Chapter 28: A Smelly Day
Monday morning, Mr. Anderson was up early, and so were the apprentices, cooks, and waitstaff—he’d demanded everyone arrive earlier than usual.
The previous night, he had hired someone to make a large sign:
- Due to high demand, the maximum dining time is two hours. Customers exceeding this limit may be asked to settle their bill and leave.
- Single diners may be required to share tables during busy hours.
- The restaurant reserves the right to refuse service to suspicious individuals.
The sign was prominently displayed at the entrance, and Mr. Anderson kept a watchful eye on it throughout the day. To his relief, Lance didn’t appear, and nothing unusual happened.
For most people, Monday was an important day—office workers received their weekly assignments, factory employees resumed production lines after a weekend break, and dockworkers busily handled the influx of goods following the weekend’s inventory checks.
The restaurant saw only four tables by noon, amounting to less than 60 bucks. While this was a mid-to-high-end restaurant, not all the food was expensive. For example, a breadbasket, a main course (perhaps a simple fish-and-beef combo or a regular steak), and a starter soup would total no more than 10 bucks.
By evening, business was slightly better, with nine tables bringing in 133 bucks. Calculating gross profits, they had barely broken even, losing around 10 to 20 bucks.
Mondays were always , so Mr. Anderson wasn’t surprised. Lance’s threats from the previous day seemed like empty boasts. As the day passed without incident, Mr. Anderson let his guard down slightly.
What he didn’t know was that Lance, fully aware of Monday’s slower business, had scheduled the “next round” for Tuesday.
On Tuesday morning, Mr. Anderson was up early again. Tuesdays often saw more dining groups—workers catching up after the weekend, chatting about where they’d gone, and sharing a meal to strengthen bonds.
By 11 a.m., the restaurant had a couple of tables occupied, and everything seemed normal. Feeling optimistic, Mr. Anderson grabbed a cloth and gave the sign at the entrance a good wipe.
Meanwhile, across the street in a shadowed alley, Lance stood at the corner, watching Mr. Anderson and his restaurant.
“It’s that one… the guy cleaning the sign,” Lance confirmed, before turning to face the group beside him: a band of homeless individuals.
Each of them emitted a strong, unpleasant odor.
The previous night, Lance had treated them to a hearty meal—beef, pork, and refined carbs. These foods, combined with a powerful laxative mixed into their drinks, ensured that what they expelled today would be nothing short of atrocious.
This morning, he’d also given them additional watery gruel to maximize the effect.
Seeing it was nearly time for the lunchtime rush, Lance handed the first homeless man a cup of water laced with laxatives.
“Go to the restaurant’s entrance. Do your business right there. Then head to the alley we agreed upon, where you’ll receive two bucks.”
“If you make it extra disgusting, I’ll add another dollar,” he added, addressing the group. “The same goes for the rest of you—two bucks, with a bonus for exceptional performance.”
The first homeless man, nearly fifty, with matted hair crawling with tiny roaches, grinned. His dark, grimy face made it impossible to discern whether he’d ever been anything but filthy. ℞à₦ỐBĘṧ
“Don’t worry, Mr. Lance. I’ll make sure they remember this day every time they eat!” He thumped his chest and grinned, revealing his yellowed, rotting teeth. Lance appreciated his enthusiasm.
The man downed the laxative in one gulp, then stood quietly.
Roughly ten minutes later, he clutched his stomach. “It’s happening, Mr. Lance! I gotta go!”
Lance handed a second dose to the next man, just as two tables of customers entered the restaurant.
Mr. Anderson was finally starting to relax. The day felt calm, and he believed it would remain uneventful. He retreated to the break room for a much-needed rest after two days of early mornings, late nights, and stress.
Just as he was about to lie down, he heard the manager shouting outside.
Startled, Mr. Anderson leaped up and dashed to the entrance.
The moment he stepped outside, a horrendous stench nearly knocked him unconscious.
Under the scorching sun, the smell was even more unbearable.
In front of the restaurant, a homeless man was arguing with the manager while smearing feces onto the freshly cleaned sign.
“Why isn’t this being cleaned up?!” Mr. Anderson bellowed, gagging as he watched the man smear excrement. He almost vomited on the spot.
“Call the police… ugh… call the police!”
Hearing this, the homeless man bolted, letting out a fart as he fled and leaving another foul pile near the entrance.
Across the street, three potential customers paused, took one look at the mess, and crossed over to a different restaurant.
Mr. Anderson shouted in fury as the apprentices hauled out buckets of water to clean the area, scrubbing furiously.
“It all happened so fast,” the manager stammered, trembling as he recounted the incident. “He just ran up, dropped his pants, and then… boom! I thought his guts would explode!”
Though the area was eventually cleaned, the smell lingered, causing another table of guests to leave.
The manager, now visibly anxious, asked, “Do you think this is part of their new trick?”
Mr. Anderson frowned, unsettled. “Hire a couple more waitstaff to keep an eye out. If another homeless person approaches, don’t let them near…”
Before he could finish, another homeless man sprinted across the street.
Like the first, he dropped his pants mid-run. This one, however, turned to face the restaurant, aiming his bare behind directly at them.
Pedestrians were frozen in shock. The apprentice closest to the scene turned slowly before vomiting violently.
Mr. Anderson gagged, cursing profusely.
“That son of a b! It has to be that scoundrel’s doing!”
By the end of the day, Mr. Anderson’s patience was stretched thin. He hadn’t seen Lance once but knew in his gut that this chaos was orchestrated by him.