The Darwin of the Backalleys
I have no particular desire to emphasize irreverence toward this heinous civilized society, but in an era where we drown in moral decay every single day, anyone who wants to become a businessman must first become a scientist.
Especially if you’re a loan shark operating in the backalleys—someone who has to study the ecology of debtors and wring money out of them. You need to be able to draw a strict biological distinction between a debtor the moment they borrow money and the same debtor when repayment comes due.
Shall we examine a few specimens? Before borrowing, a debtor is the most fragile, desperate creature alive. They behave like martyrs who prize morality and honor above all else. Their eyes grow moist, their voices overflow with sincerity, and they swear that once they get through this crisis they’ll work until their bones shatter to repay the favor.
Now contrast that with a debtor once the due date arrives.
They suddenly transform into the tragic protagonist bearing the world’s every misfortune alone, the pitiful victim of heartless capitalism. A perfectly legitimate request for repayment instantly morphs into cruel persecution at the hands of a villain without a shred of human decency.
This isn’t merely the difference between entering and exiting a bathroom. It’s a full-blown metamorphic process in which the species itself evolves—or devolves.
One might call it a rather anti-Darwinian maxim, yet paradoxically Bread Hat, who had observed this process for a very long time, was quite literally the Darwin of the backalleys.
“Huu…”
In Bread Hat’s office, where the sweet cigar smoke—thick as real chocolate—had soaked into every surface.
“I’ll pay the interest on time. I swear I can repay everything by the end of next month. So…”
The woman sitting across the walnut-oiled mahogany desk wore a rather fine silk shawl that felt entirely out of place in these surroundings.
“Let me emphasize once more—under no circumstances should this reach his ears…”
“Ah, of course, madam. You needn’t say another word.”
Bread Hat swiftly cut off the endlessly repeating, unbearably long tale of woe and offered a faint smile as he produced a single sheet of paper.
Normally a little verification would be required, but his assessment of her had been completed long ago.
Her attitude was somewhat high-handed and her neck a little stiff, but those desperate eyes could not be faked.
The classic housewife who had come here to cover a secret debt incurred without her husband’s knowledge—whether from a scam or a failed investment. The most trustworthy type. Of course, the trust was not in her but in her husband. The tale of a man willingly paying off his wife’s debts for the sake of family honor and reputation was already half a cliché.
“Just sign here, madam.”
“Give it to me.”
The woman snatched the paper, spotted a venomous clause crouched like a black widow among the dense text, and recoiled in horror.
“Th-this is too much! I was told it wouldn’t be this bad…!”
“Ah, then feel free to go elsewhere, madam.”
Bread Hat bluffed. He knew perfectly well she had nowhere else to go, which made the bluff easy.
“Ughhh…”
After a moment of groaning, the woman subtly slid the silk shawl off one shoulder.
Having read her intention, Bread Hat waved his hand to stop her.
“Oh, you really mustn’t.”
“Don’t worry. My lips are heavier than you think…”
“That’s not what I mean, madam. I feel absolutely no sexual desire toward an old hag like you—who possesses a flabby backside and rough skin, pretends to be refined while looking as outdated as a rural funeral parlor, completely lacks a sense of humor, clearly broadcasts her frustrated desires that aren’t even remotely appealing, like cellophane held up to sunlight, and yet is strangely fastidious only about the social rules governing such conversations.”
“…”
“Does that make things clear?”
.
.
.
The only sound was the scratching of a pen across paper.
BANG!!!!
The door that had been left open slammed shut with a violent crash.
“How rude.”
Bread Hat, feet propped on the desk while he smoked his cigar, gave a small laugh worthy of a gloomy Dazai Osamu protagonist. For a man who dealt with human-disqualification debtors day in and day out, these little acts of petty tyranny were the spice of life.
Of course he knew his words had been rude. He had simply wanted to convey exactly how furious such brainless old hags made him.
Creak.
“Um…”
“Hm?”
Bread Hat, still chuckling with his feet on the desk, turned toward the sound, but saw nothing and straightened his posture.
Only then did it come into view—an all-too-familiar head, swaying as though it had lost its way.
“Hehe…”
It was Helen.
Helen stood in the doorway, hesitantly poking only her upper body inside as she peered at Bread Hat in his awkward pose.
“Umm… Did I come at a bad time?”
“What would be bad—aha.”
After pondering with a blank face, he raised one eyebrow, let out a light sigh, and stretched the “aha” out long.
“You mean that woman who stormed down the stairs earlier in a huff? Ignore her. That stupid old hag is nothing more and nothing less than a debtor who came to borrow money. I wouldn’t form any kind of relationship with such a vulgar, tasteless snob—even if I died and came back to life. Not only is she unattractive, but to think she could manipulate me with that pathetic, sagging body of hers—like a balloon with all the air let out—is truly absurd—”
“W-wait a second!”
It’s just a delusion so there’s no need to worry… Hm?
Helen’s urgent cry slipped perfectly into the gap between his breaths, cutting the sentence off awkwardly. Thanks to that, however, he got to see the displeased question-mark expression on her face.
“Ahem…”
Bread Hat cleared his throat. He had no particular intention of explaining anything specific, nor did he fully understand why he had spilled such a long-winded story. The words had simply poured out the moment he saw Helen.
…Anyway, that was that. His emotions had gotten a little ahead of him, but whenever he recalled those gloomy days the memories leaped around like fingers racing across every key of a piano. There was no helping it.
“Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Come in.”
“Yessir.”
Bread Hat gestured toward the guest chair. Helen moved her lithe body with nimble grace and perched on the armrest of the oak seat.
In doing so she drew close to where he sat, and he caught a mysteriously sweet scent—like baby powder mixed with something warm.
“?”
Helen tilted her head at Bread Hat’s sudden turn, watching him with puzzled eyes for a moment before her expression melted into a smile full of curiosity. (It reminded him of the day they first met. Of course, that day neither of them had the luxury of simply staring at each other.)
Soon Helen shifted her gaze and fell into deep thought.
She gripped the fabric around her knees, rubbing the wrinkles together as if organizing her words (though it was probably just for show), then placed a small pouch on the desk with an extremely triumphant look.
With a strange little laugh that sounded like “muhanghang” and one hand on her slim waist, Helen asked,
“What do you think?”
“Well, color me impressed.”
He wasn’t joking—he really was slightly surprised.
Even setting aside the diabolical self-dealing she had pulled in episode eight, the profit Helen had generated was genuinely impressive.
Of course she had spread viral marketing among all the sailors who came here to borrow money beforehand, but he didn’t think that was the decisive factor.
After all, if the product had a critical flaw, that kind of forced hype would eventually come back like a knife to the throat.
Therefore it seemed perfectly reasonable to assume this was a case in which coincidental word-of-mouth about an unknown artist buried in obscurity had acted as the direct trigger for her dramatic discovery.
“Hmm… So according to the contract terms, this amount is repayment, this portion is the split…”
Bread Hat swept all the scattered coins into one pile and watched quietly as she divided them like drawing a border. Such small wrists. Those wriggling fingers.
“The rest is all mine!”
“Hold on—the math seems a little off, doesn’t it?”
“Huh?”
Bread Hat used the edge of his hand to drag several coins from the German side and invaded Polish territory with them.
“This is the correct calculation.”
“Aww, you’re such a joker. We agreed on seven to three, remember?”
Helen smiled awkwardly and pushed the coins back again.
“Good grief… Didn’t we say we’d discuss the exact ratio later? Have you already forgotten?”
“Since I’m the one handling production and quality control supervision, I believe I deserve at least this much.”
“Does your ancestor provide the labor and distribution?”
“Then please be satisfied with the role of venture capital and simple logistics subcontractor.”
“…”
“…”
A brief silence fell.
But the silence was mercilessly shattered when Helen’s hand suddenly invaded France.
“Do you not understand what production and quality control supervision means? Management rights clearly belong to me.”
“Management rights? Oh dear lord. Is stirring a twig in front of that tiny pot what you call management?”
“You clearly don’t understand the concept of monopolizing original technology at all. Without the technology it would be nothing but wasted effort!”
“Then how do you plan to secure raw materials? With winter coming, are you going to personally haul around buckets of coal tar weighing over a hundred and twenty kilograms?”
It was a fierce battle! Helen’s hand, having penetrated France, engaged in aerial combat with Bread Hat’s sharply darting fingers, only to be pushed back and left hesitating at the Strait of Dover.
“Blending ratios! Fire control! Process know-how! All of that exists only inside my head!”
“Transportation and manpower. Those exist only with me.”
“Ugh…! What if I went on strike?”
Helen’s surprise strike card—akin to the Pearl Harbor attack—flew in like a dagger.
But as anyone could have predicted, it was a mistake.
“Go ahead.”
“Eh?”
“Do it. Who’s the one in a hurry—you or me?”
Helen was stunned into silence.
When she thought about it, Bread Hat was the creditor holding her lifeline. Where on earth had she found the nerve to say something like that?
The strike card she had believed was her sure-win move had ironically become the decisive blunder that disturbed the nerves of America—who held distribution, logistics, and the debt tight in its grasp—and provoked it to enter the war.
“…”
“If you have no intention of reaching an agreement, then unfortunately we’ll have to end things here—”
“…Six.”
“Hm? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Six to four… I can’t concede any more than that…”
Helen’s face crumpled as she hung her head. Bread Hat nodded as though he found it somewhat acceptable and slid a sheet of paper toward her.
“Sign.”
“The world tree is… just a big… tree…”
“Stop scribbling weird things and just write your name.”
“My name is…”
And so the fierce WW2 that had unfolded in a mere five minutes ended in Bread Hat’s victory.
…Perhaps it had been a little childish.