Filed to story: A Bullied Boy Died: A Mafia King Woke Up In His Body
“Well, cook it slow. We ain’t rushing for time. If we make too much of a bang, Kyle might show up.”
“Bah! It’s been two weeks since he was last seen negotiating with the Red Lions. Probably cooped up and huffing away at Euria Seeds with the way he’s been buying them off the market. His whole base is probably one big smoke cloud by now.”
Monica chuckled and stood up. She ripped the sacks open and poured them into a container, then ground them into a mash.
Eric continued to complain on the side. “Honestly, we should have gotten a much bigger pot. Our production scale is miserable. It’s barely ten gallons per batch at this rate.”
“Gotta stay portable. We don’t want to be pinned by the Seven Snakes or any other gang. If this district gets too hot, we shift. We agreed on this earlier,” Monica warned.
Eric didn’t reply, obviously unsatisfied, as he continued to tailor the temperature of the arcia stove before firing it up. Instead of asking Monica to dump the mash into the pot, they both waited, standing near the walls and peeking out of the barricaded windows of the warehouse.
“They’re taking far too long. Something’s up,” Monica mumbled after a few more minutes passed. She was about to ask Eric to pack it up when Adrian ran into the warehouse hastily.
“Fuck. The Seven Snakes are prowling nearby. If they so much as catch a whiff of the moonshine, we’ll be in trouble! I think they’ve been asking around for us!” Adrian gasped for air as he tried to catch his breath. “I had the other two walk in separate directions to pull off their trails, so we got maybe ten or fifteen minutes to move.”
“All right, just like we practiced.” Monica and Eric weren’t bothered at all. They had already moved through the various districts of the South Sector multiple times, exploiting the territorial gaps and derelict buildings in the vicinity. It wasn’t the first time they were hunted by the ruling gangs who obviously would not tolerate others subverting the alcohol production and smuggling business.
They packed up the equipment nicely, placing the pots and condensation arms into neat cardboard boxes before loading them up onto separate trolleys.
“Split up. We’ll meet at Point 23, got it?”
They had already premarked a series of locations in the vicinity where the operations could be performed. Even if squatters had moved in, simple intimidation or negotiations would usually suffice-a routine procedure.
Eric donned a felt cap with a flat top and put on a factory worker’s garments, making it seem like he was pushing basic supplies and scrap metal around. He slowly pushed the trolley through the streets on the side of the pavement, keeping his head down.
The streets were crowded and filled with business. Construction and food supply wagons rattled by while people loitered on the sides of the streets. Schoolboys played punk and played football in the alleyways while buskers strummed a sad song for rakels no one could afford to give.
Eric blended in nicely, acting like he was pushing supplies to another factory. He saw three Seven Snakes gang members head in the opposite direction, seemingly attempting to corner off their last known location.
Hah, dumbasses.
The relocation went off without a hitch, with Eric reaching the predetermined meeting point quickly. It was a run-down office-style building with large factory floors.
Eric pushed open the barricaded doors, hearing a loud scrambling inside and some whimpering.
I would say “fucking squatters,” but I’m not any different now, am I?
The first floor was an obvious slum, with makeshift barrel heaters blackened from the use of flammable materials. He saw five squatters in separate locations, keeping a wide berth from one another as they huddled up in as many clothes as they could, the stink unbearable from the pile of clearly unwashed linen stained with puke.
“All right, fellas, we’ll be here for a few days. In exchange, we’ll get you some moonshine, how about that, hmm? Maybe you guys can do a few deliveries for us too,” Eric asked from outside, peeking his head through the door. His voice echoed and wafted through the empty floor, easily reaching the ears of the squatters.
The squatters nodded. It was a common occurrence in the city of Raktor, and they wouldn’t say no to some free moonshine and extra cash.
“Good.” Eric didn’t enter with the trolley yet. Who knew if the squatters would suddenly decide to turn on him and take his equipment?
Better wait for Monica and the others.
Soon, Monica and Adrian arrived, both safe. “Anyone follow you?” Eric looked behind them, trying to spot anything suspicious.
“No, they were all checking out the last location, so we’re safe. I counted more than eight of them moving there. I really miss the days of Ulon. We could go unharmed for weeks.” Adrian sighed.
“Got a few squatters in there. We’ve reached a temporary agreement for a bit of swill and some movement.”
“Right. Let’s get the stuff in before we’re spotted.”
The three of them shifted the equipment and set it up just like before. Adrian scoped out the area, using a crowbar to smack one of the old, rusty doors to ensure they had a secondary exit in case of a raid.
Monica huffed as she lugged the heavy equipment back into place. “Shouldn’t have put the mash in first…” she said, stumbling as she shifted it across from the trolley.
“We should be good for a few days, so we can start right now. Gotta deliver some before night.” Monica dumped the mash into the pot, and Eric started the fire. “Now we just have to wait.”
The three of them took a rest, rotating watch duty as they sat and lay on the floor. Eric took out a logbook, noting down the specific temperature, the type of condensation arm he used, and so on. It was important to note as it helped him improve his method of manufacturing. It was his livelihood, after all.