The sun barely squeezed through the cracks in the clouds, illuminating the fresh oil stains in the back alley of the Alibi Room.
Kevin was grinning foolishly at the repaired van.
"Alright," Shane tossed the rag aside.
"I'll drive the car home first, clear out the stuff inside, and then get some necessary equipment to install. Doing this in your bar's back alley is too conspicuous."
His "Iron Gym" wasn't Doraemon's magic pocket; it couldn't conjure things out of thin air. There had to be a reasonable transportation process.
"Sure," Kevin nodded repeatedly, still immersed in the happiness that "the car runs again." "Just don't hit a cop on the way."
Shane waved at him, got into the driver's seat, and with a muffled sound from the engine, the car slowly moved from the back alley onto the main road.
Strictly speaking, he was driving illegally right now.
But in the South Side, this wasn't even an issue.
Cars like his, without insurance or a license, wandering on the road were a dime a dozen.
The only two real tricks were: don't drive too fast, and don't hit a cop.
Shane drove slowly along the main road. Passing a bus stop, he glanced at it.
Nailed to one side of the stop sign was a faded advertisement for the largest chain gym in the area.
In the picture, the model's smile rivaled a plastic mannequin's, the abs showed traces of Photoshop, and next to it, exaggerated fonts read:
"Special Offer! Only $49.99/month! Personal Training, only $199! (A small line at the bottom right read 'Three Sessions')"
This was the advertising method of 2010.
Solid paper posters, pasted on these stops exposed to wind and rain, relying solely on people looking up during the gaps of waiting for the bus.
Shane looked a few more times, unable to help but complain in his heart:
In a few years, this rigid advertising method will be beaten to a pulp by YouTube videos and those fifteen-second TikTok clips.
By then on the internet, anyone who knew a little training method could open a free account and squeeze out most of the living space for these personal trainers who dared to charge sixty or seventy dollars an hour.
Of course, he had already started walking down this path.
Shane had it all planned out: "In the future, a full set of monthly customized plans + weekly online guidance, selling for only $199! Rubbing their 'professional guidance' into the ground until it smokes!"
Just then, the feature phone in his pants pocket vibrated.
It was the functional phone he used for contact now.
He held the steering wheel with one hand. The light ahead just turned red, and the car slowly stopped.
He took out the phone and opened the text message.
It was from Lip.
"Why are your previous clients so chatty? A bunch of broken demands. You were too nice to them."
"Also, if you want to go back to your old trade next time, remember to quote a higher price, because I raised my rates ;)."
At the end of the text, Lip typed a "$" and added a middle finger made of characters.
Shane chuckled softly.
Well, the old Shane was indeed a bit too nice to those "clients."
But now, he really didn't plan to touch that kind of work again, no matter how much money was offered.
Of course, if someone offered a thousand dollars per job... then pretend he didn't say that.
The red light turned green. He stuffed the phone back into his pocket and shifted gears again.
The car bumped along toward the South Side. The closer he got to home, the more familiar the streets became, and the more potholes there were on the road.
Turning into the narrow road leading to the backyard, he saw a familiar figure at a glance.
Carl was holding a cat he had scooped up from who-knows-where, sneakily trying to slip into the house.
The poor little cat's fur was standing on end, its ears pressed flat against its head, wearing an expression of "my cat life is hopeless."
It was foreseeable that if no one intervened, this cat would soon undergo a series of Carl-style experiments such as "jumping through rings of fire" (candles), "bulletproof vest testing" (sacks and stones), or "electric potential stimulation" (wires).
Shane steadied the steering wheel with one hand, then leaned out the window and shouted:
"Carl! Put that damn cat down for me!"
Carl was startled, hugging the cat and turning his head. "What? This is my newly recruited Special Forces soldier! We need to strengthen our home defense forces!"
"The last 'Special Forces soldier' you recruited was a frog, and it suffocated in your pocket; the time before that was a hamster, which you 'trained' until it drilled into a crack in the wall, probably a mummy by now!"
Shane screeched the car to a halt at the door, jumped out, and narrowed his eyes dangerously as he approached.
"Alright, now I'm adding a new rule: live experiments, forbidden! Do you hear me? Do you want our family to be visited by community services again?"
"But—"
"No buts."
Shane interrupted directly. "If you dare to use a knife on it, or electrocute it or something, I'll dig out all those gore movies you secretly hid and lock them in the cabinet, making you obediently watch children's shows chosen by Debbie for this month!"
Carl opened his mouth, clearly unwilling, muttering: "Okay, okay... then I'll just train it as a scout."
"Scouts aren't allowed either."
"Then... then it can at least be a mascot, right?" Carl settled for the next best thing, lifting the cat in his hand that had given up struggling.
"Look how cute it is!"
Shane looked down at the exhausted cat.
Based on his understanding of Carl, when this cat was caught, it had most likely already undergone a round of "initial training."
Even if he forcibly took the cat away and threw it back on the street now, with Carl's stubborn temper, he would turn around and catch more "experimental subjects," intensifying his efforts while Shane was away.
He sighed deeply and made a compromise decision:
"...Fine. You can keep it as a mascot."
Carl's eyes lit up.
"But I hope I can still see this cat alive in front of me next month, understand?"
"Yes, Sir!" Carl stuck out his little chest, as if receiving some glorious mission, hugged his "mascot," and ran away in a puff of smoke.
Muttering as he ran, "Gotta get a dedicated bed for the Special Forces soldier."
Shane: ...
Leaving the cat temporarily to fate, he returned to the car, slowly backed it into the backyard, and parked it.
For the breakfast stall he wanted to do, many things had to be prepared separately.
He first cleared out the unnecessary junk from the car, then moved up a batch of things he had "bought" long ago from the basement:
Small folding tables, insulated boxes, drink buckets, empty paper cups, and the like.
Those semi-finished breakfasts were simple. He just ducked into the back of the van, closed the door to ensure no one saw, and batches of semi-finished products appeared in the car. With the current temperature in Chicago, he even saved money on a refrigerator.
He had the story ready: "There are a few small shops in Chinatown that make their own goods. I watched them fry and freeze them one by one. To keep costs down, many restaurants also stock up there."
...
After a round of tidying up, there was even less space to stand in the basement now, all filled with things needed for heating and those semi-finished products.
The car and the basement had been mostly tidied up by him, and the things were sorted and put away.
By the time Shane could finally catch his breath, the sky outside had darkened.
"Shane! Dinner time!"
Carl's voice exploded at the top of the stairs.