America 1982-Chapter 449 - 73: The Greed for Money Makes a Man Mad

Chapter 449: Chapter 73: The Greed for Money Makes a Man Mad

"An evening so beautiful it makes your heart flutter, this kind of scenery belongs only to America, only to Florida."

As the sun set, under a parasol in the quiet and empty Little Havana central plaza, Tommy delivered his thoughts to the camera after completing his first day of work:

"I think, to summarize my work today, that’s not to be lazy. After all, wealth doesn’t fall from the sky while you’re just sitting there all day; it requires action."

If the photographer hadn’t witnessed Tommy spending most of his time sitting in the square ogling at women, he might have believed his bs.

"Today’s income..." Tommy hesitated, glancing towards Martin, who was nearly dead tired off-camera. Martin approached Tommy, opened his pouch that hung around his neck, and while fumbling inside it, he said, "Including tips, and the five hundred bucks you extorted from the laundry shop owner..."

Tommy snatched the pouch with one hand and used the other to block the camera, then glared at Martin and scolded him: "Shut up, Martin. I was choosing a business partner, not extorting. Whichever laundry is willing to pay the deposit, we provide orders to that laundry."

Waiting for Martin to roll out of the frame, Tommy slowly lowered his hand, and with a serious look, smiled at the camera, "As long as you are hardworking and kind, you will reap rewards, this is the great United States, this is what I earned after a hard-working day, uh... by going to hotels to collect clothes from tourists and delivering them to the laundry, we earned..."

Tommy flipped through the change inside: "about over six hundred bucks. What did I say? This is America; as long as you work hard, there will be a harvest. Don’t complain about the hard work. Though indeed it’s physical labor going back and forth between hotels and the laundry shop, when you see the income, all the tiredness vanishes into thin air. There’s no shortcut to making money; you must be down to earth..."

"I’m going to exterminate these damn pigeons! F*ck! They ruined my business!" In the distance, the owner of an outdoor cafe was frantically shooing away pigeons near his shop, loudly cursing.

Tommy turned his head to look at the man, then continued speaking to the camera: "You have to be kind, like this kind of person who curses without restraint and loses his temper all the time, won’t do well in business. For instance, I wouldn’t patronize his coffee shop. Just because pigeons accidentally pooped in his coffee beans, he wants to kill the poor birds. I’ll complain about him for animal abuse. Hey! Learn to be tolerant, dude! What did the pigeons do wrong!"

The photographer was almost unable to bear it any longer, moved the camera away, lest he have the urge to use it to smash this jerk for America.

The consequence of this guy having his assistant Martin feed laxatives to the pigeons was an unforgettable scene for everyone in the plaza.

Thousands of pigeons, like goddamn painters, ceaselessly sprayed their droppings on everything in the square, with bizarre postures at that: there was bombing-style while flying, assault-style direct face spraying, and sneak-attack poisoning-style.

The photographer had earlier gone to a Cuban outdoor bar in the plaza and ordered a cocktail called "Holy Mission," but before he could taste it, it f*cking turned into "Holy Sh*t Mission."

And Tommy Hawk, the orchestrator of all this, had extorted five hundred bucks from a laundry shop under the guise of a deposit, then was now seriously telling everyone that just by working hard, they could earn money like him?

To be able to earn six hundred bucks just by running errands for a day? What kind of errand running earns six hundred US Dollars in a day? International express delivery? Plus, he hadn’t run a single errand, it was all done by the nearly dead exhausted Black guy beside him.

Meanwhile, he hypocritically preached to the camera about treating the world kindly, and didn’t forget to slander the coffee shop owner for animal abuse.

In just ten minutes, he had emptied the plaza, leaving all the street vendors without a single sale, and at that moment, countless pigeons lay weak among their droppings on the ground, including his own "Holy Sh*t Mission"... The troublemaker behind all this was this young bastard!

"Thanks to you, boss, I just heard a vendor say that Little Havana Plaza is experiencing its most serene evening since it was built, as well as his worst day of income. Looks like we’ve ruined every vendor’s business that relies on tourists," Martin said, looking like he was on the verge of collapsing to his death next to Tommy, his voice weak.

As Tommy counted the money he earned, he said, "I wouldn’t define myself as a simple destroyer. This is just business competition; this is a cruel commercial battle."

"A cruel commercial battle is feeding pigeons laxatives, booming business for the laundry, but causing a devastating blow to the plaza’s retail industry?" Martin, too tired to even lift his eyelids, slumped in his seat and asked.

"Exactly. The tourists were originally going to spend their money on those small goods, but now, they’ve bought our services, you see? That’s what I was telling you about before, the principle of moving money from someone else’s pocket into your own." As he spoke, Tommy divided some of the change in his hands and handed it to Martin:

"This is your deserved share."

Martin, upon hearing about splitting the money, finally mustered up the little energy he had, sat up straight, took the change from Tommy, counted it three times very carefully before incredulously asking Tommy: "Twenty bucks? Twenty bucks? Boss, we earned over six hundred seventy bucks, and I only get twenty? Seems the math skills of capitalists aren’t very good, huh?"

"I understand you mean to say that I’ve overpaid you, but no need to thank me. You just worked for me for four hours, and I paid you a high wage for your four hours of work, five US Dollars an hour. Indeed, now there are plenty of employers who are only willing to pay three dollars an hour, but I’m not one of those stingy bosses, I’m more generous than those assholes," Tommy said as he put away the rest of the money and patted Martin’s shoulder:

"Don’t be too grateful to me, I want you to understand that I love you, Martin, just like Odelia loves Brady."

Clenching the twenty-dollar bill, Martin was nearly grinding his teeth, "The white slave plantation owners in Florida exploited my ancestors, but none of them were as cruel as you, boss. At least they were more honest and didn’t declare their love for me while simultaneously squeezing every drop from their workers. And who the hell is Brady?"

"It doesn’t matter who Brady is. I want you to realize that if I didn’t love you, my way of making money on the first day would have been completely different. I could have easily transformed from a poor guy with fifty bucks to a rich man, but for you, I gave that up." Tommy took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, and looked toward the distant sunset with a sigh.

"What way?" Martin asked, curious since Tommy didn’t look like he was joking.

The boss gave up a more lucrative way of making money for him, Martin? He had just seen how much his boss loved money, for his sake?

"While you were grinding the pills into powder at the pharmacy, I could have reported you as a concerned citizen, claiming you were suspected of drug trafficking. The police would go arrest you, and if you ran, they’d shoot. As your good friend and a witness on the scene, I could get a larger share of the settlement and hush money from the Miami government. If you didn’t resist, the claim amount would be less. I asked Mr. Page, and he said that in Florida, if the police kill a black man with legal US citizenship, the government has to compensate at least sixty thousand dollars. If it was wrongful enforcement but they didn’t kill you, we could still get a few thousand dollars in compensation." Tommy looked back at Martin:

"The only problem is, this way of achieving the American Dream is a bit costly for black people."

Looking toward Page not far away, then back at Tommy beside him, after a few times, Martin finally closed his eyes in despair and spoke, "What should I say? Thank you, boss? Thank you for not letting the cops kill me after a hard day’s work helping you?"

"This is the reason I didn’t choose another way to unlock the American Dream because of love, Martin." Tommy slowly stood up, stretched lazily, and prepared to leave:

"That’s it, today’s work was too exhausting, I need to go to the hotel for a shower, then find a woman to help massage my sore muscles. See you tomorrow. Oh, and remember to deliver the laundry to the hotel for the guests before you come to see me at the square tomorrow. With a bit of luck, a generous guest might even give us some extra tip."

Martin’s eyes widened, "Where am I sleeping tonight?"

"Today’s job I provided doesn’t come with food and lodging." Tommy looked at Martin: "Normally, a boss wouldn’t care where their employees live, only whether they show up for work on time the next day."

"The issue is, you only gave me twenty dollars, and with this amount, I can’t find a hotel." Martin shook the pitiful change in his hand at Tommy.

Taking a righteous tone, Tommy said, "Didn’t you say you have a friend in Little Haiti who offers you a cheap hotel room for the night without requiring a deposit or taxes?"

"If I walk to Little Haiti, by the time I get to the hotel it would be daylight. Besides, walking back there, I probably won’t even survive until sunrise. I could get killed by damn robbers on the way." Martin grabbed his head in frustration and shouted in agony.

He was already regretting countless times in his heart why he had insisted on accompanying his boss to this lousy show’s recording! He had wanted to learn some business skills, after all, since he often boasted to others that he was the president of BT Television Network, he needed to learn at least the basics to sound more credible when boasting.

But everything he had experienced felt more like he had signed up for a black man’s reenactment of his ancestors’ slave journey.

He was nearly worked to death by his white boss, and he didn’t learn anything, or what he did learn, he couldn’t use as talking points.

Was he supposed to brag to Big Jack and his three brothers about his greatest business tactic as the black president of BT Television Network? Filling the square’s pigeons with powerful laxatives?

"Alright, I’m a soft-hearted boss, I don’t want my employee to face danger. So, the cheapest room in the vacation hotel where I will stay costs sixty-five dollars a night. So..." Tommy hesitated for a moment, walked up to Martin, and took back the pitiful twenty dollars from Martin’s hand:

"I’ll cover it for you, and you still owe me forty-five dollars. But I’m a kind person, I won’t rush you for repayment. However, I hope you are grateful, so tomorrow, continue working hard, continue giving pigeons laxatives, until their bellies and the vendor’s wallets are completely deflated."

Dragging two suitcases, Martin followed Tommy in the sunset, "Continue to pour? How long do we do this? Until those poor pigeons’ backsides can fit a human golf club?"

"Until this square turns into a cesspool and no tourists want to visit, then we can consider switching industries." Tommy said indifferently.

Watching Tommy and Martin walk towards the hotel, the members of the film crew exchanged glances, and one member said to the group leader Nick, "That Tommy guy is downright crazy."

"It’s not the madness that’s scary, it’s that he’s a greedy lunatic." Nick rubbed his forehead and said, "He’s planning to continue having that black man feed the pigeons laxatives tomorrow... We have to save those pigeons."