Chapter 100

The surge in alcohol prices was expected by everyone, but no one anticipated it would rise so fast.

After other states joined the Prohibition Alliance, prices did rise to varying degrees, but the increase was slow back then, as people were uncertain how many states the Alliance would spread to and how strictly it would be enforced.

But now things felt off—it seemed it would become a formal federal constitution, and once it did, every state would be bound by it.

Many people whispered privately that once the federal government fully implemented prohibition, alcohol prices across the entire federation would soar again.

The President mentioned at a private party two days ago that he had already discussed full prohibition with the Speaker of the House and the Senate Majority Leader.

Though he neither clearly stated he would sign to enact it fully nor said he needed more time, his expression, demeanor, and speech pace led people to believe he had likely already signed it.

He hadn’t released it yet, merely waiting for the midterm election results—it was a deal, but one that came after another deal.

The election results will be announced in November; it should be a major "social event," yet this year’s midterm election enthusiasm was clearly low.

Some grassroots groups cried "conspiracy," but it stirred no real uproar.

During his four years in office, the President hadn’t made the federation any better, but he did achieve one thing: he hadn’t let it get worse.

As long as he achieved that, reelection wouldn’t be a major issue—unless he faced an overwhelmingly strong opponent.

His opponent, after a series of political deals aimed at preventing him from securing reelection through a state of war, had already abandoned the race by mid-to-late August.

Of course he wouldn’t say that—he’d been distracted by other matters, and since September, over the past two months, election enthusiasm hadn’t risen; it had begun to decline.

So, full prohibition couldn’t be far off.

Distilleries in regions that hadn’t yet joined the Prohibition Alliance were frantically brewing high-proof liquor, trying to beat the clock.

Records of bulk alcohol shipments across society had nearly vanished; even many distilleries themselves were hoarding stock, waiting for the “crazy moment” to arrive.

Under these circumstances, Mr. Chobaf was suffering.

The suffering came from his warehouse: those hundreds of thousands of bottles of alcohol had dwindled to barely two thousand, most of them low-grade gin.

If Arthur demanded he fulfill the alcohol collateral pledged to him, he’d be in deep trouble.

He didn’t want trouble, but trouble always clung to him.

“Mr. Williams Jr. would like to see you, Mr. Chobaf,” the assistant said, knocking and standing at the door, watching Mr. Chobaf.

The latter was handling documents; he paused, “Williams Jr.?”

The assistant reminded him, “James.”

Some disliked this term—it sounded to federal citizens more like a contemptuous label.

It didn’t mean “this is someone,” but “this is someone’s son,” which federal people, valuing individuality, independence, and freedom, found hard to accept.

Even if the person being referenced was their revered father.

In Jincheng City, only one person was widely known: Senator Williams. Thus, the only person known as “Williams Jr.” in Jincheng was James Williams.

Yet James himself didn’t mind the term, for many people would kill to be called that.

Not everyone had the right to be called that, like “the Second.”

Only if your father were an emperor or a noble would they call you that.

But if your father was just a factory line worker, even if they called you that, it’d only be “little mud-dog leg” or “little dog thing.”

Mr. Chobaf took a breath, hesitated, then said, “Let him in.”

James and Arthur were brothers, but their reputations were completely different.

James was regarded as Senator Williams’s most qualified heir; his resume was exceptional—he’d worked as the senator’s assistant since graduating from a prestigious university.

Especially over the past two years, whenever Senator Williams retreated behind the scenes, James handled everything publicly, earning him strong approval in Jincheng’s upper society.

Polite, gentle, well-mannered—he was nothing like his damn brother.

Two minutes later, James entered, dressed impeccably: “Mr. Chobaf, thank you for making time to see me.”

He handed his hat and coat to Mr. Chobaf’s assistant, who hung them on the rack by the door.

Mr. Chobaf smiled, “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” James said, sitting on the sofa; Mr. Chobaf sat beside him.

“I’m here to inform you that Arthur has fully delegated me to handle the alcohol he pledged with you.”

“I reviewed the documents he gave me—they list approximately forty-two thousand bottles of Gold Label Napoleonic Whiskey and three thousand five hundred bottles of gin.”

Gin was less valuable than Gold Label Whiskey, but it sold better now due to its lower price.

Mr. Chobaf forced a smile, took the collateral documents, and reviewed them—even though he’d drafted them himself.

“No problem. Have you brought the money?”

He returned the documents; James showed no sign of suspicion: “You know, this is a large sum—it takes time to arrange.”

“It’ll be deposited into your bank or your designated account within no more than a week.”

“But before that, I’d like to inspect the alcohol in your warehouse.”

He didn’t distrust his brother—he just knew Arthur was often as worthless as shit; he couldn’t believe Arthur’s word that “he had it” without seeing it himself.

Mr. Chobaf nodded, “Of course. A reasonable request.” He glanced at his assistant, “Prepare the car.”

The assistant hurried off; Mr. Chobaf took the chance to chat with James about recent events in Jincheng.

The car was hard to prepare—it took over ten minutes. Mr. Chobaf lost his temper on the spot, but James comforted him, saying he had no other commitments and that chatting with a successful banker like Mr. Chobaf was a valuable experience.

He spoke beautifully, the complete opposite of Arthur, yet Mr. Chobaf dared not underestimate him.

Now he understood federal people better than before: the more refined and well-mannered they appeared,

the more viciously they’d strike when they drew their knives.

The car broke down en route; Mr. Chobaf had to call another. A simple trip that should’ve taken twenty minutes stretched into over an hour.

But finally, they reached the warehouse.

The warehouse number matched what Arthur had said. Mr. Chobaf pushed open the door, revealing mountains of alcohol.

Tens of thousands of bottles piled together were truly staggering—and at this moment, they weren’t liquor; they were resources, cash!

Even James felt a momentary suffocation.

He walked to the towering stacks and said, as if requesting permission but actually informing: “May I open a few bottles?”

Mr. Chobaf nodded. James picked up a bottle, weighed it, opened it—Gold Label Napoleonic Whiskey had unmistakable identification.

Its bottles were specially made, with a medal-like raised mark just below the neck.

This mark varied in color depending on the “label.”

Copper-brown for Copper, silver-white for Silver, and gold-gilded for Gold—you could tell at a glance.

He pulled one out, shook it, even unscrewed the cap and sniffed the aroma.

It was genuine Gold Label Napoleonic Whiskey—not a cheap counterfeit—and his face softened with a smile.

“All of it here?”

Mr. Chobaf nodded. James’s mood lifted instantly—everyone knew this batch would rise again in value.

In other words, even if he sold these bottles at today’s price to others, they’d owe him a favor.

Because he was giving them the chance to profit!

“Is it alright if I take this bottle with me?” he asked, holding the opened bottle.

“Of course! My treat!” Mr. Chobaf smiled.

“Thank you for your generosity—but business is business.” He turned to his assistant, “How much is a bottle of Gold Label now?”

“Eleven dollars and fifty-five cents.”

He pulled out a ten-dollar bill, two quarters, and a nickel, placed them in Mr. Chobaf’s hand, then shook the bottle: “Cash on delivery!”

Mr. Chobaf’s smile stiffened slightly, then quickly returned to normal.

Federal people were like this: outwardly cordial, but inwardly always wary.

Those who extorted him were like this—Arthur was like this, the mayor was like this, even James was like this.

What angered him more was that he had to pretend this man was a “virtuous, noble individual!”

“I’ll redeem these bottles before next Monday. Please have your workers keep a close eye on them—I want to take them away immediately when I return.”

Mr. Chobaf forced himself to agree, suppressing his unease: “No problem.”

After James left, Mr. Chobaf thought and thought, then finally called the mayor.

Hadn’t he poured so much money into the mayor’s hands precisely so someone would shield him from storms?

But clearly, he’d still underestimated the shamelessness of federal people—especially federal politicians.