Empire of Shadows

Over the past few days, Mr. Jobav had come to many realizations. He had once thought that Federation citizens, especially those with some status, would at least maintain a veneer of decorum.  

But now he understood—this entire Federation, from top to bottom, was utterly shameless.  

Previously, he believed that those who appeared polite and civilized weren’t all bad. That was only because he hadn’t been placed on the dinner table yet.  

Now that he was metaphorically laid out on a platter, seasoned by the chefs, and served up, he realized just how wrong he had been.  

Having money wasn’t enough in this world. You needed local citizenship and wealth as your foundational safety net. Beyond that, you had to align yourself with a faction, playing the role they required of you.  

Only through a long process of exploitation might you find a rare opportunity to climb into the true upper echelons of society—becoming someone who was genuinely protected by the rules.  

But realizing all this now was too late.  

In his ignorance, he had thought the “cleansing” by the authorities was a kind of welfare—like a pig entering a new environment. It was vaccinated, dewormed, and checked for diseases, receiving treatment if necessary.  

In that moment, the pig would think, ”This is the pinnacle of pigdom!” It might even tell others, ”This place is wonderful! The air smells sweet, and even the tap water tastes like happiness!”  

Only when the pig was sliced up and placed in the oven did it realize that all the comfort was just preparation to make it tastier for the capitalists and politicians who would devour it.  

But by then, it was too late. The pig might even regret mocking those who resisted or tried to escape this “wonderful” life.  

All it could do now was lie on the platter, awaiting the knife and fork.  

Mr. Jobav took a deep breath and shook his head slightly. “Let him in.”  

Not long after, Arthur’s arrogant laughter echoed through the hall, accompanied by the sound of his studded shoes tapping against the floor.  

“Jobav, my old friend! Long time no see!”  

Arthur walked in, his face beaming. If not for his past actions—or his impending ones—his handsome, smiling visage could have charmed almost anyone.  

But Mr. Jobav knew better.  

Seeing that Jobav had no intention of embracing him, Arthur nonchalantly withdrew his arms and sat down across from him. Turning to the assistant, he said, “Coffee with whiskey, thanks.”   ṛäℕồBƐⱾ

The assistant glanced at Mr. Jobav, who nodded slightly before the assistant left the room.  

“Joe, I know you don’t like me because I took a little money from you before,” Arthur began.  

“A little?” Jobav couldn’t help but interject.  

Arthur maintained his nonchalant demeanor. “Do you mean to say it was a lot?”  

Seeing Jobav lapse into silence again, Arthur seemed satisfied with his reaction. “Since I owe you from before, I thought of you for a lucrative business opportunity.”  

Jobav said nothing, and Arthur continued, “At the end of this month, the Prohibition Act will be signed. I’m planning to stockpile some liquor.”  

“You know how it works. In other states, once Prohibition is enacted, the price of existing liquor stocks skyrockets. This is a golden opportunity.”  

“Besides, not many people are aware of this yet. We can take advantage of the low prices now and make a killing later.”  

Jobav was tempted but knew better than to trust this little scoundrel. Still, as a businessman and capitalist, his instinct to chase profit began to override his caution.  

“If we work together, it won’t be a loan from me,” Jobav said.  

Arthur frowned as Jobav explained, “The outcome would be the same. If you’re planning to repay me, we might as well collaborate. We’ll stockpile the liquor together and split the profits evenly.”  

“I’ll provide the capital and the storage space. You’ll ensure the security of the stockpile. Profits—fifty-fifty.”  

This was not what Arthur had in mind. He hadn’t intended to pay anything back, meaning he would lose 50% of the increased value of the liquor, as well as the principal.  

“No deal,” Arthur said firmly. “I don’t like partnering in business. You lend me the money, and I’ll pay you back with interest.”  

Jobav shook his head, unusually resolute. Tomorrow night, he would be dining with the Mayor, and he had decided to align himself with the Mayor’s faction.  

If he had to be devoured, he preferred being consumed by the Mayor, who would at least pass him as gold-tinted excrement into a gilded toilet, rather than Arthur, who would leave him as waste on the roadside.  

“I can’t do that. You still haven’t paid back what you owe me. I won’t lend you more money.”  

Arthur’s temper flared.  

At home, while he was the favorite, everyone knew his elder brother was the true heir to Senator Williams’s power. Arthur’s foolishness was an open secret, one his brother often acknowledged with a condescending look that Arthur hated but could do nothing about.  

Now, even an immigrant like Jobav was refusing him. This was unacceptable.  

Arthur thought for a moment, his scheming mind conjuring an idea. “What if I offered collateral?”  

“Collateral?” Jobav was intrigued. “What kind of collateral?”  

“Liquor. Forty thousand dollars’ worth of gold-label Napa Whiskey and Duran Gin.”  

“If I pledge these to you, how much can you lend me?”  

“We’ll sign a loan agreement. I’m here to do legitimate business with you, not extort you. Get that straight.”  

Jobav deliberated. Recent rumors had been damaging his reputation, though they hadn’t caused substantial harm yet. Aligning with someone like Arthur, connected to the powerful Williams family, could help quash these whispers.  

Arthur was also willing to sign a contract. With this document, Jobav would have leverage, whether to use it as a threat or a bargaining chip.  

“Where’s the liquor?”  

Arthur grinned broadly, his intentions clear to Jobav, though he chose not to expose them. Everyone had their own schemes, after all.  

“It’s in a warehouse at the docks. I can take you there now.”  

“Let’s go.”  

Arthur hesitated but quickly agreed, knowing this was about money. This time, he was telling the truth.  

At the dockside warehouse, Jobav saw the liquor piled high. Skeptical, he opened several boxes to inspect the bottles. They were genuine—gold-label Napa Whiskey, highly popular among middle-class consumers.  

Gold-label was pricier than the one-dollar copper-label version, which was the staple of the working class. It straddled the lower and middle markets, suitable both for gifting and personal consumption, with room for price appreciation.  

Satisfied, Jobav climbed down from the liquor stacks and dusted off his hands. “I’ll arrange for the warehouse to be secured until the deal is completed.”  

Arthur smiled slyly. “No problem. I’ll have my people hand you the keys.”  

“How much are you asking for?”  

“Forty thousand!”  

“No, this liquor isn’t worth forty thousand. I can give you twenty.”  

“Twenty-five!”  

After a brief pause, Jobav extended his hand. “Fine. Twenty-five thousand. Annual interest rate of 22%. Additionally, you’ll owe me 10% of the principal and interest as a condition of the loan.”  

“That’s essentially a joint investment. Profits split nine to one—you nine, me one.”  

Twenty-five thousand, growing to $33,550 in a year, was well within the Federation’s legal interest guidelines and left Jobav with a tidy profit.  

“One more thing,” Jobav added. “Gold-label is expensive, but copper-label sells better. If you can get copper-label, I suggest buying it exclusively.”  

Though Arthur dismissed Jobav somewhat, he took the advice to heart.  

Returning to Jobav’s bank, the two signed a collateral loan agreement under a thunderous downpour.  

With the contract signed, Jobav immediately transferred $25,000 to Arthur and deployed people to guard the warehouse.  

He knew Arthur might try something sneaky, but this time, Jobav wouldn’t give him the chance.  

Meanwhile, two trucks waited outside the dock gates. Several people approached the drivers, asking if they were available for hire, but were turned away.  

The drivers already had their orders—to await instructions from Lance.