Daniel, my giant intern, grunted. He pulled his hood lower, trying to hide his pristine, moisturized face. "But this place smells like grease and... poverty, Boss. Is that asbestos? My lungs are underwritten for two million dollars. If I inhale toxic dust, my premium goes up."
"It smells like opportunity," I corrected him, stepping over a puddle of questionable dark liquid. "Now, fold your arms. Loom. Don’t speak unless I give the signal. And for the love of God, don't mention your skincare routine."
We stood in front of "Gara’s Auto Repair & Salvage," a corrugated metal shack on the edge of the district. It looked less like a business and more like a tetanus shot waiting to happen. Inside, the rhythmic clanging of metal on metal echoed like the heartbeat of a dying robot.
Tommy "The Gut" had sent us here to collect protection money—and to fix his 2004 Cadillac, which sounded like it had a dying cat in the engine block.
"Yo! Is anyone working here?" I called out, tapping my Montblanc pen against a rusted oil drum.
A pair of legs slid out from under a Honda Civic that had clearly seen better decades. A young man stood up, wiping grease-stained hands on a rag that was even dirtier than his hands.
He was tall—about 6'0" (1m83)—lean but wiry, with messy hair and a face that screamed 'mischief'. He held a heavy wrench like it was an extension of his arm. This was Gara.
"Hey, hey! Look who it is!" Gara flashed a smile that was bright enough to sell used cars to a blind man. "If it isn't Tommy's new corporate guys! I heard the rumors. Suits in the slums. Very chic. Very modern."
He looked at me, then his eyes drifted up to Daniel. Gara’s smile didn't waver, but I saw his grip tighten on the wrench. He assessed Daniel's mass and calculated the odds. Smart kid, I thought. He knows he can't fight the giant, so he's about to switch tactics.
"Where’s the envelope, Gara?" I asked, checking my watch. "Payment was due yesterday."
"Ah, the payment. The root of all evil," Gara sighed, his face crumbling into a mask of tragic sorrow. He leaned against a pile of tires, channeling the energy of a Shakespearean actor.
"Listen, Chief, Big Man... you gotta understand. It’s been a brutal month. The supply chain? Broken. The price of steel? Skyrocketing! And my grandma... oh, bless her soul... her hip surgery wasn't covered by insurance. I’ve been eating instant noodles for three weeks! Look at me! I’m literally wasting away!"
He patted his stomach (which looked perfectly healthy).
"And on top of that," Gara pointed his wrench at Tommy’s Cadillac parked outside. "That car? A disaster. A tragedy on wheels. I opened the hood and I wept. Truly."
"What’s wrong with it?" I asked, my face impassive.
"The, uh... Trans-Axle Manifold is completely shot," Gara said, shaking his head gravely. "And the carburetor linkage is out of sync with the flux... piston. I need to order parts from Germany. It’s gonna cost at least $2,500. And that’s the 'Family Discount' price because I love you guys."
Daniel shifted behind me. He leaned down and whispered loudly: "Boss, $2,500 sounds cheap. My dad pays that for an oil change on his Bentley. Should we tip him?"
I stepped on Daniel’s expensive sneaker. Hard. "Shut up," I hissed.
I walked past Gara, ignoring his protests ("Hey! Staff only area! Safety regulations!"), and peered into the open hood of the Cadillac. I’m a Financial Analyst. I don't know much about engines. But I know how to spot a liability. And I know how to spot a lie.
"Germany, huh?" I touched a loose black belt near the engine block. It wobbled.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
I turned back to Gara. I didn't look angry. I looked disappointed. Like an auditor finding a math error in a junior accountant's ledger.
"Gara," I said softly. "Do you know what 'Information Asymmetry' is?"
Gara blinked, his wrench drooping slightly. "Information what-now?"
"It’s when one party in a transaction knows more than the other, allowing them to exploit the price," I lectured, pacing around his shop. "You think because I wear a suit, I’m an idiot with a wallet. You think this is a 'Trans-Axle' problem."
I pointed at the loose belt. "That is the serpentine belt. It’s loose. It costs $20 at AutoZone and takes five minutes to tighten. The 'screeching cat' sound is just rubber slipping on metal."
Gara’s smile froze.
"And as for your poverty..." I walked over to a tarp covering a pile of shapes in the corner. I lifted it up. Underneath were four pristine catalytic converters, clearly sawed off from luxury SUVs.
"Palladium," I noted. "Market price is currently $70 per gram. You have about $4,000 worth of stolen precious metals sitting right here. Your 'Inventory Turnover' is actually quite high, isn't it?"
Gara dropped the tragic act. His eyes narrowed. The slick mechanic vanished, replaced by a cornered street rat. He gripped the wrench with both hands.
"You know too much for a pencil pusher," Gara said, his voice dropping an octave. "Maybe you should leave before an 'accident' happens. Shops are dangerous places. Things fall."
I didn't flinch. I just nodded at Daniel. "Daniel. Demonstrate our 'Risk Mitigation' strategy."
Daniel stepped forward. He didn't roar. He didn't punch. He simply reached out, grabbed a thick steel bumper lying on a workbench with one hand, and—with a bored expression—bent it into the shape of a pretzel.
Creaaaaak. Snap.
Daniel tossed the ruined steel at Gara’s feet. "My nails," Daniel complained, examining his manicure. "I think I chipped a cuticle, Boss. This is a hostile work environment."
Gara looked at the bent steel. Then at Daniel’s arms (which were thicker than Gara’s thighs). Then at the wrench in his own hand. He realized that his wrench might as well be a toothpick.
The wrench clattered to the floor.
"Okay," Gara raised his hands, the charming smile returning instantly, though a bit strained. "Okay! You got me. You guys are good. Respect. Real recognize real."
He kicked the bent bumper away. "So, what now? You gonna break my legs? Burn the shop? I warn you, I’m insured... sort of."
"No," I adjusted my glasses. "I’m looking to expand. Tommy is an idiot who thinks small. I’m building a conglomerate."
I kicked the stolen catalytic converters. "You have talent, Gara. You’re a hustler. You understand margins. You understand supply and demand. But you’re thinking small. Stealing parts? That’s high risk, low reward."
I pulled out a contract (another napkin). "I’m offering you a position: Director of Logistics and Public Relations. You maintain our fleet. You procure... 'specialized equipment'. And you use that silver tongue of yours to negotiate deals so we don't have to break legs every Tuesday."
Gara looked at me, intrigued. "And the pay?"
"Base salary plus commission on every dollar you save us," I said. "And I’ll teach you how to launder that palladium money so the IRS doesn't come knocking."
Gara’s eyes lit up. This was a language he understood. He wasn't afraid of the giant anymore; he was looking at the profit margins.
He wiped his oily hand on his shirt and extended it. "Commission, huh? I like the sound of that. But I’m keeping the German import fee lie for the other customers. It’s a classic."
"Agreed," I shook his greasy hand. "Just fix the damn Cadillac. And Gara?"
"Yeah, Boss?"
"If you ever try to upsell me again, I’ll let the Intern practice his origami on your spine."
Daniel waved his giant hand cheerfully. "Hi! I’m Daniel. Do you have any hand sanitizer? This place is gross."
Gara grinned. The crooked, lopsided grin of a thief who just joined a bigger heist. "I think we’re gonna get along just fine, big guy."
I watched him wipe the wrench clean, already calculating his first expense report scam in his head.
Analysis:
- Physical Stats: C-Tier. Average build. Fast hands, likely from years of pickpocketing and evading angry customers. Not a fighter, but a runner.
- Mental Stats: A-Tier. Street smart. High verbal intelligence. Manipulative. Pathological liar (Professional Grade).
- Risk Assessment: High. He will try to embezzle funds. He will try to cut corners. He requires constant auditing.
- Role: The Face / Logistics Manager. Essential for navigating the underworld economy and procuring assets without paying retail price.
Recruitment Status: Successful. Total Party Size: 3.
"Alright," I checked my watch. "Two down. One to go. Gara, start the car. We’re going to the Meatpacking District. It’s time to wake up the beast
End of Chapter 2
Thanks for reading! The "Capitalist Warlord" is just getting started.
If you liked the chapter, please hit that [Follow] button and leave a [Rating]. Your support keeps Solomon's calculator running!
?? Unlock the Executive Vault
Full Executive Clearance is waiting for you. Read every available advance chapter (currently 30+) on Patreon and stay weeks ahead of the market.
Copyright ? 2026 by Gats VII. All rights reserved. This story is officially published only on Royal Road, Scribble Hub, and Patreon. If you are reading this elsewhere, it has been stolen.