The sleek, streamlined body, the simple yet elegant front wing air vents, the eye-catching side exhaust pipes, the compact rear design, and the gull-wing doors—every detail of the car was nearly perfect!
Mavi couldn't help but walk up to the sports car, admiring this masterpiece up close. In contrast, the long-legged car model standing beside it seemed more like an unnecessary distraction.
At that moment, a beautiful saleswoman approached with a warm smile and introduced herself. "Hello, sir! Welcome to the Mercedes-Benz exhibit. This is our latest model, the Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren. If you're interested, I can arrange a test drive for you."
The bright overhead lights illuminated the silver hardtop Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren, making it shine brilliantly before Mavi's eyes.
"No need for a test drive. How much for both of these cars?" Mavi asked the saleswoman casually.
At car shows like this, sports cars were in limited supply—once sold, they were gone. He had no intention of losing out to another wealthy buyer while taking a test drive.
"Sir, the total price for both vehicles is $1.1 million," the saleswoman responded enthusiastically. She noticed Mavi was surrounded by bodyguards, inquiring about the price of two cars at once. He was clearly someone of importance.
"Alright, I'll take them," Mavi said without hesitation, as if he were buying groceries at a market rather than two high-end sports cars.
"You… you're buying them? Sir, I'll get the contract ready right away!" The saleswoman had expected Mavi to take a moment to consider. After all, in her view, $1.1 million was no small amount—it could buy four Porsche 911s!
But to her astonishment, Mavi made the decision so effortlessly, without even blinking. She couldn't help but wonder: Who is this young white man? Some billionaire's son? Buying supercars like it's nothing…
What she didn't know was that Mavi wasn't buying two Mercedes-Benz SLR McLarens simply because he had too much money to spend. Deep down, he was once again feeling the urge to destroy something expensive.
"Sir, your total comes to $1.1 million. Would you like to pay by card?"
As the saleswoman returned with the contract and asked about payment, Mavi simply nodded. His butler, Ivan, immediately pulled a black Centurion American Express card from his pocket and handled the transaction on his behalf.
"Sir, please sign here," Ivan said respectfully, presenting the contract for Mavi to sign after filling in the necessary details.
The saleswoman watched Mavi's effortless, well-attended lifestyle with envy. She thought to herself: If I could live like that just once, I'd die without regrets…
Even the two models standing beside the Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren shot Mavi admiring glances. From their expressions, it was obvious—if he approached them now and asked for their numbers, they would gladly give them without playing hard to get.
After Mavi signed the papers and the payment was processed, the saleswoman retrieved two black signs from the counter, each reading "Sold – Do Not Touch" in English.
She then placed the signs on the dashboards of both Mercedes-Benz SLR McLarens, marking them as sold to prevent test drives by other potential buyers.
By the next day, Mavi could send someone to pick up the cars or have the exhibition organizers deliver them to his specified locations—for a small service fee, of course.
"Sir, you want one of the cars delivered to this address? Falcon Shooting Club?" The saleswoman noticed the two delivery addresses were different and confirmed with Mavi.
"That's correct. Just make sure it's delivered on time," Mavi replied before leaving the exhibition center with his bodyguards.
The reason he had one of the cars sent to Falcon Shooting Club was simple: In the U.S., if you wanted to fire heavy machine guns and other high-caliber weapons legally, you had to go to a shooting club. There, it was completely legal, and you wouldn't get in trouble.
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The next afternoon, Mavi's convoy arrived at a small town on the outskirts of Detroit, where he was greeted by the Falcon Shooting Club—renowned as the largest machine-gun shooting range in the entire United States.
Most ordinary shooting clubs operated indoors, allowing only small-scale target practice. They couldn't offer the thrill of firing thousands of rounds per minute in an open field, mowing down targets in every direction.
"Sir, we've arrived," Ivan said respectfully as their vehicle came to a stop in the parking lot, waking Mavi from his brief nap.
Fortunately, the parking lot was on the other side of the club, out of sight from the front entrance staff. Otherwise, Mavi's convoy of three military Hummers, each mounted with an M2 Browning machine gun, might have been mistaken for a hostile raid.
"How much longer until the car arrives?" Mavi asked, uninterested in whether his convoy looked intimidating. His mind was entirely focused on his newly purchased Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren.
"The delivery driver just called. It should arrive in about fifteen minutes," Ivan responded.
"Good, got it," Mavi said, clenching his fist slightly in anticipation. His inner destructive instincts were already starting to kick in.
With that, he and his bodyguards entered the Falcon Shooting Club, ready to browse through the available firearms for his next activity—unleashing an all-out assault on his Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren.
As soon as Mavi stepped inside, he was greeted by a massive display of firearms and ammunition neatly arranged on racks along the back wall.
On the far right were small-caliber handguns:
Desert Eagle, Colt M1911, Beretta M92, revolvers—all the popular models were available.
Next to the handguns were the submachine guns, including:
MP5, UZI, AUG Para—some of the most iconic choices.
Mavi carefully scanned the shelves, taking note of every firearm. But his main interest lay in the assault rifles and heavy machine guns on the left side of the rack.
M4 assault rifles, SCAR rifles, AWP sniper rifles, SAW light machine guns, W95 heavy machine guns, and M2 Browning machine guns—he wanted to try them all.
As he stood there, analyzing the selection, a fit and athletic blonde woman emerged from the office, dressed in a sleek black instructor's uniform.
Her name was Emma, the club's top shooting instructor and the daughter of the club's owner. She had just heard from her father—who had come in to get some paperwork—that a rich guy had booked the entire club for the afternoon.
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American TV Series: Young Sheldon mike edition