Chapter 29: The Stubborn Old Man

The police car siren wailed as it slowly approached from afar, the officer in the passenger seat munching on a freshly bought donut.

It wasn’t an ordinary donut—it was a premium version with strawberry jam filling, dusted with powdered sugar and drizzled with a ring of honey, so sweet it turned your stomach.

Yet the federal people loved it, then washed it down with a carbonated drink, letting out a burp thick with swamp gas—this, perhaps, was the pursuit of most federal citizens!

“Guess what Anderson called in about this time?”

The driver, watching traffic conditions, said, “Most likely, that group went back again.”

“He must’ve pissed someone off—I asked around yesterday, and Old Mac didn’t know about this.”

Old Mac’s name is Mike Owen, an official of the Doug family.

Officially, Jincheng City has five major families ruling the underworld, but that doesn’t mean only these five exist—if they truly tried to monopolize everything, they’d likely be gone soon.

In reality, every street and every administrative district is managed by gangs of varying sizes.

The large ones may have over a thousand members; the small ones, just ten or twenty.

The five families are merely the top tier—but they’re not the only ones here.

The Doug family is one of the three major gangs in the Bay Area, directly beneath the five families; each quarter, Doug family members must pay a certain “protection fee” to their superiors as a sign of respect and adherence to Jincheng’s order.

In return, the five families allow them to continue running their own businesses here—this is the rule of the game in Jincheng City and the entire federal underworld.

No one can monopolize the profits—not the lowly thugs at the bottom, nor the apex predators at the top.

After returning home yesterday, the officer called Old Mac to ask if he knew about it; Old Mac didn’t know and had no intention of getting involved.

The Doug family doesn’t profit by extorting fees from roadside businesses—this petty cash means nothing to them, so they have no direct connection with Mr. Anderson.

It was one of the Doug family’s street gangs that came to collect, but Anderson cursed them out and drove them off; moreover, Mr. Anderson knows some influential people, so the family didn’t want trouble over a few dozen dollars a month from a subordinate gang.

So they told their people to avoid any contact with Mr. Anderson—when Old Mac heard someone was bothering him, he wasn’t angry; he was delighted.

“That old dog deserves to lose something—he won’t understand paying us isn’t extortion, it’s protection!”

The officer strongly agreed with Old Mac’s shameless thug logic—he used similar tactics himself to squeeze out benefits.

The driver shrugged indifferently, pulled one hand free to light a cigarette, “I don’t care who’s bothering him—I just want him to know: calling the police is free, but responding costs money.”

His partner chuckled, laughing as he bit into the donut, thoroughly delighted.

Soon the car pulled over just as Anderson ran back from afar; the officer stepped out and was about to greet him when he suddenly covered his nose, “My god, what the hell is that smell? Did someone shit in his pants?”

His partner pointed to the roadside, “I don’t know if anyone shat in his pants, but someone definitely shat on the ground.”

A faint yellow stain lay on the pavement, its moisture long dried by the scorching sun, yet the stench refused to dissipate.

Mr. Anderson gasped for breath, “These… damn bastards are back again!”

The officer shifted sideways, “Again? They’re taking over your tables?”

Mr. Anderson took a deep breath, “They came to my restaurant entrance to shit—and they had diarrhea!”

“Fuck!”

“All those fucking whores should be drowned in toilets!”

The officer’s expression turned odd, “So you called us… because someone shit on the ground outside your restaurant?”

Mr. Anderson stared in shock, “Don’t I have the right to call you?”

The officer felt slightly better—perhaps he’d grown accustomed to the smell; human adaptation to stimuli follows a curve: initial tolerance comes fast, but full acceptance takes a long time.

“What do you expect me to do about these homeless people?”

“Arrest them? Lock them up for publicly defecating in public spaces?”

“Even though they’re wrong, all we can do is drive them off and report it to the City Administration.”

Public defecation has always been a headache in the federal; despite how the federal and some nations boast themselves as beacons of civilization.

Yet here, far more people defecate openly than in some backward countries!

Whether man or woman, in backward regions, if they need to go—even in the middle of the road—they’ll drop their pants, shit, wipe nothing, and walk off.

We once tried arresting them, but the cost of police resources spent on arresting one person far outweighed the benefit.

No one, after being arrested for public defecation, suddenly decides to go home or buy a burger just to use the toilet.

So most cities barely bother—and this time, it’s homeless people, who can’t be squeezed for money; we’d have to feed them, bathe them, even provide new clothes.

The chief would yell at him for half an hour, calling him a “pig,” warning him never to do such a stupid thing again.

He didn’t want to handle it.

Mr. Anderson, furious after days of buildup, blurted out in extreme anger, “I only gave you twenty dollars!”

The officer’s expression darkened—he knew this man was troublesome, but he hated this feeling.

His partner walked over from the other side of the car, hand resting on his holster; though he wouldn’t draw his gun, the pressure was unbearable for most.

The officer was irritated, “Should I give your twenty dollars back?”

Mr. Anderson realized his mistake and apologized profusely, “That’s not what I meant, I—”

The officer didn’t want to hear more—twenty dollars? Not much—he’d only gotten ten himself!

He pulled out twenty dollars and threw them on the ground, then turned to the car, grabbed the radio, “GPPD… officer response… call number confirmed, we’ve arrived on scene, no issues found, likely a false alarm.”

A few seconds later, the radio crackled back, “Received, return to precinct on standby… officer.”

The officer glanced at Mr. Anderson, climbed back into the car, his hand resting on the window frame, “If you file another false alarm, I’ll report it to my superiors.”

“And don’t forget—this is my patrol zone!”

He stomped the gas and drove off.

The officer didn’t want to deal with this—no matter who did it, he didn’t collect protection fees from Anderson, and now he had to be summoned daily for pocket change.

It was just twenty dollars—did he really think that amount meant anything?

The manager watched everything unfold, sighing silently, unsure what to say.

He walked over, picked up the twenty dollars—Mr. Anderson’s cooking was impeccable; everyone who ate his dishes praised the flavor.

But his people skills and business sense were abysmal—otherwise, last year he wouldn’t have nearly gone bankrupt from poor management.

Only after hiring the manager did things improve.

“You greedy bastards, go back and gnaw on your mother’s corpse!” Mr. Anderson flipped the bird at the retreating police car.

He turned—and saw the manager.

He was satisfied with this manager; since the manager arrived, restaurant sales kept rising.

The kitchen’s food hadn’t changed, yet people started coming—this was all the manager’s doing.

He was still tolerant of the manager.

“You’ve angered the police—who’ll protect us now?” the manager said, annoyed.

Mr. Anderson didn’t care, “I’ll file a complaint—I know… Mr. Xie Te, he has connections with the precinct chief.”

He spoke these words without thinking—having connections isn’t the same as you having connections; using someone else’s favor comes with unknown costs.

A few polite words and a little cash could’ve solved this—now look what happened.

“Can you explain why these people come here every day?”

Mr. Anderson told his apprentice and waitstaff to keep cleaning the feces, then said softly, “Last year, I had no cash left—I needed funds to keep the restaurant running, so I borrowed from a loan shark.”

The manager immediately realized Mr. Anderson was truly a genius—he swallowed hard and asked, “And then?”

“I borrowed two thousand, but they want five thousand back—I can’t pay that, so this is what happened.”

The manager tried to reason, “Maybe if you pay them, everything will end.”

Mr. Anderson, who had been patient until now, instantly lost control, shouting, “You want me to pay that money?”

“Even if I’m in my coffin, I won’t give a cent to that greedy dog!”

“Anything else we can discuss—but not this!”

“They want to shit here?”

“Fine—let them shit! I’ll see how much they can shit!”

Across the street, Lans watched everything unfold; the two homeless men were drenched in sweat.

Lans gave them a look—they sprinted toward the restaurant entrance. Though Mr. Anderson and the manager saw them coming, they hesitated slightly when trying to stop them.

The memory of the apprentice covered head-to-toe in feces flashed in their minds—and that hesitation was enough: “thump, thump,” two fresh streams of yellow liquid drenched the freshly cleaned ground.

Immediately, two reporters appeared from nowhere, snapped two photos, then vanished before anyone could react.

By the time the manager tried to chase them, it was too late—he felt a sudden despair.

Just as life had begun to improve, it seemed to be sliding back into the abyss…