The Tyrant Billionaire

Chapter 3: Chapter 3 Bill Was Shot.

A sleek car rolled to a stop outside a lively bar adorned with neon lights shaped like a mischievous bunny girl. The sign read "Bunny Bar."

Hardy and Bill stepped inside, and Hardy instantly noticed the place was more energetic than any of the taverns he had frequented in his hometown.

The dim lighting created a smoky ambiance, jazz music flowed through the air, scantily clad women danced around, voices filled the room, and the unmistakable scent of marijuana lingered.

All the women were dressed in playful bunny outfits: tight-fitting bikinis that emphasized their curves, stockings stretched over long legs, tall bunny ears—one upright and the other flopped over—and fluffy tails bobbing behind them.

A charming bunny girl approached them with a bright smile. "Bill, what'll it be today?"

"Start us off with two beers," Bill replied, giving her a light, teasing pat on the backside. She giggled and exchanged a few playful remarks with him before heading off.

The beers soon arrived, and Bill and Hardy clinked their glasses together, taking generous sips. Their conversation flowed from their past military service to their present situations.

"You joined a gang?" Hardy asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Bill gave a casual shrug. "When I got out of the army, all I got was a measly few hundred bucks in pension. You know I've got a big family to support—parents and five siblings. That money didn't go far."

"I tried making an honest living," Bill continued. "Worked in factories, took on odd jobs in stores, washed cars, even drove transport. But the pay was barely enough to scrape by. And with inflation going through the roof and wages getting slashed by greedy bosses, it wasn't cutting it. The papers claim the economy's booming, but they don't talk about the unemployment rate sky-high."

Hardy leaned in closer. "So what exactly do you do now?"

Bill smirked. "I deliver booze, collect debts, keep the peace."

He explained how the gang ran underground casinos and loan companies, all needing muscle for debt collection. They also ran a private liquor business, supplying bars and nightclubs across the neighborhood. "This place," Bill gestured around, "is under my watch."

Hardy began to understand why everyone seemed to know Bill.

They clinked their glasses again. Bill looked Hardy in the eye and proposed, "Jon, why not join me? With your smarts and skills, we could make a real name for ourselves."

Hardy shook his head slowly. He wasn't interested in joining a gang. In his past life, he had climbed the ladder of success only to be brought down by treachery. Now, with the memories and foresight of decades beyond this world, he believed he could strike it rich if he chose the right path. But the criminal underworld was not the path he wanted.

"I'm thinking of finding something stable," Hardy said.

Bill didn't push the issue further, just shrugged and said, "Alright. You can crash at my place for now." He handed Hardy a stack of bills, easily over a hundred dollars.

"Use this," Bill said. "You'll need a decent suit for interviews, and it's getting cold. Grab yourself a good coat too."

Hardy, nearly broke with only a few dollars to his name, didn't refuse Bill's generosity and pocketed the money.

Seeing Hardy accept the cash, Bill smiled warmly. They continued to drink and chat well into the night, sharing stories and laughs until the rain started to drizzle outside and the temperature dropped. They drove back to Bill's apartment.

Once there, Bill showed Hardy to a guest room and pointed out the bathroom. Hardy enjoyed a hot bath, then emerged, drying his hair. Bill motioned him over to the living room, where he slid the sofa aside to reveal a hidden compartment.

"Jon, there are two guns here," Bill said, pulling out a couple of Colt M1911s along with some extra magazines. "Help yourself if you need one."

Hardy recognized the guns immediately. He'd used a Colt M1911 during his service; the feel of it was second nature to him.

"I'm looking for a legit job. I don't think I'll need a gun," Hardy replied.

Bill gave a noncommittal shrug. "You never know."

They poured another round of drinks and continued talking late into the night.

The next morning, Bill and Hardy went their separate ways. Hardy dressed in his newly bought suit and coat, feeling more refreshed and presentable. He picked up a newspaper and started scanning the job listings—factory workers, accountants, drivers, hotel staff, laborers...

None seemed right. Either the pay was too low, or the positions didn't match his skills or aspirations.

He tried several recruitment agencies, but as Bill had warned, despite appearances of a booming economy, jobs were scarce. Most places just had him fill out a form, only to never follow up.

That evening, he returned to Bill's place. When asked how the job hunt went, Hardy could only sigh. "Not great. Too many job seekers, and I don't have the right qualifications or skills. It's tough out there."

Bill offered some words of encouragement. "It's just the start, don't lose hope."

Days passed in much the same way. Bill went about his own business, while Hardy continued his fruitless search for employment. He refused to settle for factory work, believing it offered no future and didn't align with his goals. Yet, the jobs with potential were elusive.

One morning, Bill left with a grin. "I'm off to collect a big debt—five grand. If I get it back, we each get a cut. We'll have a feast tonight."

Five hundred dollars—a substantial amount, equivalent to a couple of months' salary in those days.

Bill left, and Hardy resumed his search. By noon, he bought a hot dog and a cup of tea, sitting on a bench to eat. The rest of the afternoon was spent looking for job openings, but again, no luck.

Returning to Bill's apartment late in the afternoon, Hardy sensed something was off. His instincts kicked in—danger. As he turned to leave, the door slammed shut behind him, and a gun barrel was shoved into his face.

Two men in suits were inside.

One stood in front of him, pointing a revolver at Hardy's head from a couple of feet away. The other was by the bedroom door, hands casually in his pockets, ready to draw his weapon.

"Don't move," the man with the revolver growled.

Hardy's mind raced. Was this a robbery? A setup? Or were these enemies of Bill's? "Who are you?" Hardy demanded.

The man with the revolver stepped closer, the barrel now just inches from Hardy's head.

Hardy reacted swiftly. With a sharp pivot, he dodged the muzzle, lunged forward, and seized the man's revolver with both hands.

The man was caught off guard, but before he could react, Hardy twisted the gun free from his grip.

The second man fumbled to draw his own weapon, but Hardy was quicker. He spun, grabbed the first man by the neck with his left arm, and pressed the revolver against his temple.

"Don't move, or I'll blow his brains out!" Hardy shouted.

The man in his grasp froze, eyes wide with terror.

The second man, clearly shaken, hesitated, unsure of his next move. He kept his gun aimed at Hardy, but the tables had turned dramatically.

"Drop your gun!" Hardy ordered, pressing the revolver harder against his captive's skull.

The man by the bedroom door hesitated. "Let him go!"

"Not until you drop your gun!" Hardy retorted.

The tension was palpable. The man in Hardy's grip was visibly trembling, while the other hesitated, teeth clenched.

"Why are you here? What do you want?" Hardy demanded.

The man in his hold hesitated before blurting out, "Wait! Are you Hardy? Bill told us a friend named Hardy was staying here."

Hardy didn't lower the gun. "This is Bill's place, yeah. But why the hell are you sneaking around here?"

Realization dawned on the men, and they both relaxed slightly. "We're Bill's associates," the second man explained, still cautious. "We didn't mean to startle you. This is just a big misunderstanding."