Annoying Shenanigans (2)
Do the weavers make a lot of money? Sure, the skilled ones with an artistic touch raked it in, but most barely scraped by enough to put food on the table.
'Just double their pay—hardly a burden.' But to them? Old man Giles's jaw trembled.
A lifetime of backbreaking labor like a day worker, and now a cushy job paying double, relying only on experience and instinct, no physical torment required.
I turned to Thompson, the burly young weaver who'd been duped by Barto's agitation into leading the charge with his pitchfork. I'd listened and remembered their chats over the chicken.
"You've got the strength, but your weaving's too rough—always sold at a loss, right? Can't even afford medicine for your daughter."
"Y-Yes, that's true, but…"
"Perfect. Double your pay, starting tomorrow at the factory. Your job: oil the main shaft and gears, yank broken belts back into place with brute force—machine maintenance assistant. Plus hauling heavy cotton bales. Weekly pay upfront—go buy that medicine now."
Thick tears rolled down Thompson's cheeks.
"Sir!" He collapsed, sobbing like he was about to kiss the toe of my shoe.
I spread my arms wide to the flustered weavers.
"I'm not smashing your traditions or stealing jobs. I'm freeing you from beastly toil and giving you safer, higher-paying work that matches your precious skills and traits!"
This wasn't charity. I was overlaying their artisan senses and physical strengths perfectly onto the factory's automation line. The moment machine productivity fused with their obsessive quality control? This factory would evolve into an untouchable monster.
"Thank you, Acting Head! We'll be there at the first clock tower bell tomorrow!"
"No, I'll come before the rooster crows!"
The mob that had come with torches to smash the factory was now bowing, pledging loyalty.
"Y-You idiots! Don't fall for it!"
Desperate agitator Barto shoved through the crowd, face beet-red. Remembering the fat bribe from Muller's guild, he had to shatter this peace. But his logic was spent.
He resorted to nonsense.
"Falling for greasy meat scraps and sweet talk? No pride? What about tradition? The sacred sweat at the loom? He's corrupting your artisan spirit with pocket change—a devil!"
Blind to the cooling glares, Barto pointed furiously at the bubbling cauldron behind me.
"And this—this chicken! Yeah, this fried chicken's unnatural! Must be drugged or from rotten, diseased birds! No way it's this crispy outside, juicy inside, so… no, so mind-controlling! It's black magic food eating away at Peluah weavers' souls!"
Pure bluster. Dead silence fell over the factory yard.
"……."
"……."
Then.
Ptooey.
White-haired Giles spat out a chicken bone and sneered, the first to tear into a leg.
"Shut it. Slippery bastard who's never bent a back at a loom yapping about sacred sweat?"
"S-Sir? What do you…?!"
Thompson grabbed Barto's nape with a massive hand.
"Wait, you little shit. While we were crying blood, you were the one yapping away happily?"
"Th-Thompson! What the—? We're brothers in this…!"
"Brothers my ass! My daughter's medicine was overdue, about to hit the streets starving, and you wanted us poor and hungry? Kick away this miracle job and chicken from the Acting Head?!"
Killing intent poured from Thompson's eyes. The other weavers set down their drumsticks, circling Barto.
"Right! Shady fucker's been lurking in Muller's back alleys!"
"Stirring us up for scraps from Muller's coin purse, whether we starve or not!"
"Daring to insult the Acting Head who'll feed our families tomorrow?!"
Realizing the tide had turned, Barto paled.
"M-Misunderstanding! Hear me ou— Aaaagh!"
Thwack! Pow! Crash!
"Rat bastard traitor!"
"Dare mock the Acting Head's holy grace? Stomp him! Harder!"
"Aaaah! Mercy! My bones! My bones are frying aaaagh!"
That night, the torch-and-pitchfork mob beat agitator Barto to a pulp, then bowed 90 degrees to me, swearing fealty.
"Acting Head! See you tomorrow!"
"We'll take this precious chicken home to the wife and kids. We'll never forget this lifelong grace!"
Clutching leftover chicken like treasure, the weavers dispersed humming happily, faces beaming with joy.
Only Barto remained in the dirt yard—black eyes, nose gushing blood, mouth agape, ragged wreck sprawled out.
Weaver Guild's fierce petition summoned this urgent hearing.
A few days later, Peluah Council headquarters.
"The Carnoble Factory destroys tradition, driving countless weavers to ruin! Shut it down completely!"
The guild master's vein-popping shout drew grave nods from councilors.
From the witness stand, I called forward the "starving ex-weavers."
White-haired Giles stepped up in crisp, fine work clothes.
"Councilors. Before, I hunched at the loom all day weaving one bolt, fingers bleeding, coughing dust."
The guild master smirked triumphantly.
But Giles dropped a bomb.
"Now? I inspect machine lines with eyes and hands, catching weave flaws. Yet I earn double, with back strength left to hug grandkids! Acting Head Carnoble didn't cut our hands—he treated us like true artisans!"
Murmurs rippled through the hall in shock.
I took the podium for the clincher.
"Tradition? Wonderful. But starving tradition's just a monument. Our factory even built a simple training annex next door. Illiterates learn machine symbols; skilled hands get promoted to managers."
The guild and Muller tried painting us as a heartless iron monster.
But results proved the opposite. Chicken erased hostility; overwhelming systems and smart staffing shredded their logic.
That afternoon, the council officially recognized machine factory workers as Peluah's new legitimate trade—and encouraged ex-weavers' retraining and rehiring.
"Puhahaha!"
Golden Fleece Guild office. Aila slammed the desk, clutching her belly in laughter at the report.
"Damn, insane! That pig Muller threw a rock to kill us, and you paved a new road? Now every weaver in Peluah's lining up begging for jobs at your factory!"
Tears streaming, she thumbs-upped me.
"Yeah. Real grateful bastard."
Chin on hand, I smiled at Muller's building outside.
Fire inspections, guild riots—all his plays backfired, only spreading our factory's flawless rep and social prestige across the continent.
"Only one card left for him now."
Aila's laughter faded to sharp eyes.
The nastiest, stickiest admin barrage.
"Right. Special tax audit direct from the mayor. Their last gasp."
First came the light jab: Rene River management office notice for water rights review.
"What's this? We drained the river dry or something?"
Aila flapped the paper incredulously.
Claims: Our massive waterwheel and intake blocked flow, causing drought damage to downstream farms. Muller figured it wouldn't shut us but annoy and delay.
A cheap poke.
But even that failed me.
"Did they think I just slapped up a waterwheel when building?"
Days later, stern-faced river inspector arrived downstream, pockets fat with Muller's bribe, eyes blazing for any hook to revoke rights.
But.
"Huh…?"
He rubbed his eyes. Fields should've been withered; instead, clear water gushed through canals, wheat greener than ever.
"Wh-What's this? Not blocked, but…"
"Oh, Inspector sir! You're here!"
Straw-hatted locals swarmed.
He cleared his throat sternly.
"Ahem! That Carnoble Factory upstream blocking water, harming your farms? Be honest—I'll smash their gates now."
But farmers shattered expectations.
"Harming? Heavens no! Acting Head Carnoble's our savior!"
"Right! Floods used to ruin crops every rainy season, but they reinforced the embankments so solidly—no worries this year!"
"Droughts? They adjust sluices for steady flow—farming's a hundred times easier!"
I'd calculated flow rates and pressures with fluid dynamics from the start. Beyond intake, massive gates and bypass channels tamed flood-prone spots. Not selfish suction—a multipurpose dam for the region.
The inspector, bribe forgotten, muttered blankly.
"Gods… Downstream flooding gone since the factory. Canal efficiency beats the lordship's engineers."
Muller's fake complaint drowned in farmers' glowing petitions. City Hall awkwardly declared no re-review—and to soothe furious farmers, granted us a bigger gift.
[Official Seal of Peluah City Hall]
"Puhaha! Another whiff!"
Aila hummed, clutching the certificate.