America: The Cremator

Seattle, Department of Corpses

"Thump, thump."

Hearing the dull knock, Watkinson didn't turn around, but simply mumbled, "Come in."

As soon as Su Long opened the office door, he saw Watkinson leaning back in his office chair, staring intently at the television playing a sports event.

When Watkinson saw that the visitor was slow to report, he turned his head with displeasure. When he saw that the visitor was Su Long, his eyes lit up and the fat on his face relaxed.

He jumped up from his chair, walked around the desk piled high with documents, opened his arms, and greeted everyone with a warm smile, "Hey, look who's here!"

"Isn't this our city hero who took down the B-level weirdo?"

Su Long stood still, not reciprocating the insincere embrace, and calmly replied, "Supervisor, don't joke around. I was just following behind burning corpses; I didn't contribute anything."

"Hey kid, you can't say that."

Wokingson reluctantly lowered his arm and patted Sulong on the shoulder.

"The fact that you managed to handle that girl from the Weird Support Bureau is the greatest contribution you've ever made to our branch!"

He leaned closer, a lewd and gossipy look on his face, and asked in a low voice:

"How did you manage to win over that kind of woman? She looks like an Arctic ice cube, but is she incredibly hot inside? Like in those movies, with a super amazing contrast?"

As he spoke, he gestured with his hand, indicating an exaggerated curve.

"You're a big shot who can get things done in higher-ups now, Su. So when it comes to quarterly or year-end performance reviews, you'd better remember to put in a good word for our branch and not let those office bastards at headquarters keep cutting our budget."

Su Long took a half-step back, ignoring Watkinson's wild fantasies, and cut straight to the point: "Supervisor, I'm here to collect my bullets."

Watkinson's smile froze for a moment, then returned to its slick look: "Don't worry, you won't get your share of the reward."

He turned around and walked back to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and took out several square cardboard boxes.

He neatly stacked six cardboard boxes bearing the "Winchester" logo on the table, each marked with "9mm" and "silver-plated bullet".

"How about that, Leon? Pretty generous, right? The original quota I promised you was five hundred rounds, but here's six hundred."

"The extra hundred rounds are my personal extra sponsorship for you."

Watkinson sat back in his chair, leaning back. "After all, you're a star employee in our division now."

Su Long looked at him silently. He knew very well that the extra hundred bullets were the advance payment Watkinson made to make him remember the "kind words" he had just said.

He didn't refuse, carefully putting away the six boxes one by one, before speaking again: "Do you know where I can dispose of these things?"

Upon hearing this, Watkinson gave him a knowing look: "If you don't want to be exploited by those street vendors and gangsters who take the lion's share of the profits, I suggest you try the gun shops owned by the Yurievich family."

"However, I must warn you that those Russians who came from the Siberian ice fields are very xenophobic, and they usually only do big deals worth five figures or more."

Whether you have the courage to negotiate a better price with them depends on your own ability.

Yurievich.

The moment the surname entered Su Long's ears, a vague sense of familiarity flashed by, yet he couldn't pinpoint its exact source; it seemed as if he had heard that word from that person before.

Su Long frowned, not dwelling on the fleeting thought: "Where is this shop located?"

"In the Chinatown-International District, near the intersection of 12th Avenue South and King Street, there is a bar called 'Ice Wolf' that is their territory."

Thank you.

Su Long nodded, then turned and left the suffocating office without hesitation.

……

That afternoon, a Ford F-550 cremation van slowly drove into the streets of Chinatown-International District and eventually stopped near a tavern called "Ice Wolf".

Su Long turned off the engine, opened the door, got out of the car, and walked straight towards the tavern.

As soon as I opened the door, a stench of murky air, a mixture of fermented malt, sweat, gunpowder, and cheap cologne, hit me.

The pub was dimly lit, and dozens of burly men were gathered in twos and threes in front of the various booths and bar. Most of them were wearing flannel plaid shirts and oil-stained work pants, and their bare arms were covered with all kinds of tattoos.

There are almost no women to be seen here; the entire space is filled with an aggressive, masculine atmosphere.

To the left of the pub, separated by a partition, was a huge indoor shooting range. Behind the bulletproof glass wall, people were even holding rifles and test-firing at targets in the distance.

The walls were covered with all sorts of firearms, but they were all civilian models that could be legally owned within the limits of Washington state law.

As Su Long entered, the change in light brought by the door instantly silenced the noisy conversations inside the tavern.

A dozen or so gazes, a mixture of scrutiny, vigilance, and rejection, were focused on him, the unfamiliar intruder dressed in black work clothes, like real searchlights.

An invisible sense of oppression permeated the air.

Su Long ignored the stares and walked straight to the bar.

A Russian man with a thick beard was standing behind the bar wiping a glass. There was a noticeable, poorly healed, twisted mark on the bridge of his nose, and his eyes were as fierce as a black bear that had been starving in the wild for three years.

"Hey kid, what are you doing here?"

His voice was deep and hoarse, with a heavy Slavic accent.

Sulong's gaze swept over the row of dazzling bottles of liquor behind him, and then he slowly said, "Give me a glass of 'Siberian Tears'."

The bartender paused in wiping the glasses, looked up, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes, then frowned: "Hey, we don't sell this to kids."

"Do I look young?" Surong rested his elbows on the bar and leaned forward slightly. "I'm taking this drink today."

The Russian bartender put down his glass and glass cloth, placed his hands on the bar counter, and his massive body exuded a strong sense of oppression: "Well done, kid, you've got guts."

"Here, there are only two ways to order this drink."

He extended a thick finger.

"First, pay a thousand dollars to become a member of our pub."

He then extended a second finger.

"Second, go to the shooting range over there, pick any gun, and shoot a bullseye within three bullets."

Upon hearing this, Su Long got up without hesitation and walked towards the shooting range: "Let's go."

His decisive action immediately drew cheers and whistles from the onlookers.

The bartender followed him over and pointed to the row of guns hanging on the wall: "Kid, take whichever you like from the wall."

Su Long shook his head and reached into the leather sheath at his waist, drawing out the Colt Python.

"I used my own gun."

"But I'm out of bullets. Do you have a .357 Magnum?"

The moment the revolver, with its intricate engravings and profound texture, came into view, the Russian bartender's menacing gaze noticeably changed.

He stared intently at the gun, as if admiring a rare work of art.

"This is... a 1981 original factory-carved hunter-style Colt Python?"

For the first time, his tone carried a complex mix of surprise and respect: "I'll go get you the ammunition."

He turned and walked toward the storage room behind the bar, adding one more sentence before leaving.

"But it's agreed, only three shots."

"uh-huh."

Su Long responded, his right thumb gently stroking the cold walnut handle of "Sirius".

This is a perfect opportunity.

He wanted to see what kind of effect the upgraded "Sirius," with its so-called "hovering iron sights," would actually bring.