Hearing the mention of a septic truck, Alberto’s interest was piqued. “Are you planning to flood his restaurant with sewage?”
“That’s a great idea. Who the hell would eat in a cesspool?”
Lance shook his head. “I hate to disappoint you, but if we dump sewage in his restaurant, it would be illegal. Fines, cleanup costs, and even a public apology might cost more than what he owes you.”
Alberto thought for a moment and nodded. Lance had a point. He wanted money and satisfaction, not to pay damages and issue apologies.
“So, what’s the plan?”
Lance didn’t reveal much. “If you’re free around 5:30 p.m., come over. I promise he’ll be begging for mercy soon.”
“Fine. I’ll head over early. Surprise me, Lance!”
As Alberto prepared to hang up, Lance asked, “Would you be interested in owning a stake in his restaurant?”
Seeing no interest, Lance let the matter drop. In truth, the restaurant still had significant potential.
After hanging up, Lance called the number Alberto had given him. It belonged to a sanitation company contracted to service public toilets in the area. Their job included pumping out waste with septic trucks and transporting it to designated treatment facilities.
It wasn’t a glamorous job. In winter, it was tolerable, but in summer, it was a nightmare. Even sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck, away from the hoses, left workers reeking of sewage after just one trip.
Most septic trucks operated late at night to avoid the public.
Lance arranged a meeting with the truck driver in the shade of a nearby tree.
When Lance arrived, the driver greeted him without offering a handshake. “Trust me, you don’t want to shake hands with me. Scientists say we’re covered head to toe in E. coli.” He chuckled at his own joke before asking, “So, sir, what can I do for you?”
Lance glanced at the septic truck. “There’s a job tonight. The company will cover any losses. You trust Mr. Coty, don’t you?”
The driver nodded. “Of course, Mr. Coty is reliable. What do you need me to do?”
Lance stepped closer and quietly explained his plan.
By 4 p.m., Alberto was already impatient. “Where’s that idiot Fordis?” he yelled. “Call him and tell him I need him now!”
Ten minutes later, a sweaty Fordis burst through the door. “Damn this weather! It’s getting hotter every day. What do you need, boss?”
Alberto, now dressed in light casual attire, turned to him. The Federation’s dress habits were bizarre—people wore suits in summer and shorts in the snow, all in the name of fashion. ȓäŊƟ𝐁Ɛ𝐒
Fordis hesitated. “Should I bring a gun?”
“A gun?” Alberto’s eyes widened. “Of course! We’re not going to the Presidential Office. Why wouldn’t we bring one?”
With Fordis driving, Alberto arrived at the café Lance had mentioned. Inside, they found Lance by the window, reading a magazine.
Lance stood to greet them and ordered two glasses of iced orange juice.
“So,” Alberto asked, “what’s the show?”
Lance glanced at his watch. “Mr. Anderson’s restaurant officially opens at 5:30. Early business is slow, so I’ve scheduled the show for 5:45. By then, nearby businesses will be closing, and people will be looking for dinner. Perfect timing.”
Alberto shrugged. “You’re the director. Your call.”
Lance changed the subject. “Mr. Coty, I’ve noticed that Federation law has regulations on usury.”
Alberto nodded. “And?”
“So, technically speaking, Mr. Alberto, your business is illegal.”
Alberto didn’t deny it. “True. Even with a contract, Anderson could default on the principal and interest, and we’d have little recourse beyond making his life miserable.”
Federation law on loan sharking was nominally in place but poorly enforced. High taxes and rising living costs left people short on cash, leading even banks to offer consumer credit loans to the general public.
The economy thrived on overconsumption, and the government, unwilling to rock the boat, turned a blind eye to usury as long as no major scandals or deaths occurred.
“Of course,” Alberto added, “if he takes us to court, there’s not much we can do. Bringing things into the spotlight forces the government’s hand. They’ll act to preserve the Federation’s image of fairness and justice.”
Lance filed the information away for future use, sensing potential opportunities. But for now, he focused on the evening’s event.
While Alberto and Fordis chatted enthusiastically about the upcoming baseball season, Lance let the conversation flow. Baseball was a favorite pastime, heavily promoted by the government to instill resilience and competitiveness in the population.
As the clock neared 5:40, Lance interrupted their discussion. “The show’s about to start, Mr. Coty. You won’t want to miss this.”
Alberto, intrigued, finished his orange juice and ordered another. “So, what’s going to happen?”
Across the street, Anderson’s restaurant lit up its neon sign. The animated design made the chef’s frying pan appear to sizzle with movement. The sun was still up, though dimming slightly, creating the perfect backdrop.
A septic truck appeared in the distance, rumbling slowly toward the restaurant.
Lance smiled. “I’ve arranged for a little traffic accident. A truck will collide with the septic truck, spilling its contents all over the street in front of the restaurant.”
“Reporters are ready. It’ll be on tomorrow’s front page.”
“The driver is one of us. This kind of accident isn’t a criminal offense, so no one will be arrested.”
“I’ve spoken to the driver. Even if the truck tips over, insurance will cover it. Worst-case scenario, repairs won’t exceed 50 bucks.”
Alberto and Fordis stared at Lance, their awe mingled with a hint of fear.
At 5:45, the septic truck reached the restaurant’s corner. From another direction, a cargo truck sped into view and slammed into the side of the septic truck.
Already top-heavy, the septic truck toppled. The moment it hit the ground, sewage burst from the partially sealed tank, flooding the street.
The mess didn’t stop at the pavement. It splattered the restaurant’s windows, front door, and even inside.
A woman screamed in horror, and the street erupted into chaos.
Amid the commotion, Alberto could almost hear Anderson shouting, “F*ck!”