Farming Life Starting in Africa

Rosen nodded, cutting the beef brisket into chunks as he said, "It was pitch black late at night, I couldn't see who it was." He looked up at Zhuo Weixi and asked with a smile, "Beautiful lady, did you lose your gun last night?"

Zhuo Weixi looked at Rosen, slowly comparing the man before her to the figure from last night. They were completely different people—the man from last night was as calm and decisive as a machine, never uttering a single wasted word.

And now, he's slouching, looking tired and like he hasn't slept enough, with a tuft of hair sticking up on his forehead, and a hint of mockery in his eyes.

"Yes," Zhuo Weixi smiled politely, handing over a red paper bag, "given Rosen's good looks and the kindness he had shown her. My name is Zhuo Weixi. Thank you for saving me last night. We came to thank you and picked up some gifts."

Rosen took the bag casually. "No need to be so polite," he said, setting the paper bag aside. "We're all Chinese, it's only right that we look out for each other when we're traveling abroad."

Patrick, standing nearby, almost drooled when he saw the boss take out the beef brisket and tomatoes; he'd been craving this since yesterday. This big, dark-skinned guy was always efficient and observant, and this time he was more eager than anyone else, scurrying off to wash the rice and start cooking.

Zhuo Yifan took a sip of his drink, smacked his lips, and felt the taste was off. He looked down and examined the bottle closely—"Lei Bi" (雷碧). He sighed speechlessly. Lawson was full of shady stuff; from drinks to instant noodles, very few things were genuine.

"What did you make?" Zhuo Yifan asked, slurping Lei Bi's food.

"Tomato, potato, and beef brisket".

"It tastes authentic, right?" Zhuo Yifan said, shaking the drink in his hand with a mocking expression.

Rosen rolled his eyes, slamming the cleaver against the cutting board with a loud thud: "You still want to eat authentic food after going abroad? It would be so much better if you just came back home!"

He turned to look at Patrick, who was washing rice. "Patrick, add two servings of rice. Go fill up the tank of my little truck later, and put the trailer on. I'm going out to deliver goods in a bit."

Patrick's booming voice revealed his excitement, "Okay, boss!"

Lawson's pickup truck is that six-wheeled all-terrain vehicle, which looks like a cat-shaped vehicle. You can haul goods by attaching a cargo bed to the back. It's very powerful and can climb hills and go over potholes like it's nothing.

As he chopped potatoes, he abruptly changed the subject, circling back to the previous line: "Seriously, how about we get a tank to play with?"

"No," Zhuo Yifan shook his head, "It's too expensive."

"Heh," Rosen chuckled meaningfully, "So you're poor. You can pay in installments with me. Just a 30% down payment, and the rest over 5 years at a monthly interest rate of 1.5%."

Zhuo Yifan fell silent. He was itching with desire—no wonder people say that spending in advance is addictive, like a cat's claws scratching at you.

Seeing her brother's eager expression, Zhuo Weixi quickly interjected, "Brother, why would you bring that thing back? The factory doesn't need tanks!"

"...Okay." Zhuo Yifan sighed in disappointment.

Rosen's eyes darted around; this deal was clearly on the verge of falling through, and he didn't want to let it go so easily. "Well, I can rent it to you," he said, his tone as enticing as if he were coaxing a child. "One hundred thousand dollars a month, minimum six months. Repairs guaranteed if it breaks!"

Zhuo Yifan's eyes lit up instantly, like two light bulbs: "Where are the shells? Where are the bullets? How do we calculate these?"

Zhuo Weixi's face immediately darkened upon hearing this. Most of the goodwill she had towards Rosen vanished. This guy was like an unscrupulous merchant tricking foolish customers into overspending, and on top of that, buying things they didn't need.

Rosen blinked, looking innocent and naive. "A shell costs five thousand dollars, and a bullet costs two dollars."

The shells he brought weren't armor-piercing rounds. In this godforsaken place in Africa, what kind of thing would you need armor-piercing rounds for? The most powerful monsters you encounter are just pickup trucks and machine gunners.

Does he want to engage in a tank battle? Nobody has the capability. No matter how powerful the rebels are, they only have rocket launchers. To a tank, that's like a tickle, at most a scratch.

Seeing Zhuo Yifan struggling for a long time, his expression changing repeatedly, Zhuo Weixi kicked her brother without making a sound, warning him not to do anything too dangerous.

Zhuo Yifan finally gritted his teeth and said, "Forget it, let's talk about it in a few days."

Hearing this, Rosen shook his head helplessly. A huge deal had fallen through just like that. If this deal had gone through, his assets would have multiplied several times over, allowing him to retire much earlier than expected.

Rosen scooped the beef brisket off the cutting board and threw it directly into the pressure cooker. He turned on the tap and added water until it was about two fingers above the meat, then turned the heat to high. Blue flames licked the bottom of the pot, and soon the water began to bubble, with a layer of grayish-white foam rising to the surface.

He scooped it away slowly and skillfully with a spoon, clearly an experienced chef.

After cleaning up the blood and foam, he threw in the few ugly tomatoes and potatoes all at once. Rosen slammed the lid on, took out his phone, and set an alarm for half an hour.

A faint aroma of meat quickly filled the kitchen, tempting the palate even before the pot was opened.

Zhuo Yifan felt extremely uncomfortable inside, whether from Rosen's sharp tongue or something else, he followed Patrick into the yard. He needed to calm down; really, the kind of passion men have for tanks is something most people simply can't understand.

Otherwise, the name Tank 300 wouldn't have captured the hearts of so many grown men. It's clearly a compact SUV, yet it's being treated like their first love.

He also wanted to see which of Rosen's pickup trucks it was. This guy's stuff wasn't anything special; his monster truck was eye-catching wherever he went—tall and huge, with tires as big as bulldozers, but it was undeniably cool, and people always stared at him whenever he drove it out.

The sun outside distorted the air, and the distant hills looked like they were swaying in water.

Under the awning, Patrick climbed up the two-meter-high iron ladder. Zhuo Yifan went over to take a look and saw a dirty oil drum on the shelf above.

Patrick pulled a long hose from the oil drum, one end of which was still attached to the drum. He walked over to a camouflage six-wheeled all-terrain vehicle, skillfully unscrewed the fuel tank cap, and inserted the hose directly into the tank.

The oil in the drum flowed down the pipe with a gurgling sound, and the air was filled with a pungent diesel smell.

Feeling the scorching heat outside, Zhuo Yifan soon started sweating. "You guys just leave the oil like this?"