Chapter 90: Scared Sh*tless… Well, Almost
The two nerds immediately turned pale with fear.
"Should we call the police? Or maybe run before he sees us?" Rajesh covered his mouth in panic. "What if he drags us in there and silences all witnesses?! I'm Hindu—I cannot be dismembered with a knife that's touched beef!"
"Did you two forget something important?" Ron massaged his temples. Rajesh's panicked rambling was giving him a headache. "Hello? Big guy standing right in front of you?"
"What?" they both blinked at him, terror still written across their faces.
"What's my job again?"
"Oh—right! Right!" Howard suddenly lit up like he'd just remembered the cheat code to life. "You're an IRS agent! If you call it in, backup'll be here in no time. What are you waiting for? Call for support!"
"Quiet." Ron knocked each of them lightly on the head. "It's just a robbery. I've handled worse in my sleep. But for your safety—especially so you don't screw things up—please go wait over there."
"No problem!" the two scurried across the street and ducked behind a trash can with the speed and coordination of soldiers trained in retreat. Ron couldn't help but wonder how many practice drills they must've run to be that efficient.
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Inside the restaurant…
Unaware of any danger, Max sauntered up to the man in the trench coat like it was just another Tuesday.
"Hi there, how can I help—" she began cheerily, then muttered under her breath, "—wow, that sounded so sincere I almost teared up myself."
"Once you sit at my table," the man muttered darkly, "you'll see the real me."
No smile. No amusement. Just dead eyes.
Then he leaned forward. "I have a question: do you want to live?"
Max actually paused to think. "…Depends on the day, honestly."
God as her witness, Max really hadn't realized what was happening yet. Working in a diner like this, she saw all kinds of weirdos—including middle-aged men in long coats on summer days who thought they were anime villains.
Then the man pulled his left hand—hidden inside his coat—and raised something aimed directly at her. Judging from the shape under the fabric, it was probably a gun.
"You see this? Get everyone to put their wallets and valuables into this bag. If you cooperate, nobody gets hurt."
He handed her a black plastic trash bag with his free hand.
"Alright, alright, chill," Max replied, surprisingly calm. "Can't guarantee you'll get much. Most of our regulars pay with coins or homegrown tomatoes."
The man said nothing, just leaned against the wall, gun trained on the room, eyes twitching at every movement.
Max walked off casually, heading first to Earl. He was already at the ATM by the bar and handed her a few bills while offering a nugget of wisdom.
"Max, I've been on both sides of the stick. Best to just play along."
She watched as Earl theatrically showed the thief the empty ATM tray—while sneakily keeping the cash in his pocket the whole time. Ron, watching through the window, noted the move with a nod of approval.
Veteran move. This guy clocked the rookie vibes instantly and knew the guy wouldn't check.
But things took a turn when Max approached Caroline.
Panicking, Caroline gasped mid-sentence—only to have her scream cut off by the cold stare of the gunman.
"I just saved two dollars today," she whimpered while fumbling through her purse. "Max, I can't die. And if I have to die, it cannot be in this ugly-ass uniform! It looks great on you, obviously, but on me—"
Halfway through the sentence, she froze.
Max looked at her, concerned. "Wait—are you having a heart attack?"
Caroline's voice cracked with humiliation. "I… I peed my pants."
"What?!"
"I didn't crap myself, okay? But I did pee. And I can't stop. It's… it's just coming out…"
"Girl—clench! Clench like your life depends on it! Because it kinda does!"
The thief noticed something was up and stormed toward them, gun now pointed squarely at Caroline.
"Step out from behind the counter!"
Caroline was on the verge of crying from embarrassment.
"S-sorry, sir… I can't."
"And why not?" the robber snapped.
"Because I'm still peeing…" she whispered, mortified.
"You're still going?" Max stared at her in disbelief.
Caroline nodded helplessly, cheeks burning with shame.
Just then, Oleg burst out from the kitchen, looking surprisingly heroic for once, swinging a baseball bat.
"Ladies, stand back! Let me deal with this bastard—"
He didn't make it halfway across the floor before slipping on Caroline's puddle and crashing down like a sack of potatoes.
He hit the floor hard… and didn't get back up.
The robber, now visibly insulted by this entire farce, barked, "Get out here right now! Or I'll—"
Just then, Ron finally reappeared at the door. He'd circled the block to confirm there were no accomplices, but one look at Caroline's expression told him he was a step too late.
"Freeze!" the robber shouted, swinging the gun toward Ron. The scent of panic (and Caroline's incident) still hung thick in the air.
Ron ignored the command and casually took two more steps forward. His voice was calm, even teasing.
"No need to get jumpy, friend. What's this? A little game of make-believe?"
"Don't move! Take one more step and I'll shoot!" the man shouted, hand shaking.
Ron chuckled like he'd just heard the worst joke of the year.
"Look at that grip. You call that handling a gun? Let me guess—you think pulling the trigger means you're a pro?"
"I said back off!" the robber growled, stepping back instinctively. Ron's presence was so commanding it felt like he was the one robbing the place—and the thief was the poor victim.
Ron sneered.
"You're a joke. I've got a gun on my hip too. Wanna make a bet? I wager I can shoot the gun out of your hand before you even touch that trigger."
The robber panicked and pulled the trigger—
"Die—"
BANG!
"AHH!"
"AHHH!"
Max and Caroline screamed and squeezed their eyes shut, bracing themselves for the worst.
But when the gunshot faded and they dared to look…
Ron was still standing, completely unharmed.
The robber, however, was on one knee, clutching a bleeding hand. He howled in pain—the final scream had clearly come from him.
Ron had acted in the blink of an eye. The moment the thief started speaking, Ron had already: lifted his coat, drawn his revolver, aimed, and fired—all in one fluid motion.
Now he casually blew on the revolver's barrel (even though there was no smoke), twirled it around his finger like a gunslinger from a spaghetti Western, and slid it back into its holster with effortless style.
It was like something straight out of a classic cowboy movie.
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