Chapter 57: Chapter 57: Interest from a Month Ago

“…You guys wouldn’t believe what Jennifer and I did last night!”

A freckled young man with sandy brown hair sat under a sunshade by the roadside, holding a glass of spiked orange juice as he recounted the previous night’s exploits to his two friends.

“I have to say, it was the most enjoyable and coolest night of my life. You wouldn’t believe how gentle she is, and…”

“I would,” one of his friends interjected.

The freckled man froze. At the table were just the three of them—his two best buddies. And Jennifer was his girlfriend.

He looked at his friend’s sincere expression and dismissed any bad thoughts. He figured his friend’s “I would” referred to his own experiences with amazing women.

But Freckles believed no matter how amazing his friend’s experiences were, they couldn’t compare to his Jennifer. Shaking his head, he defended her. “No, you wouldn’t.”

His friend, persistent, replied, “No, I’m sure I would!”  

Freckles’s patience wore thin. “What do you know?” he demanded.

His friend smirked and described in detail some very specific "moves." Freckles stared in shock—those were exactly the things he had done last night. Even two activities he hadn’t attempted because, well, he hadn’t cleaned himself thoroughly enough.

“Where did you hear that?” Freckles asked, his disbelief mounting.

At this, the other friend burst out laughing. “Of course, from Jennifer!”

Freckles’s expression darkened, shifting from red to pale to green. He grew visibly enraged. “That’s not funny,” he snapped. “Jennifer is my girlfriend. I expect you to respect her—and me!”

The first friend waved dismissively. “Come on, man. I told you—she’s just a tramp. I’ve been with her, he’s been with her, and so have plenty of other guys I know.”

“I warned you about this, but you didn’t believe me.”

Freckles stood abruptly, his face contorted in a mix of anger and disbelief. Just as he was about to deliver a heated retort, a car pulled up less than five meters away.

Elvin stepped out, carrying a duffel bag filled with bats.

The three young men, engrossed in their argument about Jennifer’s character, didn’t notice him.

Moments later, a group of ten or so youths crossed the street, each taking a bat from Elvin before advancing.

It wasn’t until the group was within striking distance that Freckles and his friends realized something was wrong.

The leader, tall and broad-shouldered, seemed vaguely familiar. But there was no time to dwell on it—there were only four or five meters between them, a distance closed in mere seconds.   ȑÃɴ∅ᛒÈş

By the time Freckles understood they were the target, Ethan’s massive fist was already smashing into his face. “Kiss my a, you little tramp!”

The fight erupted like wildfire.

Freckles’s two friends, realizing the trouble, flipped the table and bolted, but the area was crowded with chairs and tables, hindering their escape.

Elvin, channeling newfound strength, hurled an iron chair, knocking one of them flat. The other tripped over a table and, before he could get up, was pinned down.

What followed was a relentless beatdown. The attackers used bats, fists, and even their shoes to pummel the three young men.

Inside the café, Lance casually approached the counter. Pulling out a wad of cash, he counted out four five-dollar bills and placed them on the counter. “Just a little incident. You and your staff didn’t see us, right?”

The café owner, glancing at the sturdy iron chairs and tables that wouldn’t sustain damage, hesitated but eventually pocketed the money. With a polite nod, he replied, “We didn’t see a thing, sir.”

Satisfied, Lance nodded and walked out.

Outside, the three young men were on the ground, battered and bruised. Ethan, using only his fists, delivered punch after resounding punch.

Their cries of pain grew faint, replaced by groans.

After two or three minutes, the group of attackers finally tired. Lance, his cigarette nearly finished, stepped forward. “Lift their heads.”

The others stopped, but the beaten trio were too weak to move. Ethan crouched, grabbed Freckles by the hair, and forced his head up to face Lance.

Though dazed, Freckles glared at Lance with pure hatred, his face swollen and bloody.

“You don’t look happy,” Lance observed.

Freckles remained silent.

Lance continued. “A month ago, at the Bay District, you joined the protestors and attacked my people. Does that ring a bell?”

Freckles’s glare faltered. Though he didn’t speak, his expression confirmed he remembered.

He had even bragged about it in recent weeks. At the time, someone had paid them two hundred dollars to rough up dockworkers during a protest. For unemployed drifters like them, this was a rare opportunity for easy cash.

Unfortunately for them, they had crossed paths with Elvin’s group, leaving them bloodied and bruised.

Lance flicked his cigarette to the ground and gestured for Elvin’s bat. Holding the heavy bat in both hands, Lance addressed Freckles:

“Today’s lesson: No matter what you do, you’ll pay for it someday—if not today, then tomorrow, or the day after. Your turn always comes.”

With a nod, Ethan pulled Freckles’s arm forward. Lance raised the bat high and brought it down with force.

The sickening thud was followed by a howl of pain as Freckles curled into a ball, clutching his broken arm.

His two friends, terrified, begged for mercy. “It wasn’t us! Tommy made us do it!”

“Who’s Tommy?”

Both turned to Freckles, proving their loyalty went only so far.

Lance, unimpressed, replied coldly, “But you still did it.”

Handing the bat to Elvin, Lance stepped back. Elvin, breathing heavily, hesitated briefly before recalling the beating he and his friends had endured. Fueled by anger, he took a deep breath, raised the bat, and swung it hard.

The second man’s arm snapped audibly, leaving him wailing in agony.

Ethan handled the third man, his sheer strength breaking the arm into a grotesque "V" shape. Doctors would have plenty to bill for.

As a small crowd began to gather, Lance gestured for his group to leave. In seconds, they had disappeared into the alleys.

Ten minutes later, a police car arrived.

One officer nudged Freckles with the toe of his polished shoe. Seeing the young man open his eyes, he confirmed there were no fatalities. “Call an ambulance,” he told his partner.

Turning to the café owner, the officer asked, “Did you see who did this?”

The owner, feeling the weight of the cash in his pocket, shook his head. “Never seen them before.”

“Out-of-towners?” the officer muttered, jotting a note. “Remember their faces?”

The owner shook his head again. “Not really, but they were young.”

The officer sighed, putting his notebook away. He knew the café owner was hiding something—cases like this always had layers.

When the ambulance arrived, only the man with the severely broken arm was taken. Freckles and the other friend refused, unwilling to risk the massive medical bills.

From a nearby alley, Lance’s group watched, their adrenaline replaced by laughter. The fear they’d once felt toward their enemies was gone.

As Lance had said: When you’re strong, they’re weak.