I was acting crazy in North America, and all the crazy people there took it seriously.

Chapter 13 The Chaos in Chicago (Prelude)

Al Capone tore off the note stuck to the top of the wine box, his face darkening.

Don't let these little bugs from the illegal brewery in the southern suburbs ruin my mood!

That simple sentence contained information that made Al Capone frown.

Ralph Capone, who arrived quickly, was shocked to see the Venerable's message: "Johnny has discovered that you are the chosen one?"

Alcapon rolled his eyes and said helplessly, "If you don't tell me and I don't tell you, how will he know? Do you think the Venerable One would go to him specifically to inform him?"

“Oh, that makes sense.” Ralph Capone scratched his head. “Then why did he send someone to follow the Venerable One?”

Alcapon had already sorted out the general situation and said in a low voice, "He may not know that the Venerable One is here to deliver wine. He should have sent people to keep an eye on this place a long time ago. The reason for following him is to find out where the wine came from."

The distillery in the southern suburbs, also known as the West Ben Distillery, was the largest brewery that the Mafia seized after Prohibition was implemented. Ostensibly, it was used to produce legal industrial alcohol.

Of course, this was just a cover for producing and selling bootlegging.

With his control of the Westburn Brewery, Johnny Torrio, the current head of the Chicago Mafia, divided his men into territories and mandated that they could only sell liquor produced by the bootlegging factory.

He also plans to extend this rule to all of Chicago's underground gangs.

However, after witnessing the "Dark Force," Al Capone knew that this was wishful thinking.

So he decisively sold the inferior liquor produced by his private distillery to other gangs, and only sold the high-quality Canadian whisky provided by the Venerable One.

In other words, he personally violated Johnny Torrio's rules.

Ralph Capone paced anxiously. "What do we do now?"

"Wasn't this something we expected?" Al Capone looked up at Ralph. "Are you scared?"

“We discovered it too early,” Ralph Capone said, his voice strained. “He’s the boss, after all.”

Although Al Capone was nominally the second-in-command, that was only because he worked hard to help Johnny Torrio build his large liquor business after Prohibition was enacted; the real power remained in Johnny's hands.

"Could we ask the Venerable One for help..." Ralf Capone suddenly had a flash of inspiration.

With the Venerable One's unfathomable abilities, dealing with Johnny Torrio would be a piece of cake.
“Impossible!” Alcapon shook his head.

After being reprimanded by the Dark Lord for "running a newspaper to win the favor of the Dark Force," Al Capone knew one thing: he shouldn't even think about ordering the Dark Lord to do anything!
The note left by the other party clearly stated their attitude.

Al Capone seemed to see the Venerable standing before him, coldly saying, "Mind your own business! Don't cause trouble for the Dark Force."

Al Capone, who firmly believes he is the "chosen one," is not as wary of Johnny as Ralph is; in fact, one could say he no longer takes the latter seriously.

“Ralph, you go find a few reliable gunmen yourself.” Al Capone’s scars distorted into grotesque shapes under the dim light.

"What?" Ralph Capone looked up abruptly, his pupils contracting sharply.

Does it have to be this direct and brutal?

“Johnny is not easy to kill,” Ralph Capone said urgently. “You know how well he’s protected.”

Al Capone certainly knew.

After all, Jim Colossimo, the former head of the Chicago Mafia, was killed by Johnny's hired gunman because he refused to sell bootlegging.

After taking power, he naturally had to guard against this move.

Even when he's eating or sleeping, he always has at least two bodyguards around him.

"Touch Johnny?" Al Capone chuckled briefly. "Who said we were going to go after him directly?"
"I want you to kill Frankie, Tony, Vincent... leave no one alive, eliminate them all!"

"be quick!"

Ralph Capone's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard: "Are we really going to kill all these brothers?"

“They’re all Johnny’s die-hards. If you don’t take them out, they’ll take you out sooner or later.” Al Capone’s eyes flashed with a cold, sharp light.

He knew better than Ralph that the path to power was always paved with betrayal and bloodshed.

When he embarked on the journey of the "Chosen One," his heart was filled with cold calculations, and his eyes were fixed on the blood-stained crown at the end of the underworld.

What we need to do now is to take advantage of the fact that Johnny Torrio is still just trying to find out about his liquor distribution channels and isn't too wary, and pull out his teeth and break his claws!
Johnny's authority did not reside solely with him, but was firmly rooted in his loyal henchmen.

Al Capone was originally one of them, but now he's turning the tables on him.

"Also, send men in to infiltrate and burn down the West Ben Distillery! And all the other small distilleries, burn them all down!" Al Capone's voice was like a poisoned iron chain, each link tightening.

Ralph Capone gasped, a chill running down his spine.

He was beginning to understand his brother's intentions—to chop off his claws and teeth, turning Johnny into a bald moa; and to destroy his foundation, rendering him incapable of fighting back.

By then, Johnny will no longer have access to cheap drinks, while Al Capone will be unaffected by the Dark Lord, and the scales of victory will tip in his favor.

At that moment, Ralph Capone understood why his brother was the "chosen one".

With a clear objective and ruthless methods.

He was worried about one thing: "This commotion is probably too big!"

Al Capone's eyes remained expressionless. "If there's not much commotion, how could it cause chaos!"

"If things don't get chaotic, how will we climb up?"

……

A storm is coming, and what is Logan doing?

Enjoying some skewers!
"Let me tell you, the culinary skills at this barbecue restaurant are considered absolutely superb, even by your father when he was alive!"

One afternoon, after Logan once again complained about American food, Richard took him to this barbecue restaurant.

Yes, it's run by Mexicans.

Of course.

Logan's frequent complaints that America is a terrible place are not without reason.

If it weren't for immigrants from other countries, it would be unimaginable how the United States, with its Union Jack originating from its British homeland and its limited imagination in food development, would survive.

Richard had clearly heard similar complaints from Logan's adoptive father before: "It's said that there are at least 10,000 recipes in his hometown, enough to last a lifetime. It's terrifying."

Logan sighed, "That's something I really miss!"

Unfortunately, he's terrible at cooking; he can only eat, not cook.

As for my hometown now, sigh...

Fragrant chunks of meat, coated with glistening honey, swirl around on the flames, the dripping oil sizzling as it drips.

Richard skillfully rotated the grill, constantly brushing it with oil and honey, then sliced ​​off pieces of roasted meat, sprinkling them with salt. Even without sauce, the aroma was mouthwatering. Richard strongly recommended the restaurant's sauce, exclaiming, "It's the owner's secret recipe; no one can resist its charm!"

Logan listened to advice, smeared the fragrant roast meat with the special sauce, and stuffed it into his mouth.

"Mmm...it tastes amazing!"

It was really good; it was the most delicious food Logan had eaten since he traveled through time.

“Mexicans are really good at cooking…” Logan mumbled in admiration. “I just wonder what it’s like in Chicago’s Chinatown, and whether they can make all the 10,000 kinds of food my dad talked about.”

Richard puffed out his cheeks and shook his head slightly to indicate his skepticism.

“Your dad has been there a few times before. It’s not safe there. Hmm, your dad’s hometown seems even less safe, far less safe than Chicago…”

Before the words were finished, "Bang!"

It's not the bursting of fat from the barbecue, it's the roar of a sharp, tearing bullet!
Two figures, their heads covered in dark balaclavas and only their beast-like eyes visible, kicked open the wooden door of the barbecue restaurant. They brandished Thompson submachine guns, the dark muzzles spitting fire, their target the burly Mediterranean man dining alone at the table next to Logan and Richard!
In a flash, the Mediterranean man roared and his thick arm suddenly swung upwards, sending the heavy oak dining table, along with the greasy plates, lemon juice, and sizzling ribs on it, flying up like a wooden shield in front of him!
Almost as soon as the table left the ground, his right hand flashed into his waist and pulled out a dark Colt pistol, firing back.

Logan moved the instant he heard the first gunshot.

He instinctively lifted the heavy wooden table with both hands, ignoring the flying cutlery and roast meat, which crashed down behind Richard.

At the same time, he grabbed Richard by the collar and yanked him down hard. Richard, bewildered and with his mouth still full of roast meat, was pulled down and almost fell sideways behind the overturned wooden table.

The entire set of movements was performed in one go, so skillfully it was heartbreaking!
"Thud thud thud!" Several stray bullets viciously struck the table, sending wood chips flying. Richard's eyes widened in shock, and he was almost paralyzed with fear.

Bullets struck the steaming metal grill, sending sparks flying; stray bullets shattered the chandelier, and fragments rained down like hailstones... The barbecue restaurant was reduced to hell.

The customers panicked like startled cockroaches. Some instinctively ran away with their heads in their hands, some collapsed to the ground, and some were unfortunately hit by stray bullets, convulsing and rolling in pools of blood.

“Chi ti ha mandato?! Rispondi! Bastardo!” (Who sent you?! Answer me! Bastardo!)
The burly Mediterranean man roared furiously as he spat flames from his pistol in an attempt to suppress the enemy's firepower.

However, pistols are no match for submachine guns. While he was reloading, the two gunmen tacitly separated their angles, and their crossfire, like the scythe of death, mercilessly cut through the area where he was hiding.

"Puff puff……"

Several muffled thuds followed, and the burly Mediterranean man's body jolted violently as he was shot in the chest, abdomen, and thigh.

He let out two "hoarse" sounds, and his burly body fell backward, crashing heavily to the ground with a dull thud.

The gunfire suddenly stopped.

No one spoke, only the intermittent groans of the injured, the suppressed sobs of customers huddled under the table, and the sizzling sound of grease dripping onto the charcoal fire.

Logan cautiously peeked out from behind cover, his gaze sweeping over the still slightly twitching body of the Mediterranean giant, over the winding trail of blood on the ground, and over the empty doorway—the gunman had vanished without a trace.

“Get up, Richard,” Logan said with an odd calm as he helped Richard to his feet. “Are you alright?”

Richard shook his head blankly, his mouth still full of roasted meat he had forgotten to chew...

"Let's get out of here first."

Logan saw the customers who were gradually coming to their senses after surviving the ordeal, and then saw the crowd that was starting to gather outside. He pulled Richard away from the barbecue restaurant area at a fast pace.

"Ptooey... Shit! Shit!"

Richard only realized what was happening at this point, spat out the roast meat, and jumped up and down in shock, cursing angrily!

Who would have thought that eating barbecue would almost turn me into minced meat?

Logan hurried along, "Let's get back to the news agency first. If we act quickly, we can get the reporters to take pictures before the police arrive. That would be big news!"

Richard, who was so frightened that the veins on his hands were about to bulge, stared blankly at Logan's words.

Why are you still thinking about the news at a time like this? We almost died!

“I know, I know, but we’re lucky we escaped a disaster, aren’t we? We can’t let this frighten us for nothing,” Logan reassured him.

Logan, who had already died once in a similar situation, said he was calm. At least this time no one tried to shield him from the bullets, and at least he didn't let Richard take the bullets for him.

"..."

Richard thinks you're a real freak!
Thinking back to this guy's lightning-fast series of self-defense moves after the gun went off, even though he was saved because of it, Richard still thought he was a truly unique individual!

How severe must one's paranoia be to have such skillful preparation and such a calm mindset?
However, Richard's emotions stabilized slightly after Logan's erratic behavior.

The terrifying moment replayed in Richard's mind, and he suddenly blurted out, "Did you hear what the guy who was killed shouted? It was Italian."

"Ah."

“I think I vaguely remember him, he’s a... Mafia member.” He paused. “Could it be Donald’s doing?”

Richard immediately dismissed the possibility, saying, "No, it can't be him. Donald just finalized the territorial boundaries with the Italians, it couldn't be him."

Logan's mind conjured up images of Al Capone.

If Al Capone really did it, then he's a ruthless person.

Logan didn't voice his own guess, but patted Richard on the shoulder and said, "Whoever did it, one thing is certain."

"What is it?"

"We must carry a gun with us at all times!"

Richard sighed, then suddenly remarked, "I feel like the world is about to descend into chaos!"

Whether things are chaotic or not is unknown, but after this incident, Logan has given up all illusions about the safety of America.

What does it mean that "everyone must carry a gun to prevent chaos"?
If you pull out a gun and shoot me, I'll pull out a gun and shoot you dead, and naturally things will calm down.

I need to stock up on guns! At least a hundred guns in my inventory!

[Americans really need this to greet each other!]

Then, Logan paused.

[Anonymous (Mechanic): Armed America! You are a mechanic, go and deliver the Chicago typewriter of freedom to the insecure Americans.]

As if sensing Logan's intense resentment, the system suddenly displayed a notification for a new alias.

Richard looked at Logan, who had stopped, with a puzzled expression. "What's wrong?"

Logan pondered for a moment, then laughed like a warmonger, "The world is definitely going to be in chaos!"

"?"

……

(End of this chapter)