A police car slowly cruised down the street, its siren lights rotating lazily as if reluctant to disturb the morning calm.
The officer in the passenger seat was munching on a heavily decorated donut—stuffed with strawberry jam, dusted with powdered sugar, and drizzled with honey. It was so sweet it could make someone sick, but the Federation folks loved it. Pairing it with a fizzy soda and a gas-filled belch afterward was the dream for many.
“What do you think Anderson’s calling about this time?” the officer driving asked while watching the traffic.
“Probably those guys showing up again,” his partner replied, licking the sticky sugar off his fingers. “He must’ve ticked someone off. I checked yesterday—Old Mac has no clue about this mess.”
Old Mac—full name Mack Owen—was a senior figure in the Doug Family.
In Jingang City’s underground, five major families ruled the top of the hierarchy. But they weren’t alone; beneath them were numerous gangs, big and small, managing streets and districts.
The Doug Family was one of the three largest gangs in the Bay Area. While they paid quarterly dues to the five families to ensure their operations were sanctioned, they weren’t in the habit of extorting small businesses like Anderson’s restaurant.
Some smaller gangs under their wing had approached Anderson for protection fees, but he’d chased them off with insults. Adding to that, Anderson’s connections to certain high-profile figures made the Doug Family hesitant to press the issue.
When Old Mac heard about Anderson’s troubles, he wasn’t angry—in fact, he was amused.
“That old dog needs to learn a lesson. Paying us isn’t extortion; it’s protection!”
The officer chuckled, agreeing with Old Mac’s twisted reasoning. After all, he had his own ways of squeezing out a little extra for himself.
The driver shrugged, lighting a cigarette. “I don’t care who’s causing him trouble. I just want him to remember—calling 911 is free, but having us show up isn’t.”
His partner cackled, taking another bite of his overloaded donut.
—
The car pulled up to the curb, just as Anderson came running toward them, panting heavily.
The officer in the passenger seat stepped out, ready to greet him, but immediately clamped a hand over his nose. “My God, what’s that smell? Did someone crap their pants?”
His partner pointed toward the roadside. “Not sure about pants, but they definitely hit the ground.”
A pale-yellow puddle had dried under the harsh sunlight, leaving behind an unrelenting stench.
“They’re back!” Anderson gasped between breaths. “The bastards are back!”
The officer shifted away from the smell. “Back to hog tables again?”
“No!” Anderson barked, his face red with fury. “They’re crapping at my restaurant’s entrance! And it’s diarrhea this time!”
“F*ck!” the officer exclaimed. “Those bds should be drowned in a toilet!”
His partner frowned, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “So… you called us because someone pooped in front of your restaurant?”
Anderson stared at him, incredulous. “Why the hell wouldn’t I call you?!”
The officer pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing as he adjusted to the smell. Humans adapt to stimuli in curves—initial shock fades quickly, but full tolerance takes much longer.
“What exactly do you want us to do about it?”
“Arrest them! Throw them in jail for public defecation!” Anderson shouted.
The officer shook his head. “We can’t. At most, we can shoo them away and report it to city management. Public defecation’s a headache for every city. Catching these people doesn’t fix anything; they just go right back to it.” РἁΝ𝐨ʙÈŜ
The Federation prided itself on being a beacon of civilization, but public defecation was shockingly common, even compared to poorer nations.
Despite attempts to crack down, the cost of police intervention often outweighed the benefits. Arresting vagrants meant providing them with meals, showers, and sometimes new clothes. Higher-ups hated such inefficiencies, labeling them “stupid pig moves.”
Anderson’s fury boiled over, days of frustration spilling out. “I gave you twenty bucks!”
The officer’s face darkened. He hated dealing with difficult citizens like Anderson.
His partner, meanwhile, approached from the other side of the car, resting his hand on his holstered gun. He wouldn’t draw it, but the implied threat was usually enough to intimidate.
“Want me to refund your twenty bucks?” the officer snapped.
Realizing his mistake, Anderson stammered, “I… I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry…”
The officer didn’t reply. Instead, he threw the twenty-dollar bill on the ground, walked back to the car, and radioed in. “GPPD, responding officer. Incident reported as a false alarm. No issues at the scene.”
After receiving confirmation, he climbed back into the car. Rolling down the window, he glared at Anderson. “File another false report, and I’ll escalate this.”
“Remember, this is my patrol zone!” With that, he floored the gas, driving off.
—
Anderson’s manager had been silently observing the exchange, his expression one of quiet resignation. He picked up the twenty-dollar bill from the ground, sighing.
Though Anderson’s cooking was unparalleled, his handling of people and business was a disaster. Last year, poor management had nearly forced the restaurant to shut down. It was only after hiring the manager that things began to improve.
“Greedy mutts,” Anderson muttered, flipping off the departing police car. Turning, he caught sight of the manager.
“I’ll file a complaint,” Anderson declared. “I have a connection to someone with ties to the precinct chief.”
The manager raised an eyebrow. “And how much would that favor cost you?” he asked.
Instead of answering, Anderson dismissed the question. “What else can I do?”
Sighing, the manager pressed further, “Why are these people targeting us every day?”
Anderson waved for the staff to resume cleaning and spoke in a low voice. “Last year, I ran out of cash and had to take a loan. The restaurant needed funds, so I borrowed from a loan shark.”
The manager’s heart sank. “How much?”
“Two thousand bucks. But they’re demanding five thousand now. I’m not paying!” Anderson shouted.
“Maybe if you paid, this would stop,” the manager suggested.
Anderson’s temper flared. “Pay them? Over my dead body!”
“Let them come! Let them s all they want! We’ll see how much they can produce!”
Across the street, Lance observed the scene with a grin. Two homeless men nearby were sweating profusely, struggling to hold themselves together.
Lance gave them a signal, and they bolted toward the restaurant entrance.
Anderson and his manager saw them coming but hesitated to intercept, haunted by memories of apprentices covered in filth.
In that brief pause, the two men unleashed another vile mess onto the freshly cleaned ground.
And then, as if scripted, two reporters appeared out of nowhere, snapping photos before anyone could react.
The manager instinctively gave chase, but the reporters were gone before he could catch up.
He stopped, panting heavily, and looked back at the restaurant.
His faint hope for a better future now felt like it was sliding into a bottomless abyss.