In the minds of the Russian enforcer and warehouse manager, Noah had transcended ordinary categories of dangerous and landed squarely in the realm of "completely unhinged."
Dangerous people threatened with bombs while maintaining some rational goal—money, territory, revenge. Unhinged people strapped themselves to explosives they couldn't control and treated the whole situation like an evening's entertainment.
The two crime bosses exchanged glances that conveyed volumes of silent communication: How do we deal with someone who's clearly lost all connection to self-preservation instincts?
"So," the Russian said carefully, "now that we're all sitting comfortably, what exactly brings you to our... business meeting?"
"Oh, nothing special," Noah replied with the casual air of someone discussing weekend plans. "I was just taking an evening walk, happened to pass by, and thought this looked interesting. You know how it is—curiosity killed the cat and all that."
Taking a walk. With explosives strapped to his chest, the warehouse manager thought. Sure. Perfectly normal Tuesday evening activity.
"Well," the Russian continued, sweat beading on his forehead despite the warehouse's refrigerated air, "our business here is concluded, so if you'd like to continue your... walk..."
"Actually, I don't think your business is quite finished," Noah interrupted, gesturing at the scattered money and drug-stuffed meat hanging from the ceiling hooks. "That inspection looked pretty half-hearted to me. How do you know you're getting quality merchandise?"
The criminals looked at each other with growing confusion. Is he... giving us business advice?
"The transaction went fine," the warehouse manager said slowly. "We're all satisfied customers here."
Noah shook his head with the disappointed expression of a teacher watching students fail a basic exam. "That's not how professional criminal enterprises operate. You need proper quality control, verification procedures, attention to detail. Otherwise, how do you maintain your reputation?"
He pointed at one of the Russian gangsters who'd been tasked with counting money.
"You there—did you actually count that cash, or did you just glance at it and assume it was correct?"
The gangster looked around nervously, clearly wishing he was anywhere else. "I... counted it?"
"Liar," Noah said matter-of-factly. "I watched you. You barely touched half the stacks. That's exactly the kind of sloppy criminal behavior that gives organized crime a bad name."
The beeping from his vest seemed to intensify slightly, and everyone in the room went rigid.
"Now," Noah continued, "I suggest you do this properly. Real inspection of the merchandise, accurate count of the payment, proper criminal transaction protocols. Because if I see any more of this amateur-hour nonsense..."
He gestured at the blinking lights on his chest.
"I might get agitated."
The warehouse manager grabbed the nearest subordinate by the collar. "You heard him! Check everything again! And do it right this time!"
"But boss—"
"DO IT RIGHT!" the manager roared, then caught himself and lowered his voice. "Please. Check it very, very carefully."
Under the dual pressure of their bosses' desperation and Noah's explosive fashion statement, the gangsters began a meticulous re-inspection of their criminal merchandise. They examined each drug package, counted every bill, and provided running commentary on the quality of their findings.
"This is pure product, very white, definitely uncut!"
"These twenties all have sequential serial numbers, clearly fresh from the bank!"
"This pork concealment is expertly crafted, you can barely see the stitching!"
Noah watched their performance with the satisfaction of a director seeing his vision come to life.
"Much better," he approved, then noticed the playing cards scattered across the metal table. "While they're handling the tedious business stuff, how about a friendly game to pass the time?"
The two crime bosses looked at the cards like they were coiled snakes.
"I don't think—" the Russian began.
"I insist," Noah interrupted. "Do you know how to play... let's call it 'Landlord.' It's a three-person game, very simple rules."
He quickly explained the card game, which involved one player taking the role of the "landlord" while the others tried to defeat them. The irony of the situation—two actual crime lords being forced to play a game about overthrowing landlords by someone who'd essentially taken them hostage—was not lost on anyone present.
"We'll make it interesting," Noah added, pulling out a handful of cash he'd won from various criminal enterprises. "Thousand-dollar buy-in. Small stakes for successful businessmen like yourselves."
Small stakes, the warehouse manager thought bitterly. He's betting our own money that he stole from our associates.
But with explosives involved, arguing about betting limits seemed counterproductive.
The first hand went quickly. Noah, with the advantage of actually understanding the rules and having functional cognitive abilities under pressure, easily defeated his opponents.
"Excellent game!" Noah announced, collecting his winnings. "I had what we call a 'bomb' combination—very fitting, don't you think?"
The two crime bosses handed over their money with the enthusiasm of people paying funeral expenses.
"Great game," the Russian said through gritted teeth. "Very... educational. And look, our people have finished their inspection."
Indeed, the subordinates had completed their theatrical drug transaction and were standing around looking like they'd rather be literally anywhere else in the universe.
"Wonderful!" Noah said, pocketing his card game winnings. "Now, according to our original agreement, I can leave and you can all go about your evening."
Both crime bosses nodded eagerly.
"However," Noah continued, and their hearts sank, "I'm really enjoying our card game. And I noticed your people only did one transaction. That hardly seems like enough criminal activity for a proper evening of organized crime."
He gestured casually at his explosive vest.
"I think we should aim for, oh, twenty complete transactions. Really make sure everyone gets the full criminal experience. And we'll play cards between each one to keep things entertaining."
The Russian enforcer and warehouse manager stared at him with the expression of people who'd just realized they were trapped in hell's most polite torture chamber.
Twenty transactions. Twenty card games. With a madman wearing enough explosives to level the building.
"That sounds..." the warehouse manager began weakly.
"Perfectly reasonable," Noah finished cheerfully. "I'm so glad we understand each other."
The beeping of his vest continued its steady rhythm, marking time like a countdown to an evening none of them would ever forget—assuming they survived to remember it.
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