Chapter 31

Hearing “sewer truck,” Alberto suddenly became interested. “You planning to flood his restaurant with shit?”

“That’s a great idea—who the hell wants to eat in a sewage pit?”

Lans denied the possibility. “Though I hate to disappoint you, if we pump shit into his restaurant, we break the law.”

“Fines, cleaning up the mess, maybe even a public apology—those costs could exceed what he owes you.”

Alberto thought it over and agreed with Lans. He wanted money and satisfaction, not to pay fines and apologize himself.

“Then what are you planning to do?”

Lans didn’t answer directly. “If you’re free around five-thirty, come over here. I’m sure he’ll beg for mercy soon.”

“Fine, I’ll get there early. Surprise me, Lans!”

“Call this number—he’ll arrange a fully loaded sewer truck for you.”

As Alberto was about to hang up, Lans quickly asked, “Are you interested in the restaurant’s shares?”

Alberto paused. “The restaurant makes good money, but I know nothing about running one and have no interest.”

Since he wasn’t interested, Lans said no more. In truth, the restaurant still held considerable value.

After hanging up, Lans used the number Alberto gave him to locate a sanitation service company contracted for that district.

One of their jobs was to suck feces and urine from public toilets into sewer trucks, then transport them to designated treatment sites.

This work was bearable in cold weather, but doing it in summer was truly unbearable.

Even without touching the suction hose, just sitting in the cab after one run left you reeking of shit.

So most of the time, sewer trucks operated only at night.

Lans made brief contact, then went to where the truck was parked. The driver stood under a tree.

Seeing Lans, he made no move to shake hands. “You won’t want to shake my hand—scientists say we’re covered in E. coli.”

He chuckled at himself, then asked, “So, sir… what can I do for you?”

Lans studied the sewer truck. “I need your help with a job tonight. All losses will be covered by the company. You trust Mr. Cotty, right?”

The driver didn’t deny it. “Mr. Cotty is trustworthy. But what exactly do you need me to do?”

Lans stepped closer and whispered what he needed done that night…

Around four-thirty in the afternoon, Alberto, unable to sit still, shouted loudly, “Has Fordis come back yet?”

“Call him—tell him I need him to go out with me!”

Over ten minutes later, Fordis ran back in, drenched in sweat. “This damn weather’s getting hotter. What do you need, boss?”

Alberto put on a thin casual outfit—the strangest thing about Federals.

They seemed oblivious to seasons: sometimes wearing suits in summer, sometimes shorts in snow.

Of course, for appearances or trends, they ignored seasons entirely.

Fordis frowned. “Need a gun?”

“A gun?” Alberto stared at him. “Of course. We’re not going to the Presidential Palace—why not?”

“You drive. Lans said there’s a show coming up—I can’t wait to see it!”

Fordis drove Alberto to the café Lans had named. Inside, they saw Lans sitting by the window, reading a magazine.

Seeing Alberto enter, Lans stood to greet him.

He ordered two fresh orange juices, then sat beside Lans. “So… what are you going to show me?”

Lans checked his watch. “Anderson’s restaurant opens at five-thirty, but there won’t be many customers at first. I’ve scheduled the show for five-forty-five.”

“By six, nearby businesses are closing, and people are looking for dinner. Perfect timing. We just need to wait a bit.”

Alberto shrugged. “You’re the director—you decide.”

Lans then brought up another topic. “Mr. Cotty, I noticed the Federation’s laws include provisions on usury.”

Alberto nodded slightly. “So?”

“So, strictly speaking, Mr. Alberto, your business is illegal.”

Alberto didn’t deny it. “Yes. So even if we signed a contract with Anderson, he could tear it up and refuse to pay any principal or interest. All we could do is hassle him.”

Though the Federation had legislated against usury, it hadn’t yet taken it seriously.

Taxes were high, consumption levels kept rising, and people simply didn’t have enough money.

That’s why even banks now actively offered personal credit loans—people truly had no cash.

The economy appeared to be booming rapidly, but at its core, much of that growth rested on overspending.

Once spending declined, the entire Federation’s economy would suffer a crushing blow.

So even though the Federation knew usury harmed society, it tolerated it to keep people spending and avoid burdening the government.

As long as no one died or no large-scale scandal erupted, they wouldn’t intervene.

Almost every street had several finance companies—if the Federation truly enforced the law, there couldn’t be so many.

But if someone like Anderson actually sued, Alberto had no real recourse.

Some things work like this: you do them, no one cares. But once you put them on the table, under the spotlight, you can’t ignore them.

It affects the Federation’s public image and judicial fairness—this is its official propaganda theme.

Lans said nothing more, but filed the thought away—he saw profit potential here.

But now wasn’t the time to pursue it. He still needed some “capital.”

During casual chat, Alberto brought up the upcoming baseball league season starting in October. He and Fordis debated passionately.

Baseball, one of the Federation’s promoted sports, had shaped the upbringing of many.

On this front, the Federation had done at least decently—unlike promoting dancing or reading, it consistently pushed high-intensity sports.

Some said it was a conspiracy to make adults better able to withstand capitalist exploitation.

Others said it fostered competitive spirit and built confidence.

But undeniably, baseball was one of the most popular sports today.

They started talking about the team’s batter, then moved to the pitcher’s wife caught cheating—nothing was off-limits.

Time slipped away quickly. Before they knew it, it was five-forty.

Lans interrupted their speculation about the championship and lottery plans. “Our show’s about to begin, Mr. Cotty. You might want to see it unfold firsthand.”

Alberto checked his watch, ended his conversation with Fordis, downed his remaining fresh orange juice, and ordered another.

“So, can you tell me now what’s going to happen?”

Across the street, the restaurant had turned on its neon lights. The restaurant’s name and Anderson’s neon portrait now glowed.

His frying pan had been turned into a moving light strip that rose and fell, mimicking cooking.

Summer dusk came slowly; at five-thirty, daylight still lingered, faintly dimming but not noticeably.

Then a sewer truck slowly approached from afar. Alberto spotted it at once.

Lans no longer hid it. “I’m staging an accident. A truck will hit the sewer truck, knock it over, and spill its contents across the entire front of the restaurant.”

“Reporters are ready. Life section. Tomorrow’s front page.”

“The driver’s one of ours. This accident isn’t a crime—no one will be arrested.”

“I asked the driver—even if overturned, they’re insured. Even if the insurer denies coverage, repairs cost at most fifty credits.”

Alberto and Fordis stared at Lans, stunned. For the first time, they found him terrifying—and thrillingly exciting.

At five-forty, the sewer truck rolled slowly to the intersection outside the restaurant. The next second, a truck suddenly burst from another corner, striking the sewer truck at speed from the side.

The already top-heavy sewer truck instantly tipped over. As the tank hit the ground, its seven-tenths-full sludge erupted from the partially uncovered opening. Not just the restaurant’s front pavement—glass, doors, even the interior—were drenched in splattered feces and sludge.

A woman’s scream pierced the air—and the whole street erupted in chaos!

Beyond the woman’s scream, Alberto thought he heard Anderson’s voice shout, “Fuck!”