Chapter 30: The Final Strike
By midday, the stench still lingered around the restaurant, attracting a crowd of curious onlookers.
In the Federation, people never lacked a sense of schadenfreude. Watching someone else face misfortune or humiliation often gave them a strange, inward satisfaction.
The restaurant only served three tables during lunch, and those customers left with harsh complaints. The awful smell had ruined their meals, and they vowed never to return.
To appease them, the manager waived their bills and handed out wine vouchers to use on their next visit.
The manager, ever the marketing expert, understood human nature. Despite their vows never to return, as long as they held those vouchers, they inevitably would.
If one thing defined Federation citizens, it was their love for a good bargain.
Shortly after 1 p.m., the manager decided to close the restaurant for the day. He stationed two apprentices with hoses at the entrance. Their task wasn’t to prevent defecation attempts but to clean up immediately afterward.
Inside the break room, Mr. Anderson was slouched in his chair, the ashtray in front of him overflowing with cigarette butts. Though he wasn’t a heavy smoker, the stress of the past few days had pushed him toward it.
A knock on the door interrupted his haze. He glanced up to see the manager, who entered without waiting for an invitation. “We need to talk about your debt,” the manager said directly, offering Anderson a cigarette.
Anderson’s face darkened, a mix of shame and irritation flashing across it. But before he could respond, the manager pressed on.
“If the restaurant can’t operate properly, I’ll resign next week.”
Anderson’s eyes widened.
“I’m grateful for the opportunity you gave me to manage such a fine restaurant,” the manager continued, his tone firm. “My job is to make it shine under my leadership. But right now, your personal decisions are directly sabotaging the business. That conflicts with my purpose here.”
“I don’t have enough money to pay off the debt,” Anderson said after a long sigh. “It’s almost half a year’s earnings.”
Since the manager had taken over, the restaurant had started turning a modest profit of four to five thousand dollars. Most of it had gone toward repaying other debts and reinvestments to build the restaurant’s reputation. Anderson had less than two thousand left—far from enough to pay Alberto’s demands.
The manager, well-versed in the restaurant’s finances, softened his voice. “You could mortgage your house to the bank. With the restaurant’s improved performance, the bank will approve a loan. They’ll charge less interest than Alberto, and we could use the leftover funds to expand—maybe lease the space next door.”
Anderson’s house, a 200-square-meter standalone property on the city’s outskirts, had been appraised at around $12,000 last year. With proper paperwork, he could secure a loan of $7,000 to $8,500.
But Anderson hesitated. The house carried sentimental value—it was where he’d been born, raised, and started his family.
Sensing his reluctance, the manager stopped pushing. “It’s just a suggestion, Mr. Anderson. But you need to prepare for the worst. If this continues, you won’t just lose your house. You’ll lose the restaurant, your career, your dreams—everything.”
The manager placed a reassuring hand on Anderson’s shoulder before leaving the room.
Outside, the closed restaurant seemed to deter any further defecation incidents, much to the manager’s relief. The sheer absurdity of the tactic—crude and childish—was undeniable, but so was its effectiveness. ř𝙖ΝỘ𝖇Ëş
No one wanted to eat with such sights and smells lingering nearby. Even if they could stomach it, they wouldn’t risk walking through contaminated areas to dine.
As the manager stood outside, his eyes caught sight of Lance’s car parked across the street. After sending the apprentices home for the afternoon, he crossed the road to investigate.
Inside a nearby café, he found Lance calmly reading a newspaper.
Hearing footsteps, Lance looked up, set down his paper, and gestured for the manager to sit. “Care for a drink?”
The manager glanced at the menu. “A classic coffee.”
Federation-style classic coffee: milk, coffee, and at least two sugar cubes.
“I’m trying to convince him to repay the debt,” the manager began without preamble. Though the two hadn’t spoken before, their interaction felt surprisingly natural.
Lance lit a cigarette and offered one to the manager. “Not going well, I take it?”
The manager sighed. “He’s too proud. And he doesn’t have the cash.”
Lance leaned back, exhaling smoke. “Wealth isn’t just about cash. Assets, property—they all count. He has the means to repay but refuses out of sheer stubbornness. And from what I’ve heard, your efforts have made the restaurant quite profitable these past months.”
The server arrived with their coffee. The manager thanked them and took a small sip. “Mr. Anderson is an excellent chef, and his apprentices are promising. I’ve simply given people the opportunity to experience his cooking.”
It was a modest statement, one Lance appreciated.
“Ever thought of changing jobs?” Lance asked. “I might start a consulting firm soon. I’ll need someone to manage it.”
“What kind of consulting?”
“Problem-solving. Lobbying. That sort of thing.”
The manager’s interest visibly waned. “I have no experience in that field, nor the connections for it. I doubt I’d be much help.”
Lance didn’t seem bothered, shrugging it off. After a moment of silence, the manager asked, “Are you planning to send more homeless people to disrupt our dinner service tonight?”
Lance chuckled, shaking his head. “I was, but now I think Mr. Anderson needs a stronger push. I’ll be trying a different approach.”
Curious, the manager leaned in. “What are you planning?”
“Don’t worry—I won’t tell Anderson. Like you, I want this resolved quickly. If he decides to act, I’ll keep working here. If not, I’ll leave. Either way, I’m not the one losing out.”
Lance smirked, leaving the manager unsatisfied but intrigued.
After the meeting, Lance made a phone call to Alberto.
The voice on the other end greeted him with laughter. “Lance! I heard you had people crapping in front of his restaurant. What can I say? It’s disgusting, but it’s effective! I’m impressed.”
“What do you need this time?” Alberto asked.
“Mr. Coty,” Lance replied, “do you know where I can rent a septic truck?”