Chapter 30

The entire noon passed in the stench, and many onlookers gathered around.

The Federation never lacks people who enjoy watching spectacles; it’s a human nature.

Seeing others suffer misfortune brings an inner, outward sense of happiness.

That noon, the restaurant served only three tables, and the guests left with harsh accusations, blaming the restaurant for ruining their lunch—they’d likely never return.

To retain these guests, the manager had to comp their meals and gift them a wine voucher.

They could use it on their next visit.

I have to admit, the manager is truly a marketing genius; even though these people claim they’ll never come back, as long as they still have this coupon, they’ll definitely return!

If watching spectacles is a Federation trait, so is grabbing a bargain.

The manager decided to have a serious talk with Mr. Anderson; just after one, he ordered the shop closed and had two apprentices stand at the door with hoses.

If those people came to defecate, just rinse the mess away—don’t stop them, let them go ahead.

You can’t stop this kind of thing; it might only spark greater chaos. Better to let them relieve themselves fully.

A loud knocking made Mr. Anderson look up; he glanced at the manager standing by the door, who wiped his face with a defeated expression. “Sit anywhere.”

This was his break room, littered with cigarette butts—he didn’t smoke much, but recent events made him crave something to drown his worries.

The manager walked in and offered Mr. Anderson a cigarette. “We need to talk about your debt.”

Mr. Anderson looked annoyed, but the manager didn’t give him room to respond. “If the restaurant can’t resume normal operations, I’ll resign next week.”

“Mr. Anderson, I’m deeply grateful you gave me the chance to manage such a high-end restaurant. My job is to make it shine even brighter under my care.”

“But our visions and ideas have clashed.”

“Your personal reasons have caused the restaurant’s failure, and we can’t compromise on this—it directly contradicts why you hired me and why I’m here.”

“I have no reason or need to stay, Mr. Anderson. Though I’ve already expressed my gratitude, I’ll continue to be thankful for your past help.”

Mr. Anderson sighed heavily. “I don’t have that much cash right now—it’s nearly half a year’s profit.”

Since the manager took over, barely half a year has passed, and they’ve earned only four or five thousand—some of which went to pay off other debts.

The rest, per the manager’s plan, went into marketing, making the restaurant’s business and reputation snowball.

Now he has less than two thousand left—he can’t repay this debt.

The manager, aware of the restaurant’s situation, lowered his voice. “You could mortgage your house to the bank.”

“The restaurant’s doing well now. If this disruption stops, the bank will give you a loan.”

“They’re greedier. If you show profitability and repayment ability, they’ll definitely lend.”

“The interest rate would be much lower. Use part of it to pay Mr. Alberto, and with the rest, rent the adjacent space to expand.”

Mr. Anderson’s house is on the outer ring—a standalone, over two hundred square meters—but because it’s slightly far from downtown and old, its value is low.

He had it appraised last year; experts valued it at no more than twelve thousand, and the bank would lend about seven thousand—that was the max.

Of course, if he spent three hundred to grease a few palms, he might get eight thousand, or even eight thousand five hundred.

His father bought the house; after his father died, he inherited it.

The house holds his birth, upbringing, marriage, and now his life—he truly doesn’t want to mortgage it.

Seeing Mr. Anderson lower his head in silence, the manager knew he couldn’t push too hard—the old man was stubborn.

“I’m just offering advice, Mr. Anderson. But no matter what, I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”

“And you must prepare mentally—the restaurant might truly fail. When that happens, you won’t just lose a house.”

“You’ll lose your career, your dreams, your family, your life—everything!”

The manager patted Mr. Anderson on the shoulder and left.

He stepped outside the restaurant. Since it was closed, no one had come to defecate. The manager felt both irritated and amused—though the tactic was crude and childish.

But undeniably, it worked.

Who the hell could keep their appetite when they suddenly saw someone defecating on the street right in front of them, smelling the stench?

Even if they kept their appetite, they wouldn’t step on ground possibly stained with feces to eat.

The manager had spotted Lans earlier that morning—mainly because of his car.

The car was still parked across the street. After sending the apprentices home, he walked over alone.

In the nearby café, he saw Lans reading a newspaper.

Footsteps startled Lans; he glanced up, then set down the paper and invited the manager to sit. “What’ll you have?”

The manager glanced at the menu behind the counter. “A classic coffee.”

Classic coffee means the Federation’s favorite: coffee mixed with milk and at least two sugar cubes.

“I’m trying to convince him to pay up.” Though they’d never spoken before, they didn’t feel like strangers.

Lans pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered one to the manager. “Looks like you didn’t succeed.”

The manager sighed. “He’s probably too proud to admit he can’t pay, and he doesn’t have the cash.”

Lans took a drag, crossed his legs. “Our definition of ‘wealth’ isn’t just cash or liquid assets—it includes all forms of property.”

“He has the ability to repay but keeps refusing. And over these months, I’ve heard the restaurant’s doing exceptionally well under your management.”

The server brought the coffee. The manager thanked him, took a small sip. “Mr. Anderson’s dishes are excellent, and his apprentices are skilled too. I just gave people the chance to taste his food—that’s all.”

It was a modest claim, but Lans liked modest people.

“Have you ever thought of changing jobs?”

“I might start a company soon. I need a manager.”

The manager’s interest stirred slightly. “What kind?”

“Consulting services. Solving problems. Like a lobbying group.”

The manager’s interest dropped visibly. “I’ve never worked in that field. I have no connections. I probably can’t help you.”

Lans didn’t seem disappointed—just asking casually. Both fell silent.

After a long pause, the manager suddenly asked, “It’s still a few hours until dinner. Are you still planning to hire vagrants to defecate outside the restaurant to block tonight’s business?”

Lans shook his head. “I originally planned that. But I see Mr. Anderson needs a push. I’ve decided to try another method.”

The manager’s interest flared. “What are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry—I won’t tell Mr. Anderson. I want this resolved quickly too.”

“If he makes up his mind, I’ll keep working here. If he can’t, I’ll leave. Either way, the worst I am is an observer—not someone who loses.”

Lans teased him. “You’ll find out soon…”

The manager, realizing he wouldn’t get more answers, didn’t linger. He had to return and prepare for tonight’s service.

Clearly, recent events had made many customers wary. He had to retain them while minimizing the damage.

Comping meals, raffles, free gifts—even drawing a prize of the head chef cooking personally—he had ideas.

Meanwhile, Lans dialed Alberto.

The phone rang once, then a loud laugh came through. “I heard, Lans—you had people defecate outside his restaurant!”

“How should I put it?”

“The method is low, but the effect? Brilliant. I’m very satisfied!”

“What help do you want this time?”

“Mr. Cotty, do you know where to find a feces-collecting truck?”