Chapter 2: I Never Joke

The fat boss smiled at Lans, not menacingly, but with an air of condescension. “Before you piss me off, you’d better go scrub the floor again.”

Employing black labor, using black labor—if capitalists felt guilt over exploiting workers, they wouldn’t have started in the first place.

Anyone who qualifies as a capitalist, or even a potential capitalist, must first pass their own conscience.

The two locked eyes for a moment; Lans stepped back two paces, hands raised. “As you wish, sir.”

The fat boss was pleased with his demeanor, still smiling as he nodded. “I like it when you call me ‘Boss.’ Do it from now on.”

“As you wish, Boss.”

Satisfied, the fat boss waved him off. “Get out.”

Lans, now away from that spot, expressionless, took down the freshly hung mop and picked up the wooden bucket to fetch hot water—only to notice the apprentice standing at the back door, staring at him.

On his face was an inexplicable… superiority, as if mocking Lans.

Lans looked at him; he didn’t back down, glaring right back.

“I only pay him three bucks a month, but you’re paying him ten!”

Just as the apprentice opened his mouth to speak, Lans cut him off: “In my hometown, there’s a saying: a well-behaved dog doesn’t block people’s path.”

Unconsciously, the apprentice stepped back—but then his face flushed red.

Lans went to the boiler room amid his curses.

The bakery had a large oven—not electric, not household.

It was a wood-fired furnace, constantly burning fuel; to better utilize heat, most ovens included a copper pipe.

Water ran through the copper pipe, heated into steam that channeled into the bottom of another bucket; as steam escaped, it heated the water inside.

This large bucket held three hundred gallons, filled at four a.m., boiled by around eight a.m., and kept at roughly ninety degrees all day.

To save on cleaning agents, the fat boss demanded Lans mop the floor with near-boiling water.

Hot water cleans grease and clumped bread crumbs better, saving the fat boss a fortune on cleaning supplies.

Also, floors dry faster after mopping with hot water.

Even though the floor was already clean, Lans worked harder than ever.

For the next two days, Lans silently endured the fat boss’s harassment—he needed a place to stay.

Leaving was simple, but then what would he eat? Where would he rest? So he decided to wait until he had a more stable plan before considering departure.

As for the exploitation and oppression?

He’d repay it—his nature wasn’t to suffer in silence.

Weekend, just after ten a.m.—the bakery’s busiest time.

Since the Federation instituted the two-day weekend years ago, some people had begun enjoying their weekends.

A trip to the suburbs, a meal out—both good options; even the poor in the Lower District had more chances and choices.

Lans was drenched in sweat, always with more work to do.

Near noon, as customers thinned, the doorbell rang. Two men entered, wearing shirts and vests, caps pulled low.

They looked young, barely twenty, their faces harsh, eyes like knives that made your heart race.

The fat boss at the corner immediately moved to the cash register. The two youths strode confidently to face him; one removed his cap, holding the brim toward the fat boss.

The fat boss quickly opened the cash drawer, pulled out a stack of bills, counted fifty dollars, and placed them inside.

“Add ten. Price hike,” said the slightly shorter youth, face cold.

The fat boss opened his mouth to protest—but said nothing. He counted out five two-dollar bills and added them.

The taller one replaced his cap, casually grabbed a twenty-five-cent loaf, smiled at the fat boss, and left.

Perhaps… his weakness, his lack of strength, had been seen by Lans—his previously meek, almost pitiful expression twisted instantly—

“How long are you gonna stand there, you bastard?”

“Can’t you see there’s a mountain of work?”

“Remember what I told you—don’t make me shout at you again, or you’ll regret it!”

Watching the fat boss’s furious rage, Lans only smiled, then returned to his work.

Today might be the boss’s unlucky day—not that he’d died, but that his luck had turned.

At one p.m., the slowest hour, the doorbell jolted Lans awake. The fat boss and his daughter were napping.

They were so fat, yet still took naps—maybe that’s why they were fat.

Two police officers entered, crisp, handsome uniforms, silver-gray badges gleaming under the light.

“Gentlemen, what’ll it be?”

“Freshly baked donuts—double sugar.”

“Buy a box, we’ll throw in a cup of coffee.”

The complimentary coffee was made from coffee grounds bought for a dollar per six pounds—leftover fragments from normal processing, sifted out.

Whole, intact beans fetched the highest price.

The lowest grade—ground fragments mixed with roasted twigs or husks—was the dollar-per-six-pounds kind.

The taste difference between this and pricier coffee was negligible—though both were cheap.

Customers couldn’t tell the difference; as long as the coffee wasn’t undrinkable and there was a bargain, someone would buy it.

The bakery was empty. One fat officer flipped the “Open” sign to “Closed” upon entering and stood by the door.

The tall, thin one sat on a chair. “Where’s Johnny?”

Johnny was the fat boss’s name. Lans tilted his head back. “Asleep.”

“Wake him up. Tell him an old friend’s here.”

Lans felt no attachment to this bakery. He sensed the cop was here for trouble—and he was glad to see the fat boss humiliated.

He dashed to the rest room, pounding on the door. Soon, Johnny’s curses echoed inside. Two minutes later, the door flew open—he stood there, furious. “You dying or what?”

“Don’t you know skipping naps makes you age faster?”

“If you don’t have a good reason for waking me, I’m docking you two bucks!”

Lans waited until the fat boss finished venting, then pointed behind him. “An old friend’s waiting. A cop.”

The fat boss’s expression shifted instantly from rage to unease. He patted his clothes, as if to retreat—but stepped out anyway.

Clearly, he wanted to flee.

When they returned to the main room, the officer was already enjoying his bread.

He’d taken the most expensive loaf, opened a box of premium ham, and ate slowly—his demeanor absurdly refined.

It was as if… this wasn’t his true self.

At least, a cop shouldn’t be sitting calmly in a bakery’s dining area, eating elegantly during work hours.

“Good bread. High-quality ham. Only you have the best technique nearby,” the officer praised, then shoved the last crumbs into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and wiped his lips with a handkerchief—possibly removing crumbs or grease. “Time to pay this quarter’s fee.”

The fat boss spoke carefully, no loud voice like when addressing Lans or the apprentice. “Isn’t payment due next month?”

Payments were due in January, April, July, October—each year.

Of course, they didn’t call it that. This money was called “Safety Assurance Fee,” paid to the district’s police chief, who guaranteed merchant safety.

If a shop was robbed, they’d try to catch the thief and return the money—but only “try.”

In fact, this street had seen over thirty robberies and thefts this year—and not one thief caught.

Some whispered they’d caught them—but kept the money.

People had tried resisting—but the results were terrible. Every few days, another theft.

One shop owner slept in his store to prevent theft—then got stabbed by a burglar that night.

Still no one caught!

Anyone who refused to pay always faced trouble. Resisters ended up paying more.

Only then could they run business peacefully on this street.

The officer tilted his head. “I’ve protected you all these years—cost me promotions.”

“Now there’s a great opportunity—I could get transferred straight to the precinct office.”

“But I need some operating funds. You won’t make it hard for me, right?”

The fat boss’s lips moved, but he chose silence. “I’ll give it to you.”

The officer beamed. “I knew you understood me. If I get into the office, I guarantee no more gang harassment.”

No one believed him.

Soon, the fat boss brought over two hundred dollars. Perhaps Lans’s presence gave him a sliver of safety—he wasn’t chased away.

The officer counted: mostly tens and twenties. Few bills, quickly done.

“Two hundred more. Half-year advance. This time.”

The fat boss stared in shock. “There’s never been such a rule!”

The officer placed his soiled handkerchief on the table, staring straight at the fat boss. “There is now.”