Chapter 104: Contradictions and Getting Beaten

Hammer was a common dockworker, as common as his name.

He had the foul temper typical of most dockworkers, always finding something or someone to dislike, always someone who could annoy him.

He never thought it was his own problem—if he had an issue, why didn’t he make himself unhappy instead of letting others do it?

In recent days his mood had grown even more unstable, because all the bars had stopped selling alcohol, yet they told workers that if they were willing to pay slightly more, there were places that would still sell them liquor.

Hammer went, and the worst beer cost fifteen cents; his usual kind cost twenty; if he wanted an extra ounce of cheap whiskey, it was forty cents.

Too damn expensive!

He earned only thirty-seven dollars a month; if he converted it all to beer—he had his son calculate it—he could afford only ninety-two “bombs.”

When had drinking a beer become so hard?

But he couldn’t go without it.

Nothing else could match the relief of a full day’s labor, then sitting at the bar after dark, sipping a “bomb” while watching young, pretty girls strip off their clothes one by one.

And the beer had to be cold—not with ice cubes. Some idiots ordered beer with ice cubes; they were complete fools.

Maybe this was one of the few times Hammer used his brain—if only he’d used it a little more back when he was in school, maybe now… no, ordinary people who studied wouldn’t change their fate unless they became one of the top one percent.

“It’s all those damn immigrant bastards’ fault!” The thirty-pound wrench in his hands made his arms feel foreign, yet he still had to keep working.

He held the wrench steady while his coworker swung a hammer, striking one end to tighten the fist-sized bolts.

This was one of their daily tasks—every single day!

Due to vibrations or other reasons, the bolts loosened slightly each day; technically they could be left alone, but they feared accidents, so they had to retighten every bolt in their assigned area daily.

It looked like an easy job, done in pairs, but only those who actually did it knew how terrible it was.

In summer they worked under blazing sun; in winter, biting winds; even in the more comfortable spring and autumn, the heavy labor left them too exhausted to speak.

Now the only beer that eased their fatigue had become expensive, so he could only complain.

His partner raised the hammer high and brought it down hard—with a clang—that numbed Hammer’s hands.

“Fuck! Fuck all the immigrants!”

His coworker laughed and paused. “So why are we out here in the sun? What’s this got to do with immigrants?”

Hammer let go of the wrench. “If it weren’t for these fucking immigrants, do you think they’d pay us only thirty-seven dollars a month?”

He glared, voice sharp with anger. “These bastards will work for thirty bucks. If they hadn’t repeatedly shown the bloodsuckers they could find workers for less, I’d be making at least fifty a month!”

He sat on a mooring post, one foot on another, catching his breath. “Not thirty-seven!”

His coworker lowered the hammer and took a short rest. “You’ve got a point.”

“Right? A lot of people think I’m wrong.”

“Think about it—if they raised wages to forty-eight and still couldn’t find workers, wouldn’t they have to raise them even more?”

“If we all just held out, united, and refused their current pay, they’d have to raise our wages.”

“But look!” He pointed to workers near the ships, wiping decks or holding cleaning tools. “These bastards will do it for ten bucks. How are capitalists supposed to raise our wages?”

His coworker had no reply. He felt the argument was wrong, but couldn’t find a way to refute it.

And they were coworkers—not him and those immigrants—so he sided with Hammer. “These people really are ruining our happy lives.”

Hammer’s view was validated; he brightened instantly. “Want to grab a drink after work?”

“I found a new bar—forty cents for a large beer plus an ounce of whiskey, and free strippers!”

The price was only five cents cheaper than their usual spot, but five cents was still money.

With their level of frequent visits, they could save at least a dollar a month—that meant two extra days of luxury.

His coworker nodded. “Sure, let’s try it. Lately I think the dancer at our usual place is sick—she’s got this faint, weird smell.”

“You noticed it too?” Hammer looked surprised. “I thought I was the only one.”

They exchanged a glance and shuddered.

“You hate immigrant workers so much—have you reported them?”

Hammer’s habit of reporting others wasn’t a secret among dockworkers. Whenever something annoyed him, he reported it.

He’d reported capitalists, coworkers, even the union. That’s why he had few friends—only a few coworkers who partnered with him got along with him.

Everyone else? Just average—not good, not bad.

His coworker asked while picking up a small hammer and tapping the nuts beneath his feet.

Loose ones rattled slightly—those needed retightening.

Tight ones didn’t move at all.

Hammer stood up. “I reported them. The union said I had no proof.”

His coworker looked up, curious. “What did you report them for? Why ask for proof?”

“Illegal immigrants.”

His coworker gave him a look like he’d lost his mind. “If they find out you did that, you won’t survive it.”

“These illegal immigrants can be terrifying.”

Hammer smiled, full of contempt. Not long ago, during the peak of anti-immigrant rage, he’d beaten up several immigrants—or illegal ones.

His coworker had just hit a loose bolt. He picked up the wrench, walked over, and crouched. “I’ll tell you a secret—I’ve beaten up a few immigrants too. They didn’t dare fight back. I felt so much better!”

His coworker shook his head slightly. “That’s dangerous.”

“They’re way more cowardly than you think!” Hammer’s hands went numb again from the hammer’s impact. “Fuck!”

Working with Hammer meant getting used to his complaints.

All afternoon he complained—about this, about that—always someone else’s fault, never his own.

His coworker grew tired of it, telling him to shut up and rest several times, but after a few minutes he’d start rambling again.

As quitting time neared, both men began working a bit more seriously.

After the foreman made his rounds, they packed up their tools and headed toward the dock buildings—work was done for the day.

Hammer and his coworker showered, changed clothes, and stepped out of the dock—ready to head to the bar—when someone approached him.

“Mr. Hammer?” A short young man stood a few feet away.

His accent was familiar to Hammer—Imperial. His face instantly twisted with impatience. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to you,” Elvin said calmly. “I promise I mean no harm.”

But Hammer rejected it outright. “I’ve got nothing to say to Imperial scum.” He turned to walk past. He clearly despised Imperials.

At this time, racial or regional discrimination wasn’t something that sparked public outrage. Slaves had only recently returned to society; many elderly people had once owned them.

Slaves were still fighting for rights against discrimination and prejudice, so discrimination wasn’t treated as unforgivable.

Discrimination? It was just discrimination. No one thought it was wrong—not even those being discriminated against.

Elvin reached out to stop him, hoping to talk. Lans had told him to handle these reporters—he came with sincerity.

But clearly, Hammer, like his name, often didn’t use his brain. Seeing this short “scum” blocking him, he threw a punch.

Amid his coworker’s “Whoa!” Elvin flew backward, his head ringing.

He was stunned—just one punch!

A man who labored daily with heavy physical work didn’t swing lightly.

Watching Elvin vomit on the ground, Hammer walked over and kicked him—sending him sprawling.

A few onlookers gathered. His coworker feared things would escalate, so he held Hammer back. “I’ll buy you a drink tonight. Don’t cause trouble!”

“He’s down. That’s enough!”

Hammer struggled, couldn’t break free, and gave up. He spat. “You’re lucky.”

Under his coworker’s calming words, the two left the dock.

Others, seeing no more spectacle, dispersed.

What about Elvin?

They didn’t know him. Who cared?

Only when immigrant workers finished their shifts did someone notice Elvin.

He often appeared at the labor office; many illegal immigrants got their work cards there, so they recognized him.

Immediately, several men lifted him—he was unconscious.

Some moved him to the roadside to watch over him; others ran off toward the office…