บท 4: Chapter 4 Julian's Encounter with the City’s Underworld
Julian is definitely a dedicated and concentrated person. He learned from working in the fields as a child under strict discipline with Mr. Kesma and how hard work is good at an early age; therefore, it came as no shock that after washing cars for just two days out front of the Terneil Grand Theater, well-dressed upper-crust clients knew his name.
Julian never did any of the other half-ass shit most car washers in his neighborhood pulled, allowing him to keep whatever money he earned for himself and his sisters. He was meticulous, even using a long-sharpened stick wrapped in cloth to reach the small spaces. His pride in his work led to the development of a good reputation.
By the end of those two days, Julian was looking forward. He longed to scale his business, with other car washers working for him and even a shop lease offering full-fledged car detailing service. The phrase "car detailing" was also apparently gleaned from one of his bizarre dreaming experiences. He wasn't sure of the specifics just yet, but it was well beyond washing cars; it included repairs, mods, and maintenance. He would hire people with those skills and, well on his way to forming a small empire.
But before he could even dream, the future began to crumble.
"There he is! Who is that guy always stealing our customers?" an extremely thin, dark-skinned man in a flat cap shouted from across the street. He was with a group of swarthy men who looked violent, all pointing at Julian as he washed one ride by the side of the road.
There were parts of life in Terneil City, as there must have been across much of the empire, that most ordinary citizens never witnessed. They pretty much ran the city, as if it were The Lord of all they surveyed. Gangs were everywhere, an unspoken element of life not just in this town but throughout the empire — even in the wealthiest parts of it. Policed officials did what they could, but in reality, the gangs were often left maintaining some sort of control over communities through their own brutal acts and tactics.
This dark force of gangs incrementally ate away at the light that fueled Chicago.
Surrounding the young man who had called out to Julian were four very beefy youths. The front guy in plaid — red, blue, and beige, really just short of a jacket, flat cap with fringes worn right to look solemn. His twitchy face and that gleam in his eyes… a true thug.
Mad Dog Wesson was the top dog in these parts of the street. The name Mad Dog struck fear into the hearts of Terneil City. The nickname came from his wild, erratic behavior (not incoherently shooting up streets like he would have you believe), especially when it was put out there on "street" as the kids say. He was proud of it.
Wesson followed with his company, approaching Julian as he was finishing washing one of the cars in front, with two more left. Filling his bucket with water, Julian heard the kick coming, and the next moment he barely managed to avoid spitting as sharp splashes brushed above him across the street.
Julian looked up, and four men glared at him. Startled, Julian stood up and gave a nonchalant nod. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"
Wesson snorted at the half-knocked-down car, surveying Julian head-to-foot. "Peace fee, whether you don't pay almajirai."
"Peace fee?" Julian repeated, bewildered. He had no clue what they were discussing. The term struck him as strange, but he knew that people like them came for trouble.
It was once called protection money or, in this case, "peace fee" — a tax hustled by hoodlums and gangsters from anyone who dared to run a business within their fiefdoms. You pay, and you get to operate your business without harassment. Say no, and you were in for a world of pain.
When a nobleman was physically abused because he had declined to pay, the nobility who never really cared about such things finally stepped in and decided that enough is enough, that gang was later caught and wiped out and the term protection fee disappeared as it has became an embarrassing incident for the aristocrats.
Wesson blinked at Julian, incredulous. Who doesn't know what a peace fee is? Surely this kid was pretending to be stupid.
As Julian questioned him, Wesson hesitated for a second before punching Julian without thinking twice.
Country disputes back then were settled with fists. There were almost no police calls and few, if any, judges. It was a matter of whichever pair of fists were stronger. Julian's family always won when a fight was over a piece of land, and there had been many fights.
Julian instinctively swerved, leaning back just in time to dodge Wesson's punch. He retaliated on reflex with a punch of his own.
A blow which found its mark, his fist meeting Wesson's chin. Wesson lurched away, his head snapping back, and then he took a wobbly step backward as saliva shot out of his mouth.
The shopkeepers and passersby alike who were watching gasped. They had been watching Julian for a couple of days and grew fond of him. He would always leave the street clean after he washed cars, and if somebody lent him water, they could expect a penny as thanks. He also readily lent a hand whenever anyone was in need.
Julian was a sweet boy, but he just didn't seem to get it.
With someone like Wesson, you don't fight back. You apologize, hang your head low, and hope they go away.
"Apologies… I didn't wish to…" Julian excused himself, backing off. Not that he was all that surprised Wesson had been brought low; the man wasn't even as hardy and strong as some of his younger siblings.
Wesson, embarrassed in front of his thugs and the crowd, gnashed his teeth. He pushed the man who tried to help him.
He reached behind his back and pulled out a knife. His eyes full of fury as he lunged at Julian, raising the blade high.
"I am going to teach you respect!" Wesson growled, and lunged towards Julian with killing intentions.
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