You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 84 My Fried Chicken! (3k)

After saying goodbye to Big T, Lyon quickly returned to his old apartment in the community. It was already seven o'clock in the evening.

Although Raymond was already helping him with the paperwork for the new house, he still had to make do in this godforsaken place for a few nights until things were settled there.

The rain was still falling, pattering against the window, adding to the chill of the already lifeless room.

Leon took off his slightly damp coat and tossed it onto the sofa, sinking heavily into the somewhat sagging cushion.

"call----"

He breathed a sigh of relief, took out his phone, and opened the food delivery app.

To be honest, he's quite wealthy now.

Since Sterling had given him Raymond's contact information as the administrative head, it meant that his daily expenses, even meals, could be reimbursed through the bureau's accounts as long as he had a pretext for duty.

In other words, he could now easily order a Wellington steak that costs hundreds of dollars at a high-end restaurant in the city center, along with a bottle of fine wine.

Lyon swiped his finger across the screen, staring for about five minutes at the beautifully packaged, expensive French and high-end Japanese restaurants.

"—Go to hell."

He rolled his eyes and decisively exited the high-end restaurant interface.

A steak costing hundreds of dollars, packed in a plastic lunchbox, is delivered by a delivery driver who drives for half an hour through freezing rain. By the time you receive it, it's probably already cold.

Add to that the platform's outrageously high delivery fees and mandatory service charges, and this order can easily cost several hundred or even a thousand US dollars.

"Are you robbing me?"

"Are these capitalists cutting up a steak and feeding it to me? And they're charging such a high service fee?"

His ingrained frugality led him to roll his eyes dramatically at the screen.

Although he is now rich, Raymond can usually reimburse his bills.

But he still couldn't bring himself to buy something that was clearly a scam.

"Forget it, there's no need to mess with money."

Lyon skillfully switched back to the fast food section, which was full of calorie bombs.

Finally, he chose a fried chicken restaurant called Louisiana Style.

I ordered a super-sized family bucket, which included ten pieces of spicy fried chicken coated in a secret spice blend, a large portion of Cajun-style fries, two buttered pizzas, and two bottles of ice-cold beer.

As he paid the bill, Lyon glanced out the window at the desolate rain curtain illuminated by the streetlights.

Delivering food in this godforsaken weather, driving through Seattle's slippery streets, is truly risking your life for money.

We're all just trying to make a living in America, so let's not make things difficult for each other.

On the checkout screen, he skipped the default 10% and 15% tip options and manually entered an extra $20 tip.

Place your order and make payment.

While waiting, Lyon went into the kitchen.

The stainless steel pot was still sitting quietly in the refrigerator.

Lifting the lid, you see a dark red tomato broth that has been simmering for who knows how many days.

A thin layer of oil has formed on the surface, making it look rather desolate.

This pot of soup accompanied him through the most difficult days since his transmigration, witnessing countless nights he meticulously calculated to save a few dollars.

"Old friend, our time together has come to an end."

Lyon looked at the pot of soup without any hesitation.

He picked up the pot, walked to the sink, and without hesitation, flipped his wrist.

"Splash!"

The thick soup flowed down the drain, and the sour smell of tomatoes in the air was quickly masked by the lemony scent of dish soap.

This can be considered a ritual.

Saying goodbye to the dreary life of a patrol officer, and welcoming—well, welcoming the more dangerous but also richer ACU.

career.

After cleaning up the pots and pans, Lyon returned to the living room; the takeout hadn't arrived yet.

He leaned back on the sofa, listening to the rain, and began to think about serious matters.

make money.

Make a lot of money.

We've gained recognition now.

But fame is useless if it can't be converted into resources and money; it's better to have none at all.

He wants to return to the East, but it's not as simple as just buying a plane ticket and flying there.

So how do you monetize your fame?

This is a technical job.

"Live-streaming e-commerce?"

Lyon dismissed the idea as soon as it popped into his head.

Although with his current popularity, he could definitely make a lot of money by filming a botched movie for a bulletproof vest manufacturer or a gun company, that would be handing the Ministry of Internal Affairs a handle against him.

As an active-duty police officer, accepting commercial endorsements is against regulations, unless he wants to retire early.

"Write a book? Publish a memoir?"

Not at all.

He admitted that he didn't have much writing ability and didn't have the time. He also needed to find a reliable ghostwriter, which would take too long and bring in too little money.

"Using Raymond to launder money through corporate accounts?"

That's one approach.

Whether it's renting luxury apartments, exaggerating equipment wear and tear, or even tampering with seized gang cash.

But this is still just a small-scale operation.

A few hundred thousand US dollars would be the maximum; any more would attract the attention of the IRS and the Department of the Interior, and Sterling wouldn't allow him to extend his reach that far.

"Perhaps—we should start with those wealthy people who are terrified?"

Lyon stroked his chin.

The wealthy residents of the North District are now extremely nervous.

If I could utilize ACU's resources, I could establish a community security consulting firm, or work as a special consultant for a security group.

Just as he was churning out all sorts of ideas on how to monetize his fame.

"Knock knock knock".

A rhythmic knocking interrupted Lyon's thoughts.

"So fast?"

Lyon glanced at his phone; only ten minutes had passed.

Did this delivery guy arrive by plane?

He was a little puzzled and went behind the door.

Although his sense of danger didn't trigger an alarm, out of professional habit, he didn't open the door directly, but instead peered through the peephole.

Under the dim light of the corridor, stood an elderly Mexican food deliveryman wearing a yellow reflective raincoat.

This guy was stocky, had a mustache, and was carrying a huge paper bag.

Even through the door, the rich, overpowering aroma, a blend of Cajun spices and oils, had already seeped in through the cracks.

No problem, it is indeed a food delivery, and it should be fried chicken.

Lyon swallowed hard, reached for the doorknob, and prepared to open the door.

Just then, something unexpected happened.

Suddenly, a dark figure darted out from the shadows at the corner of the corridor, like a starving wild dog, and pounced on the unsuspecting old Mexican, its target the bag of fried chicken in his hand.

Leon could see clearly through the peephole that it was a white homeless man with tangled hair and wearing a dirty gray hoodie.

Holy crap?

Lyon's hand froze on the doorknob, his face full of exasperation.

It's just a serving of fried chicken, why the hell are people fighting over it?

Also, this is an apartment building with access control! Did the building manager downstairs die in the security booth?

How come any homeless person can get upstairs so easily?

No wonder I had to move. I couldn't stand being in this awful place for even a day longer. It was no different from living under a bridge.

Outside the door, the Mexican man who was ambushed was initially knocked back, but he quickly recovered.

Just kidding, that's an extra $20 tip!

These days, $20 is enough for a Mexican to fight someone on the street. If he gets robbed of that, all that rain is for nothing, and he might even lose his meal and have to pay for it himself.

"Putamadre (Fuck you)! Let go of my takeout!"

The Mexican man swore, and with his sturdy build and the strength honed from years of manual labor, he not only stabilized his position but also began to overpower the skinny white homeless man.

The two engaged in a fierce, life-or-death struggle over a family bucket of instant noodles in the narrow corridor.

Lyon couldn't stand it anymore.

With a "click," he pulled open the door.

"Have you no shame? You're even stealing fried chicken!"

Lyon grumbled as he strode out.

He didn't draw his gun; it wasn't necessary to deal with a homeless man who was just stealing fried chicken.

Hearing the door open, the homeless man who was snatching the paper bag suddenly turned around, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Leon, and he let out a beast-like growl. He even tried to free up a hand to push Leon away.

Lyon's eyes turned cold. He controlled his strength and threw a punch with his right hand.

He now has 15 points of strength. If he were to deliver a full-force punch to the head or chin, this homeless man would be going to meet his maker on the spot.

"Bang!"

""

Lyon delivered a punch, seven-tenths of his strength, to the homeless man's shoulder.

The homeless man cried out in pain, staggering from the blow, but his withered hands seemed welded to the paper bag, refusing to let go.

"Aren't you going to let go?"

Leon frowned, reached out and grabbed the homeless man by the collar of his hoodie, lifted him up like a radish, and then slammed him hard onto the tattered carpet in the corridor.

"Thump!"

The homeless man was thrown heavily to the ground, dazed and confused, and made pitiful gasps.

The fall was quite severe; it felt like his bones were about to break. But even so, the starving ghost didn't faint from the pain.

Lyon's movements were fluid and extremely graceful.

However, he overlooked a fatal detail.

The moment the homeless man was snatched away, his stubbornness, combined with the momentum of Leon's downward slam, caused him to forcefully pull the poor paper bag from the old Mexican's hand.

As the homeless man landed.

"Smack!"

The paper bag full of Louisiana-style fried chicken exploded completely on the ground.

Golden, crispy fried chicken nuggets, Cajun fries dipped in ketchup, and two bread rolls covered in butter rolled all over the floor like a shower of flowers, covered with dust, rainwater, and muddy marks left by who knows who on the hallway carpet.

The homeless man lay on the ground, convulsing, his eyes still fixed on a fried chicken leg that had rolled down to his nose.

The air in the corridor became quiet.

The Mexican man, still holding the bag, was dumbfounded.

Leon stood there, still in the position of having thrown the person to the ground, staring at the dusty fried chicken on the ground, his lips twitching wildly.

"Fuck!"

He looked up at the dim light in the hallway and wailed, "My fried chicken!!!"