Chapter 32: Straw

The restaurant manager stared at the glass walls covered in fecal matter, at the yellow sludge that had flooded through the restaurant’s entrance, and at the roads outside blanketed in excrement of all kinds.

In that moment, he actually wanted to laugh!

But seeing Mr. Anderson’s furious expression, he held it back.

He walked over to Mr. Anderson’s side; the man was now overwhelmed—he was directing apprentices in cleaning up.

Perhaps the morning’s fecal assault had given these apprentices a psychological resistance; they didn’t feel nauseous, nor did anyone vomit.

Though they deeply resented doing this, they still put on gloves and began scrubbing the fecal residue off the glass walls.

This stuff was hard to clean.

If a scientist had been here at this moment, he could have explained why these fecal chunks clung so stubbornly to the glass.

The impact of the overturned fecal tank generated high pressure, spraying the waste like bullets, slapping against the glass with a sharp smack.

A small amount of moisture expelled the air between the fecal mass and the glass at the moment of impact, creating a sealed, near-vacuum state.

At this point, simply rinsing with water might not remove it—you’d need external force to break or reduce that vacuum-like seal before it could detach.

And feces…

The more you wipe, the more there is.

Otherwise, there wouldn’t be news reports of Federals using a whole roll of toilet paper just to poop.

Mr. Anderson’s face turned black as he raged nonstop—whether cursing the apprentices’ stupidity, the person—or people—who caused the accident, or both, no one could tell.

“Mr. Anderson…”

Foam had gathered at the corners of Mr. Anderson’s mouth; he turned and wiped it away. “What is it?”

The manager looked at him seriously. “Haven’t you realized this is also their tactic?”

Mr. Anderson paused. “I considered it, but…”

“No laws were broken, Mr. Anderson,” the manager emphasized. “It was just an accidental collision. The insurance company will cover these costs—probably just fifty dollars.”

“But for us, we might spend hundreds or even thousands just to minimize the damage this incident causes.”

“Before long, the nickname ‘Fecal Restaurant’ will spread. When that happens, we’ll suffer massive consequences—and we won’t even know what’s coming next.”

The manager was smart; otherwise, he wouldn’t have turned the restaurant’s fortunes around so quickly. He understood better than anyone that this kind of confrontation was meaningless to the restaurant.

“Today it was a feces truck. What will it be tomorrow? The day after?”

“Forgive me for not siding with you on this, Mr. Anderson. Suppose the person who lent you money suddenly decides not to collect it—and instead throws more money at you like this to retaliate.”

“All the effort you’ve poured into this restaurant will turn to dust.”

“As long as you continue running a business that opens its doors to customers, you’ll always be at a disadvantage in this struggle.”

“We’ve both seen their methods. I’ve spoken with you. If you can’t resolve this, I plan to quit by the end of this week.”

Mr. Anderson opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“I respect your decision, Mr. Anderson. I know you hold to your principles. I can’t change you—I can only change myself.”

He forced a smile, patted Mr. Anderson’s arm, then stepped outside to direct the apprentices and servers in cleaning up.

They couldn’t wait for the city authorities to send someone—they had to make the street look less horrific in the shortest time possible.

Reporters far away were frantically taking photos; the manager had never even considered talking to them.

Mr. Anderson sat down in a chair, lit a cigarette, and rubbed his forehead.

He knew the manager was right. If this kept up, no one would come to eat soon.

It wasn’t just simple “targeting”—customers would fear getting involved in trouble. Who wanted to deal with gangs or the like?

If someone got their car smashed or got beaten just for having a meal, it wasn’t worth it to people who spent twenty or thirty dollars on dinner!

Even if he gave away a hundred coupons for nine-dollar drinks, no one would come to claim them.

But…

He turned and saw the manager rolling up his sleeves to join the cleaning crew, watching him use a hose to flush fecal residue off the lawn, watching everyone drenched in sweat…

Suddenly, he seemed to age several years in that instant; even his back, which had never bowed, now hunched slightly.

In that moment, he had made his decision.

Just as he was about to arrange the funds, footsteps approached. Lans walked in, his face twisted in disgust, covering his nose and mouth.

Alberto had planned to come too—he wanted to see the old man bow his head—but Lans told him to wait at the café.

The smell here was too strong, and it would ruin his hundred-dollar leather shoes.

He didn’t care about the smell, but he cared deeply about his shoes, so he agreed to Lans’s request.

The moment he saw Lans, even though Mr. Anderson had already conceded, his blood boiled—he stood up instantly.

Lans looked at him, eyes bulging as if he wanted to devour him, and smiled calmly in greeting. “Mr. Anderson, you seem to have run into a big problem.”

“You’re the biggest problem I’ve ever encountered!” he shouted, stepping forward to grab Lans’s collar and raising his fist; the cigarette in his mouth struck Lans’s chest, sparking a few embers.

The manager rushed back from outside and clung tightly to Mr. Anderson—the old man was surprisingly strong, and he nearly couldn’t hold him.

He tried to stop Mr. Anderson from violence while urging Lans to step back, but Lans didn’t move.

“You can hit me, Mr. Anderson—but have you considered what price you’ll pay for striking me here today?”

Lans stared at him calmly. Such threats were probably the most trivial thing in his colorful life.

“I guarantee your restaurant will close—and not just your restaurant.”

“You, your wife, your family—all of you will be unable to survive in the Federation because you hit me.”

“You can think I’m joking, or that I’m just bluffing to scare you. Go ahead, test me.”

“Maybe the next time the water level of Angel Lake rises, it’ll be because of you and your family.”

He stood there, not even flinching. His gaze had changed completely from before.

Previously, whenever Lans appeared before him—including just now—he carried an air of cheeky, unserious frivolity, like a common street pest.

Despicable, humble, revolting.

But now, with his gaze altered, he radiated an inexplicable, deep-seated fear—as if everything he said was true.

The raised fist finally dropped. The manager quickly smiled and spoke soothing words.

Lans adjusted his collar and brushed the cigarette ash off his chest.

The cigarette had left a black mark on his shirt—the fabric was burned; he’d have to replace it.

“I wanted to speak to you reasonably, but you clearly lack that awareness.”

“Mr. Anderson, this is my final warning. These past few days’ games were simply meant to make you understand one thing.”

“You lack the capacity to bear the consequences—but we do.”

“If you still don’t wake up, what comes next may be something neither of us wants to see—and it won’t be me handling it anymore.”

The manager quickly chimed in with agreeable words. “Mr. Anderson and I have spoken. He’s willing to repay every cent, principal and interest. But right now, we’re short on cash.”

Lans smiled faintly. “We’re all adults. We know what to do—and what not to do.”

“Mr. Cotty reached out to help you when you needed it—but you repaid his kindness with betrayal.”

“Prepare the money, then call him to apologize. Everything will return to normal.”

“If you don’t, you’ll get a period of peace—but I guarantee, it will be your last peace!”

His stern expression melted into casual ease, and a cryptic smile appeared on his face. “That’s all I have to say. It’s too stinking here—I’m leaving.”

“You ruined my shirt. I’ll send you a bill in a couple of days. Check your mailbox.”

Without giving the manager a chance to plead, Lans walked out.

When he returned to the café, he told Alberto what had happened. The latter jumped up, pacing excitedly. “Perfect, Lans! Why don’t you come work for me?”

It was his first formal offer to Lans—this job had been executed brilliantly!

No laws broken, low cost. Compared to five thousand, even spending three thousand to recover the capital wouldn’t be a loss.

But in reality, he’d spent less than five hundred so far. Even if he paid Lans another five hundred later, it was still under a thousand—leaving him two thousand in profit.

Most importantly—it felt good!

For someone who could lend out two hundred thousand, five thousand wasn’t about money—it was about whether his anger was satisfied.

Now, his anger was gone. The more he looked at Lans, the more he liked him. He wanted Lans to work for him.

But obviously, Lans wouldn’t accept.

“Let’s talk about it later. I haven’t decided what I’ll do next.”

Alberto knew it was a refusal, but he respected the dignity of both sides. He didn’t blame or think poorly of Lans—just hugged him. “I respect your decision, Lans.”

Lans gave him what he wanted: “By tomorrow afternoon at the latest, Mr. Anderson will call you, apologize, and beg for your forgiveness…”