of meat. The blast wave flung the other two off their feet, their fates uncertain.

"@#￥%&!"

A chorus of confused Korean curses erupted from inside the warehouse. Dozens of gangsters poured out in panic, frantically scanning their surroundings but having no clue where the attack came from.

From the rooftop, Ron licked his lips with a cold grin.

"Amateurs. No combat awareness. Don't even know how to spread out. All grouped up like cattle at slaughter."

How could he resist such an opportunity?

Thud—BOOM!

He sent another grenade into the center of the largest cluster. Three more gangsters dropped, blown apart.

Finally learning their lesson, the remaining thugs scattered and took cover, blindly firing their weapons at wherever they thought the attacker might be. Bullets tore through the night, filling the air with chaotic noise — but none aimed toward the rooftop where Ron crouched.

He didn't waste the moment. In a flash, he fired off the remaining four grenades in his chamber, blasting apart more gangsters who thought they were safe behind cover.

"On the roof!"

At last, one of the thugs spotted Ron and shouted a warning. A wild spray of gunfire followed, but Ron instantly ducked behind a low wall. A string of 9mm bullets chewed into the rooftop bricks, missing him entirely.

The submachine gun had sung, but hit nothing.

And Ron? He was just getting started.

Ron flicked the grenade launcher with a practiced twist—six empty casings clattered to the ground. Without even raising his head, he swiftly grabbed grenades from the ground and reloaded the launcher. Then, mimicking the way African warlords wield AKs, he hoisted the weapon above his head and unleashed a full burst. The barrage sent the gang members scattering in chaos once again.

Without missing a beat, Ron reloaded. He rolled from behind the low wall and popped up at a different position. The gangsters' attention was still fixated on where he had ducked moments ago.

"Die!" Ron roared, unleashing another spray of grenades. With the bonus of his "Sharpshooter" skill, the launcher's firing speed rivaled that of an automatic rifle. Six new craters were blasted across the warehouse entrance.

"Kill him!"

"He's just one guy!"

"$%@#—!"

As more of their comrades fell, the Korean gang members went berserk. Screaming in rage, they sprayed the rooftop with gunfire, desperate to shred Ron into pieces. Two of them, slightly more clever than the rest, began flanking the supermarket from both sides.

But Ron wasn't one to be easily cornered.

The supermarket bordered two narrow alleyways at the rear. After loading the final six grenades into the launcher, Ron dropped from the rear rooftop, vaulting over the low wall. The moment he landed, he heard the telltale rustle of footsteps from one alley.

Idiots. They still think I'm on the roof?

Ron was speechless at the gang's utter lack of tactical awareness. Had any of them served a single day in the military, they'd understand the concept of a tactical reposition.

Without hesitation, Ron pivoted and unleashed a blind spray of grenades into the dark alley. The confined space amplified the explosions into a hellish inferno.

Ping! With a crisp mechanical click, the launcher was empty. Ron tossed it to the ground, threw open his jacket, and sprinted into the now "cleared" alley.

Meanwhile, the other flanking team had just turned the corner from the opposite side. The lead gangster barely registered Ron's presence before a cold metal object jammed into his mouth.

"Goodbye," Ron whispered, squeezing the trigger.

Boom! The gangster's head exploded like an overripe watermelon, the .50 Magnum bullet punching through and blasting the second guy's skull open in the same grotesque fashion.

Such was the power of a 12.7mm round. Unlike a Glock, which required precision and control, this monster of a revolver didn't need finesse—just aim and pull. If you hit, that was enough. Sometimes, the sheer penetration gave you a two-for-one bonus.

Both flanking teams: wiped out.

"He's in the alley!" the gang leader shrieked.

But none of the surviving gang members dared enter what had become a corridor of death. Their hands trembling, they trained their guns at the alley's exit, ready to fire at the slightest movement.

Ron, however, had already climbed back to the rooftop using a drainage pipe. Hugging the low wall, he peered down at the scene below. Four gangsters remained at the warehouse entrance. Ron paused, reloaded one extra round just in case, and carefully closed the cylinder with a click.

From his bag, he pulled out a brick and tossed it into the alley.

Thud!—a perfect mimic of a person dropping down.

Just as expected, the gangsters panicked and opened fire wildly toward the alley. Ratatatat!

Memorizing their positions, Ron suddenly stood up, leapt from the wall, and shouted theatrically mid-air:

"High noon!"

Suspended mid-leap, Ron aimed and fired in quick succession.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Each shot turned a gangster's head into exploding fruit. Four shots, four killshots—four headless bodies hit the ground as silence reclaimed the night.

"Whew... what a bloodbath. Definitely not kid-friendly," Ron muttered, blowing imaginary smoke from his barrel with mock drama.

Casually spinning the revolver, he dumped the spent shells into his palm, kept the unused round, and reloaded four fresh bullets into the cylinder. Clack—he snapped it shut and strode confidently into the gang's warehouse.

He was curious—what kind of goods were worth guarding with so many lives?

To his disappointment, the answer was... camcorders.

The warehouse was filled to the brim with DV cameras—outdated tech soon to be wiped out by smartphones, yet still valuable in this era.

This stash must've been the result of Toretto's latest job. Even so, the lot likely added up to at least a million dollars.