Chapter 200: Fis Tu Fis

Nail and his companions gathered in a relatively secluded small park. Each held a bottle of beer in one hand and a large piece of fried chicken or burger in the other.

This was why they came here—free beer and free fried chicken burgers.

This seemingly unhealthy diet was exactly what the working class favored. They liked high-calorie food, needing energy to fill the emptiness after a day’s work.

Now, with everyone unemployed, the appeal of such food grew stronger. Their families rarely bought groceries, saving money for emergencies.

The food stamps from City Hall provided just enough for daily life—enough to keep from starving, but leaving them nostalgic for these tastes.

Among the crowd, a man loudly spoke some seemingly profound truths: what they had lost must be taken back by their own hands. The factory owners who exploited them should now return the sweat and blood they squeezed out.

They weren’t planning anything terrible. Society was on the brink, and workers and factory owners should be united.

Normally, they endured exploitation, but now the owners should help them through the crisis, not kick them out.

He gave examples: in some northern industrial cities, even if factories weren’t operating, owners still paid minimum wages to help workers through hard times.

But look at their boss—at the first sign of trouble, he threw them out, extinguishing all hope.

“This is a war of revenge!” the organizer roared, his shout stirring the crowd. Many shouted along.

Yet more remained calm observers. Workers weren’t criminals; sometimes rough, but law-abiding, silently enduring exploitation without rebellion.

Someone interrupted, “Heck, are you planning to kidnap the boss?”

Heck, the organizer, shook his head calmly. “Listen, guys, I’m not asking you to commit crimes. That’s illegal and would land us in jail.”

“Sure, I’ve heard there’s chicken and beef inside every day, but losing freedom is bitter.”

“What I want is to take back what’s ours!” He looked around at his fellow workers standing or sitting in the clearing. “There’s a warehouse full of raw materials. We open it, keep producing, and take the products to sell.”

“I heard the Interstellar Trading Company buys all kinds of goods. We can sell ours cheaply, using the money to compensate for what the boss usually takes from us.”

“That money will last us at least until the end of the year!”

His voice grew louder and more determined. “This is what we deserve!”

He carefully avoided outright crime. Though what he proposed was illegal, it was lighter than violence, kidnapping, or extortion—more acceptable.

Many were moved. As factory workers, they knew the value of what they produced. Heck’s plan made sense: just reclaim what belonged to them.

Thinking of their recent hardships—beer and fried chicken now luxuries—some onlookers grew restless.

Nail’s friend nudged him. They’d been classmates, started working young—child labor allowed under federal law with strict rules.

Working at fourteen or fifteen wasn’t illegal, easing family burdens. Most families back then lived that way.

They went to school together, dropped out together, found jobs together, and worked side by side until two months ago.

“What do you think? Should we join?”

Nail hesitated. He was a good man, sometimes quick-tempered but never a criminal—typical of ordinary working-class men.

They could be rough and wild, seeming ready to kill, but it was a façade. Beneath was a fragile ordinary man who could break and get hurt.

He took a long swig of beer, the rich wheat aroma and fizz bringing relief—the most pleasant moment since losing his job. “I’m not sure. Heck’s in the union. If the boss causes trouble for him, the union will back him.”

He didn’t finish, but his friend understood. “We’re union members too.”

Nail shook his head. “No, it’s different. He’s the union’s own.”

Simply put, Heck was the union’s appointed worker inside the factory, responsible for organizing the union there—essentially the workers’ representative.

He represented not just factory workers but also the city, state, and federal unions.

That meant if Heck got in trouble, the union’s main body would help him.

But if others got in trouble, they’d turn to Heck—but it wouldn’t be his problem. The union would help to some extent but not as strongly as for Heck.

“If things go wrong, someone has to take the blame. I don’t want it to be you or me.”

Nail finally stated his position, but his friend disagreed.

“No one cares about small players like us. If there’s trouble, it’ll come for that guy…” His friend nodded toward Heck, still rallying people.

“And it’s a good opportunity. None of us know how long this will last. We have to prepare!”

In the end, Nail couldn’t convince his friend, nor vice versa—the first major disagreement since they met in first grade.

Small disputes were normal, but this principled rift was new. Nail left amid disdainful and hostile looks, some others leaving with him.

They became soft targets accused of freeloading, though they forgot Heck’s reason for gathering: an event with free food and drinks.

Nail wasn’t sure if he made the right choice or what would happen with his friend. The uncertainty troubled him.

He didn’t realize his hesitation wasn’t fear of crime but that he hadn’t been pushed to the brink.

Heck’s words when telling them to leave were true: Nail and others who wanted to take risks were not on the same path. Those people had been pushed to the cliff’s edge with no way back, but Nail and his group still had choices—and lacked the courage to bet everything.

Returning home upset, the moment he opened the door, a disgusting smell filled the living room. He frowned, missing the fried chicken and beer even more.

As the household’s mainstay for a long time, Nail’s authority hadn’t waned despite his unemployment.

He glanced at the kitchen and immediately noticed a bottle of alcohol on the cabinet. “You bought alcohol?” The short question rose several octaves, revealing his displeasure.

Serra quickly turned and explained, “Lynch is back. This is a gift he brought.”

Nail fell silent immediately because Lynch was the last option deep inside him—one he was reluctant to admit.

Suddenly, he felt awkward. He didn’t know how to face Lynch. If Lynch had listened to him back then, they wouldn’t be any different from the people in the park now—they’d have no way out either.

But admitting this made him uneasy. It meant his decisions were foolish. As the head of the family, it was a blow to his pride.

Nail said nothing. Serra also stayed silent, continuing to prepare dinner. After more than ten minutes, the family sat around their very old but thoroughly cleaned dining table.

“I don’t know if you’re used to this, but I added some beans and potatoes,” Serra said awkwardly, as if ashamed she couldn’t offer a better meal to her child.

In front of the three of them was a simple dinner. Each had a bowl filled with thick, lumpy food that looked like mush, mixed with beans and potato chunks.

Lacking proper cooking skills, the beans had lost their bright green color and turned slightly yellow. The entire dish looked as if someone had stirred something unpleasant into it.

This was what food stamp meals looked like after cooking.

Lynch raised an eyebrow, scooped a spoonful, wrinkled his nose slightly, then nodded.

After swallowing the food, he set down his spoon. “I thought I wouldn’t be able to eat this, but it’s better than I expected.”