America: Starting from collecting corpses, leveling up to godhood

"That's right, a trendy shop that specifically targets middle-class white-collar workers in Los Angeles."

"But I bribed their recently fired dishwasher, who told me that their so-called California organic farm air-freighted produce was actually just cheap, near-expired or even expired junk food picked up from a downtown wholesale market in the middle of the night. To mask the rotten smell of the meat and maintain its texture, they used large amounts of prohibited industrial chemicals and synthetic flavorings in their kitchen..."

"That sounds like a good story." Chen Ming swept the chopped carrots into the iron basin.

"I suggest you call the Los Angeles Department of Public Health's hotline directly. Good luck."

"Wait, don't hang up!" Michelle shouted urgently.

"The health bureau inspectors have definitely been bribed. I have to sneak into their cold storage and take irrefutable photos as evidence."

"So you need me to act as your bodyguard and locksmith to help you commit the serious crime of trespassing?" Chen Ming turned off the tap.

"I'm not going, I still need to prepare the food."

"Listen, if you don't want to pick locks, we have legal channels. They just posted a job ad urgently needing a night shift warehouse cleaner and a kitchen helper. You can walk in and apply openly and honestly!"

"You want me to go undercover as a dishwasher?" Chen Ming laughed angrily.

Do I look like I'm desperate for California's minimum wage of $15 an hour?

"I can give you five thousand dollars in cash when it's all over," Michelle said through gritted teeth.

"Any private investigator could do this job," Chen Ming said, slamming the cleaver down on the cutting board.

"The private investigator will most likely use the photos to blackmail the restaurant owner. I only contacted you because I trust you more and know you better... Please help me this once, consider it something I owe you."

"Here's what we're saying. I just received a summons to appear on a jury. How about you help me get it sorted out?" Chen Ming suddenly remembered the summons in his pants.

"This is a piece of cake for me," Michelle agreed immediately.

"Send me the restaurant address and job requirements on my phone."

"I knew you'd agree!"

……

3 PM, back door of Green Tree Restaurant in West Hollywood.

A white manager with a mustache and intricate tattoos covering both arms was leaning against a trash can, smoking an e-cigarette and sizing up Chen Ming.

"So your name is Chen... Do you have a valid work permit or social security code?" The manager exhaled a puff of mint-flavored smoke.

"No, but I have a California food handler card, and I don't need to wear goggles when I cut onions, and I can cook too."

With his hands in his hoodie pockets and a sincere expression, Chen Ming perfectly portrayed an undocumented immigrant desperately seeking cash.

"Ha... Without an SSN, you'll only get cash, $14 an hour, no health insurance and no overtime pay. If you do well, we'll provide you with a vegetarian meal made from scraps every day." The manager recited the exploitative terms with practiced ease.

"We're a high-end Michelin-recommended restaurant that focuses on farm-to-table service. You need to handle a lot of expensive ingredients, you know what I mean?"

"I'll do whatever you say, I don't understand anything else," Chen Ming replied expressionlessly.

The manager's eyes lit up after hearing this.

"Great, I like smart people like you who don't waste time talking or asking unnecessary questions."

"Come with me, but remember what's in the cold storage, especially those labeled plastic buckets. Just take whatever you're told to move, or you'll be fined if you secretly take a picture and post it on TikTok..."

"I'm still using a basic old-fashioned phone; it doesn't have a camera."

Chen Ming was just spouting nonsense.

"Very good." The manager pushed open the heavy fireproof door to the kitchen.

"Your first task is to remove the fishy smell from the 300 pounds of Argentine red shrimp that were just air-freighted into the underground cold storage... Remember to add plenty of baking soda from the red bucket."

"No problem, boss." Chen Ming looked at the greasy floor tiles behind the door and the busy Mexican cooks inside, a smile curving his lips.

Not only did they successfully infiltrate, but they also earned fourteen dollars an hour.

In a sense, this is also thanks to his Asian appearance—in the minds of Americans, Asians are almost synonymous with honest people.

At 8 p.m., the kitchen is in the middle of its evening rush hour.

"Oye, Chino! Tie that apron on for me!"

A portly Mexican cook threw his greasy apron into Chen Ming's arms.

"Call me Heck. The manager wants you to work for me."

Heck spoke in broken English as he led Chen Ming through the heavy iron door of the underground cold storage.

As soon as the cold storage door opened, a pungent, rotten smell of seafood hit you.

"These are the Argentine red shrimp that were just airlifted in this morning?" Chen Ming looked at the several large baskets of dead shrimp that were dark in color and even a little sticky.

Fortunately, he often deals with even more disgusting things; anyone else would probably have vomited.

"These are leftover stock from a cheap wholesale market, they've been sitting here for at least three days." Heck kicked over a red plastic bucket without any ingredient label, his face expressionless.

"Pour half a bucket in, add ice water, stir well, and soak for ten minutes. They will become crystal clear, as if they were just pulled out of the Pacific Ocean."

Chen Ming unscrewed the lid of the bucket, and a pungent smell of industrial formaldehyde and hydrogen peroxide hit his head—he was all too familiar with this smell, and he sometimes used these things to remove odors.

It mainly consists of corpses.

So who eats at these restaurants? They're so lucky!

"This stuff won't kill you?"

"We only get fourteen dollars an hour, bro, less than the minimum wage," Heck shrugged nonchalantly.

"I have three kids to raise in East Los Angeles. Since those white people outside are willing to spend $80 for a plate of pure organic seafood, we'll just do their thing."

After saying that, Hector patted Chen Ming on the shoulder, turned around and went back upstairs to the kitchen, which was like a battlefield.

Chen Ming was the only one left in the cold storage.

He immediately pulled out his phone from his pocket, took several high-resolution photos of the red bucket, the rotten shrimp, and the packaging box, and sent them to Michelle.

"The red bucket contains industrial preservatives and bleach... I've sent you the photos."

The phone immediately vibrated.

Michelle: "Well done! I'm in a black Ford SUV in the back alley right now... Besides the drugs, can you find the purchase invoices? I need to prove that these things were bought in bulk by the restaurant!"

Chen Ming: "Finding documents is a private investigator's job...it costs extra."

Michelle: "I'll give you an extra thousand... Also, could you check what they put in their signature truffle soup tonight? My friend and I just had it last week, and I'm worried."

Chen Ming: "I suggest you don't ask... Get ready to receive photos of the purchase order."

After replying to the message, Chen Ming put away his phone and his gaze fell on the wooden door deep inside the cold storage room that had a sign that read "Manager's Office".

He took out a paperclip and began to attempt delicate lock-picking work.

Ten seconds later...

Chen Ming threw away the completely deformed paperclip and kicked the door open with force.

Traditional lock picking is still the best!