Season 2 chapter 33
The Aftermath of the Drop
Malesh paced slowly along the concrete path, delivering the rest of the story like a military debrief.
"The gang leader woke up instantly," Malesh continued. "He scrambled off the bench, sputtering and frantically trying to wash his mouth out at a nearby public fountain. But the most humiliating part for him was that his own guards—his elite, hardened street enforcers who are supposed to protect him—didn't even try to catch the guy who did it."
Kniya was leaning over the railing, clutching his stomach, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. "Wait, his own guards just let the guy walk away?!"
"They couldn't move," Malesh stated, his face a mask of absolute deadpan seriousness. "They were completely paralyzed. They were bent over, clutching their stomachs, laughing their asses off because nobody had any idea how to professionally react to a biological drive-by."
"Oh my god," Filoska gagged, taking a massive step back from Malesh. "That is so disgusting."
"The leader eventually recovered from the initial shock," Malesh said. "He grabbed a steel pipe and absolutely pulverized the guy. He beat him mercilessly. But the craziest part? The guy who dropped the poop didn't even try to defend himself. He just lay there on the ground, getting beaten to a pulp, laughing maniacally the entire time. The sheer disrespect was staggering."
"Did he kill him?" Filoska asked, morbidly invested in the story despite her nausea.
"Almost," Malesh nodded. "The guy barely survived. He was rushed to the emergency ward. But before the ambulance even arrived, the gang leader turned around and saw his five guards still completely losing their minds. They had tears in their eyes. One of them was literally on his knees, wheezing."
"Oh no," Kniya cackled.
"The leader completely lost his mind," Malesh recounted. "He pointed his soiled finger at his own crew and screamed, 'Why the fuck are you laughing when this guy literally pooped on my face for absolutely no reason?!' The guards desperately tried to explain themselves. They tried to apologize, but every time they looked at his face, they just broke down again. One of the guards managed to choke out, 'Boss... we're sorry... but your mouth was open...' before he completely collapsed into laughter again."
"Holy shit!" Kniya wheezed, clapping his hands together.
"It was a severe breakdown of gang hierarchy," Malesh finished smoothly. "The leader was so furious he pointed his pipe at them and screamed, 'Now all of you are going to eat poop too!' It was a highly unprofessional environment."
The Hot, Crispy News
Kniya let out a long, exhausted breath, trying to calm his laughter. He stood up straight, wiping his eyes, but a sudden realization hit him.
He looked at his business partner. Malesh was standing there perfectly calm, hands in his pockets.
"Hold on a second," Kniya said, his street-instincts flaring up. He narrowed his eyes. "I know it was a popular news story. But you are pointing this out like you were standing right fucking there. You know the exact dialogue. You know the exact layout of the bench. You know every pinpoint detail."
Filoska paused, looking at Malesh suspiciously. "He's right. For a man who doesn't even like reading fictional novels, you memorized a tabloid article awfully well."
Malesh let out a slow, quiet sigh. He looked around the amusement park, making sure nobody was eavesdropping, before looking back at Kniya and Filoska.
"Yeah," Malesh said quietly. "I want to reveal one thing to you guys."
Kniya crossed his arms. "I'm listening."
"The news reporter who recorded all of these things..." Malesh paused, his deadpan expression faltering just a fraction into a look of undeniable, petty pride. "...was me."
The amusement park promenade went dead silent.
"What?" Filoska whispered.
"I was the guy," Malesh stated firmly. "I also work for Sutti Mutti Multi-news. I am officially on their payroll for 300,000 credits per month as a freelance salary. My job is to point out hot, crispy news for the agency."
Kniya's jaw literally dropped. He stared at his best friend in complete, absolute disbelief.
"What the literal fuck?!" Kniya screamed, throwing his hands in the air. "You are literally working in a fucking news agency?! For 300,000 credits?!"
"It is a steady secondary income," Malesh argued defensively.
"You own twenty percent of the global oil supply!" Kniya roared, completely losing his mind. "You make three hundred thousand credits every time you blink! It is such a completely microscopic amount of money! Why the literal fuck are you sneaking around taking pictures for a trash tabloid, Malesh?!"
"You always do things that absolutely no one expects!" Filoska yelled, burying her face in her hands. "You are a multi-trillionaire! Why are you acting like a street-level paparazzi?!"
"Don't worry," Malesh said calmly, raising a finger to quiet them down. "I am exceptionally good at my job. I was the guy who clicked the photo of the exact moment the poop made contact with the leader's face. The framing was flawless. It made the front page."
Kniya stared at Malesh's completely serious, proud face for three seconds before he absolutely shattered.
Kniya doubled over, howling with uncontrollable laughter. Filoska tried to stay angry, but the sheer, unhinged absurdity of Malesh hiding in a bush to photograph a gang leader getting pooped on for pocket change finally broke her. She started laughing so hard she had to lean against Kniya to stay upright.
"Hot, crispy news!" Kniya wheezed, clapping his hands together. "You absolute fucking psychopath! You're a part-time journalist!"
"I am an investigative photographer," Malesh corrected coldly, though the very faint hint of a smirk finally touched his lips as he watched his two best friends completely lose their minds in the middle of the theme park.
The Fourth Billionaire
Kniya finally stopped laughing, wiping the last tear of amusement from his eye. He looked back down at the bleeding man on the bench, his street instincts slowly taking over again.
"Alright, bro," Kniya said, popping a fresh piece of mint gum into his mouth. "Now that we know exactly what kind of degenerate gang beat the shit out of you, tell me who you are. What's your name?"
The man carefully wiped a smear of blood off his chin with the back of his hand.
"Salesh," he replied simply.
Salesh looked up from his ruined popcorn bag, his dull, tired eyes scanning the three of them.
"And I know both of you," Salesh continued, his voice calm despite his shredded clothes. He pointed a bruised finger at Kniya. "You, the guy with the blue t-shirt and the tight posture, are Kniya Anderson. You are the Managing Director of Kavilson Steel, you own various other industrial monopolies, and you are currently operating Kniya Airlines. And the other guy standing over there is Malesh Bulwadi, owner of Malesh Energy Limited."
Kniya stopped chewing his gum. Malesh's eyes narrowed into a cold, dangerous glare.
"Both of you guys are pretty rich," Salesh added casually, unfazed by their sudden hostility. "And you have a really, really big family of corporate subsidiaries."
Salesh then shifted his gaze to Filoska, who was still looking at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.
"And the girl over there," Salesh pointed, "is Filoska Vinten. A member of the royal family, and the Vice President of Kniya's company."
Malesh crossed his arms, his deadpan expression shifting into something far more interrogative.
"How do you know so much about us?" Malesh asked flatly, stepping closer to the bench. "Are you a drug smuggler? Some kind of corporate spy? Or just a stalker with psychopathic tendencies?"
"No, I am not," Salesh sighed, leaning back against the wooden slats of the bench. "You know why I know so much about you? Because I am also related to your tax bracket. I am a major shareholder in the fourth largest company in the world. Salvesh Industries."
Kniya blinked. Even Filoska looked entirely caught off guard. Salvesh Industries was a massive, globally recognized conglomerate.
"I own forty-six percent of the shares," Salesh explained quietly, as if he were discussing the weather rather than a multi-billion-credit fortune. "The rest of the shares belong to my family. That is why I know all of you. You are my market competitors."
The Logic of Poverty
Malesh stared at the bruised, bleeding, popcorn-eating billionaire sitting in front of him.
"If you own nearly half of the fourth largest global conglomerate," Malesh stated, completely devoid of empathy, "you should at least have hired some guards to protect you. Getting beaten with hockey sticks for thirty minutes by college kids is a massive failure of personal security."
Salesh rolled his eyes. "My guards are literally useless. They never protect me. They just stand around looking intimidating and do nothing when a fight actually breaks out. That is why I am here all alone. I left them at the estate. I was just so bored."
Kniya looked Salesh up and down, taking in the cheap, faded trousers and the completely ruined, unbranded button-down shirt.
"Bro," Kniya scoffed, gesturing to Salesh's outfit. "You are so rich. You own half of a global empire. You should dress in something nicer. You look like you sleep under a bridge. No wonder those kids thought they could just jump you."
Salesh looked down at his blood-stained shirt, then back up at Kniya with a completely serious, philosophical expression.
"Poverty shows the actual face of the man," Salesh declared wisely.
Kniya stared at him for exactly two seconds.
"Fuck you," Kniya groaned, rubbing his temples in sheer annoyance. He pointed an accusing finger at Malesh, then back at Salesh. "Malesh is also exactly like that, and you are also like that! Why am I surrounded by multi-billionaires who want to look like homeless street philosophers?!"
"It is a tactical advantage to blend in," Malesh defended smoothly. "Though getting beaten half to death ruins the disguise."