Empire of Shadows

A police car slowly approached, sirens softly whooping in the distance. The officer in the passenger seat munched on a freshly bought donut.

Not just any ordinary donut, but a deluxe version: strawberry jam filling, coated in powdered sugar, and drizzled with a ring of honey. Sweet enough to make your stomach churn.

But the Federals loved it. Wash it down with a carbonated beverage, and let out a swampy burp. That might be the pursuit of happiness for most Federals!

"What do you reckon Anderson called us for this time?" the driver asked, eyes scanning the traffic.

"Probably those guys again."

"He must've pissed someone off. I asked Old Mike about it yesterday, but he doesn't know anything."

Old Mike was Mike Owen, a capo in the Doug family.

Officially, Goldport City was ruled by five major families, who controlled the entire underworld. But that didn't mean they were the only gangs around. If they tried to act like it, they'd be history pretty quick.

In reality, every street, every district, was managed by various gangs, big and small.

The big ones might have thousands of members, the small ones just a dozen or two.

The five families were just at the top of the food chain, but they weren't alone.

The Doug family was one of the three biggest gangs in the Bay Area. Above them were the five families. Every quarter, the Doug family had to pay them a "tribute," as a sign of respect for Goldport City's order.

In return, the five families allowed them to continue running their family business here. That was the game in Goldport City, and the entire Federal underworld.

No one could monopolize the profits, not the lowliest grunt, nor the top of the pyramid.

After getting back yesterday, the officer had called Old Mike to ask if he knew anything. But Mike was clueless, and didn't seem to care much.

The Doug family didn't make money by shaking down businesses for protection money. They were above that. So they didn't have any direct dealings with Mr. Anderson.

Sure, some street gangs under the Doug family had tried to collect from him, but he'd cursed them out. Plus, Mr. Anderson knew some important people, and the family didn't want to cause trouble over a few measly bucks a month.

So they told their guys to leave Mr. Anderson alone. When Old Mike heard that Anderson was being harassed, he wasn't angry. He was happy.

"That old dog needs to get burned a little. Otherwise, he won't understand that paying us isn't extortion, it's protection!"

The officer totally agreed with Old Mike's shameless gangster logic. He used similar tactics to get a little something on the side.

The driver just shrugged, lit a cigarette, and took a drag. "I don't care who's messing with him. I just want him to know that calling the cops is free, but a visit ain't."

His partner giggled, taking another bite of his donut, clearly delighted.

Soon, the car pulled over. Just then, Anderson came running up. The officer got out, ready to greet Mr. Anderson, but suddenly covered his nose. "Jesus, what's that smell? Did someone shit their pants?"

His partner pointed to the side of the road. "I don't know about pants, but someone definitely shit on the ground."

There was a faint yellow stain on the ground, the moisture already dried by the sun. But the smell lingered.

Mr. Anderson gasped for breath. "Those… those bastards! They did it again!"

The officer edged away. "They back to hogging tables?"

Mr. Anderson took a deep breath. "They… they shit in front of my restaurant. Diarrhea, even!"

"Fucking hell!"

"Those bitches should all be drowned in a toilet!"

The officer looked perplexed. "So you called us because someone took a dump on the sidewalk in front of your restaurant?"

Mr. Anderson looked shocked. "Am I not allowed to call you for that?"

The officer felt a little better. Maybe he was getting used to the smell. The process of humans getting used to an overwhelming sensation is a curve. The initial acceptance is fast, but total acceptance takes time.

"What do you want us to do about these homeless people?"

"Arrest them, lock them up. For public defecation?"

"What they did wasn't right, but all we can do is shoo them away and report it to the city."

Public urination and defecation was a major headache in the Federation. Despite the Federation and some other countries touting themselves as beacons of civilization,

more people relieved themselves in public here than in some underdeveloped countries!

Men and women, in some backward areas, would drop their pants and let loose in the middle of the street, wipe or not, and then just walk off.

They'd tried arresting them before, but the cost of policing a public defecation incident was far higher than the value of the arrest.

No one was going to stop shitting in public just because they got arrested once. Next time, they'd just go home, or buy a burger and use the restroom at the burger joint.

So most cities just ignored it. And these were homeless people. They weren't going to get anything out of them. They'd have to feed them, bathe them, even give them new clothes.

The chief would chew him out for being a "dumbass" for half an hour, just to make sure he didn't do anything stupid again.

He didn't want to deal with it.

Mr. Anderson was furious. Days of pent-up anger made him blurt out something he immediately regretted. "I only gave you twenty bucks."

The officer's face darkened. He knew this guy was a pain, but he still didn't like the feeling.

His partner walked around the car, hand on his holster. He wasn't going to actually shoot anyone, but the pressure was usually enough.

The officer was annoyed. "Want me to give you back your twenty bucks?"

Anderson realized he'd screwed up and apologized profusely. "That's not what I meant. I…"

The officer didn't want to talk to him anymore. Twenty bucks wasn't much. He only got ten of it!

He pulled out twenty bucks, threw it on the ground, and walked back to the car. He picked up the radio. "GPPD… officer responding… incident number… we've arrived at the scene. Found no issues. Possible false alarm."

A few seconds later, the radio crackled back. "Confirmed. Return to headquarters to await orders, officer."

The officer glanced at Mr. Anderson, got back in the car, and leaned out the window. "If you file another false report, I'm going to report you to my superiors."

"And don't forget, this is my beat!"

He slammed the gas pedal and sped off.

The officer didn't want to deal with it. Whoever was doing it, he wasn't getting any protection money from Mr. Anderson anyway. He'd only stop by for some pocket change, and then he'd get jerked around like this.

Twenty bucks. Did he really think twenty bucks was going to do anything?

The manager watched everything unfold, sighing silently, unsure of what to say.

He walked over and picked up the twenty dollars. Mr. Anderson's cooking was impeccable. Everyone who tasted his food raved about it.

But he was terrible at managing people and running a business. Otherwise, he wouldn't have almost gone bankrupt last year.

Things had only turned around after he hired the manager.

"You greedy dogs, go back and gnaw on your mother's corpse!" Mr. Anderson flipped off the retreating police car.

He turned around and saw the manager.

He was still happy with the manager. Since the manager had come, the restaurant's sales had steadily increased.

The food hadn't changed at all, but people were coming to eat here. It was all thanks to the manager.

He was still very tolerant of the manager.

"You've offended the police. Who's going to protect us now?" the manager said, a little annoyed.

Mr. Anderson didn't care. "I'll file a complaint. And I know… Mr… He's got connections with the precinct chief."

He didn't seem to think these things through. Just because someone had connections didn't mean you did. Using someone else's connections could come at a heavy price.

He could have just said a few kind words and offered a little money. But he had to make it like this.

"Can you tell me why these people keep coming here every day?"

Mr. Anderson told the apprentice and the waiter to keep cleaning up the mess, then said softly, "Last year, I ran out of cash because of a lot of things. The restaurant needed capital, so I borrowed some money from a loan shark."

The manager already knew that Mr. Anderson was a real piece of work. But he pressed on. "And then?"

"I borrowed two thousand dollars, but they want me to pay back five thousand. There's no way I'm paying that. That's why this is happening."

The manager tried to reason with him. "Maybe if you pay them back, it'll all be over."

Mr. Anderson, who had been patient, suddenly lost his composure. His voice boomed. "You want me to pay them back?"

"I'd rather be in my coffin than give that money to that greedy son of a bitch!"

"Anything's negotiable, except this!"

"They just want to come here and shit?"

"Come on, let them pull. Let's see how much they can pull!"

Across the street, Lance watched everything unfold. The two vagrants were already sweating profusely.

Lance gave them a look, and they took off running towards the restaurant entrance. Mr. Anderson and the manager had clearly seen the two, but they hesitated just as they were about to stop them.

The image of the apprentice covered head-to-toe in fecal matter seemed to flash in their memories. And it was that hesitation, that "thud, thud," and the freshly cleaned ground was once again coated in a layer of yellow liquid.

Immediately after, two reporters appeared from who knows where. Before anyone could react, they snapped a couple of photos and ran.

By the time the manager wanted to chase after them, it was already too late. He suddenly felt a sense of despair.

His life, which had just started to improve, seemed to be sliding back into the abyss…