Chapter 28: A Smelly Day

On Monday, Mr. Anderson rose early and ordered all apprentices, cooks, and waiters to arrive at the restaurant ahead of schedule.

Last night he had someone make a notice board overnight—

Due to the restaurant’s booming business, dining time is limited to two hours; customers who exceed this time may be asked to settle their bills and leave.

Additionally, when tables are scarce, the restaurant reserves the right to require solo diners to share tables with other solo diners.

There is also a rule: the restaurant may refuse service to any customer who appears suspicious.

That was the general content—the notice board was large and stood at the entrance.

Anderson watched all day long, but Lans never showed up, and nothing unusual occurred.

Monday is an important day for people: office workers receive their weekly assignments from their superiors and must prepare for them.

Factory workers on assembly lines face the restart of production after one or two days of rest.

They must closely monitor changes on the line, while supervisors use intense work to shake workers out of their holiday laziness.

Those laboring at docks or warehouses, after weekend inventory, faced a flood of cargo vehicles entering and leaving the port this morning—they were too busy to even stand straight.

Most people were busy; by noon, four tables had arrived at the restaurant, totaling less than sixty dollars—

Although this was a mid-to-high-end restaurant, not all dishes were expensive.

A meal set with two people ordering a main dish—like a cheap combo of fish steak and beef steak, or simply an ordinary beef steak, plus a clear soup—cost at most ten dollars.

The special feature of a mid-to-high-end restaurant is that you can spend little here, yet also spend a great deal.

Business in the evening was decent: nine tables, 133 dollars total; calculating by gross profit, the day barely broke even, losing ten to twenty dollars.

Every Monday was roughly like this; Mr. Anderson was not surprised.

He thought Lans was just bluffing; since he didn’t show up today, Anderson relaxed his guard slightly.

He didn’t know that Lans also knew Monday’s business was poor, so he had planned his “next stage” for Tuesday.

On Tuesday morning, Mr. Anderson rose even earlier; today was the day when workers gathered for meals—after a weekend apart, they had much to say, chatting about where they’d gone, and sharing a meal to strengthen bonds.

Today’s business would be better than Monday’s.

Until eleven, he saw no one come in alone to claim a table; he happily took a cloth and wiped the notice board at the entrance.

Across the street in a narrow alley, Lans stood at an inconspicuous entrance, watching Mr. Anderson and his restaurant.

“That one over there… yes, the one wiping the notice board.” Lans lowered his gaze and looked at the people beside him.

Each of them emitted a foul odor—a group of homeless men.

Last night, when Lans found them, he treated them to a good meal: beef, pork, and refined noodles.

These foods ensured their excrement would be extremely stinking; now was the time for them to defecate.

In his hand, Lans held a bucket filled with water laced with powerful laxatives—within minutes, it would force uncontrollable expulsion.

This morning, he had made them drink even more thin porridge to maximize the effect.

With eleven approaching and customers due soon, Lans poured the first cup of laxative water and handed it to the first homeless man.

“Go to their restaurant entrance, defecate on the ground, then go to the alley we agreed on—someone will give you two dollars.”

“If you do it in a particularly disgusting way, I’ll give you an extra dollar.” He glanced at the rest of the homeless men. “Same for you all: two dollars, plus one extra if you do it well.”

The first homeless man was nearly fifty, his hair matted, occasional cockroaches crawling out from beneath it and back in again.

His blackened face made it impossible to tell whether he had once been a cotton picker or had always been this dark.

“Mr. Lans, rest assured—I’ll make them all vomit thinking about it all day!” He slapped his chest, grinning with a mouth full of yellow teeth that repulsed others, but Lans admired him—he was truly foul.

He downed the laxative in one gulp; the taste was strange, then he stood quietly.

After a little over ten minutes, he suddenly clutched his stomach. “Here it comes, Mr. Lans—I’m going… ssshh… now!”

Lans immediately poured the second cup of laxative and handed it to the next man.

At this moment, two tables of customers had entered the restaurant; Mr. Anderson felt a sense of relief—he thought today would be another quiet day.

He turned to rest in the break room; he’d been rising early and sleeping late for two days, his mood poor, and he was utterly exhausted—he needed rest most of all.

Before he could lie down, he faintly heard the manager shouting loudly.

He froze, then sprang up and sprinted toward the entrance.

The moment he stepped outside, a thick stench nearly knocked him unconscious!

The sun blazed, making the odor unbearable.

At the restaurant entrance, a homeless man was arguing with the manager while smearing his feces onto the notice board Anderson had just cleaned.

“Aren’t you going to clean this up?!”

He glanced at the man smearing feces on the board and could no longer bear it—he gagged and nearly vomited.

“Call the police… puke… call the police!”

The homeless man, hearing the restaurant would call the police, bolted away—before running off, he let out a fart and sprayed another pile at the entrance.

At that moment, three customers who had been walking toward the restaurant turned, crossed the street, and entered the one across the way.

Mr. Anderson shouted wildly; apprentices carried two buckets of water, rinsed the ground clean, then scrubbed it thoroughly with brushes.

“It all happened so suddenly—he just ran over, pulled down his pants, bent over, and then…” The manager shuddered as if recalling something horrific.

“...BAM! I thought his intestines had burst out.”

Mr. Anderson felt slightly better, then gagged again. “Wash it clean!”

He and the manager stepped aside; the manager continued, “I told him not to defecate at our door, then somehow he slipped and fell—and you saw what happened. He claims I pushed him…”

Mr. Anderson’s face turned grim—another table of customers had just changed their minds about dining.

But the manager remained uneasy. “Could this be their new trick?”

Mr. Anderson grew uneasy. “Get two more waiters to watch. If any homeless men come near, keep them at a distance…”

?C〇

Before he finished speaking, a homeless man suddenly charged across the street—just like the first one, running while pulling down his pants. Worse still, when he reached the sidewalk, he turned his backside toward them!

Passersby stared in stunned disbelief; the apprentice at the front slowly turned and violently vomited.

Mr. Anderson gagged and cursed.

That goddamn bastard—this had to be that son of a bitch’s doing!