Blackstone Code-Chapter 634: This Drink’s Not Very Decent

“This is the best bar around here…” Lynch was the first to reach the counter and ordered a drink. Then he turned to Mr. Truman. “If all you’re looking for is a drink.”

A strip club located near an upscale neighborhood like this one definitely had powerful backing. Otherwise, the frequent police inspections alone would have shut it down by now.

After all, solicitation is illegal in the Federation, and strip clubs are hotbeds for it—where all kinds of girls showcase the beauty of the human body, and someone always ends up giving in. That’s the real value of the VIP rooms on the second floor.

With enough backing comes serious money, and whoever owns this place clearly isn’t in it to serve the average customer.

The kind of clientele you attract defines your profits. Regular folks might spend ten or twenty bucks for some fun—that kind of money never even crossed the minds of the club’s operators.

They’re targeting high-end customers, the kind who drop three to five hundred—or even three to five thousand—every time they walk in. That’s what elevates everything about this place. It’s the only way to attract truly elite patrons.

The elegant room carried a distinct fragrance, dim and suggestive lighting glowed around masked girls on stage. The whole vibe screamed, Being rich is so damn good.

Mr. Truman smiled, shook his head, and joined Lynch at the bar, ordering a drink.

After just a couple of sips, you could see Truman already wanted to talk.

Sometimes Lynch wondered if there was something special about the constitution of Federation citizens. Just a few sips of alcohol and their entire demeanor could change so quickly.

They ordered two bottles and moved to a booth in a corner.

“I’m in a really bad mood,” Truman said, taking another swig. His face twisted slightly in discomfort. He had ordered a strong drink, and even though it was chilled to take the edge off, downing that much in one go still burned.

He slowly exhaled. “I’ve been suspended…”

Lynch, who had just raised his glass, froze mid-air. “Temporarily?”

Truman nodded. “Temporary. But that’s not all. The Security Council is re-evaluating me, and Internal Affairs is starting an investigation. You know how these things go—it all comes together.”

He took another drink and slammed the table hard. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

The loud bang caught everyone’s attention. One of the club staff started toward them but was stopped by a man in black.

The man pulled open his collar to reveal a weapon and a badge. The staff member quickly backed off.

Truman looked miserable in the booth. He’d blocked the big corporations from grabbing too many small and mid-sized contracts, and now he was being punished.

Some third-rate businessman he’d never met had filed a report accusing him of abuse of power and a laundry list of crimes.

Everyone knew this was retaliation by the corporations—or at least a warning—but they still had to go through the motions.

You can’t just ignore the law because everyone knows what’s really going on.

He’d been forced to drop everything until the investigation was over. And no one could say how long that would take.

Each accusation had to be checked, and if just one took a week, a dozen bogus claims could stall him for months.

The worst part was, Truman had no way to fight back—no counterattack, not even a defense. He could only sit and stew.

What infuriated him most was how weak the President was on this issue. He even spoke with Truman directly, telling him to ease up on the corporations.

Truman understood why. The election was coming, and these people held a lot of votes. At a time like this, nothing mattered more than the outcome of the election.

Secure the election first, and then everything else could be dealt with later.

Truman knew this, but emotionally, he couldn’t accept it.

“The only good thing is that I’m the only one. They still need me. I know this is just a warning. Fucking bastards.”

Lynch glanced at his drink. He didn’t understand why alcohol didn’t seem to affect him much, while Truman and the rest of the Federation folks got tipsy so fast. It was odd.

The thought passed quickly, and he refocused on the conversation. “There’s a saying—If you destroy a capitalist’s source of profit, it’s as if you’ve killed his entire family. That’s a grudge that can never be forgiven.’”

“That’s the situation now. Capitalists are always chasing profit. You’ve stopped them, and you’re not tough enough. Honestly, their response has been pretty mild—just harassment.”

Lynch wasn’t lying. Compared to more extreme methods, the corporations were being relatively gentle. That was probably due to the election.

No one really expected a challenger for the President. Truman was one of his top aides and a key figure in the government. If things went too far, the President himself might get annoyed.

Truman was still his subordinate. Overstepping would be disrespectful to him.

Compared to Truman’s naïvety, the current President was truly dangerous.

He played it cool, but you never knew if he was just hiding or ready to strike. More likely the latter.

He wouldn’t show his true feelings, but if given the chance, he might strike hard.

So they sent a nobody to file a formal complaint. Just a complaint.

“I know,” Truman nodded. “Everything you said is true. You’re not like the others, Lynch. That’s why I wanted to drink with you and not someone else.”

“To be honest, I’m deeply disappointed. With everyone.”

“Cabinet, capitalists—they’re all the same. It’s like no one sees the problems in this society. And worse, they won’t let anyone else see them either. I don’t know what’s happened to this place. It’s not what it should be.”

“Top to bottom—it’s all the same. I’m losing hope.”

He downed another large glass of strong liquor and poured himself a new one. His face was turning red—the alcohol was kicking in.

Looking at him, Lynch couldn’t help but sigh. That’s the difference a military background makes—Truman had a strong moral compass. If he’d come up as a politician or capitalist, he’d probably only care about profit.

Only in an isolated environment could someone maintain this kind of passion. That’s who Truman was now.

Lynch nodded slightly. “That’s the value of our existence, Truman. We each want to shape the world into what we believe is best, and we work toward that.”

“Some people think being rich makes the world a better place, so they chase money.”

“We’re the same. We think we’re right, so we work for that.”

“No one is ever completely wrong, and no one is absolutely right. Don’t you think?”

Mr. Truman took another swig, his eyes bloodshot as he looked up at Lynch. “So, what does your ideal world look like?”

“Me?” Lynch seemed a little surprised. He sighed lightly. “A world where everyone has their own job, life is easy, families are harmonious, every industry develops in an orderly way, the country is strong, the nation is prosperous—politics, military, economy, culture, all thriving…”

“Of course, if I could have a bit more money and a bit more status than everyone else, that would be my ideal world.”

He spoke with a hint of emotion, then glanced at the distracted Mr. Truman.

A few seconds later, Truman snapped out of it and laughed, patting the table. “Didn’t expect you to be that kind of capitalist.”

“I’m not a capitalist,” Lynch shook his head in denial.

“No… maybe you are, but a different kind. This is the first time I’ve heard someone say something like that—strong country, prosperous nation?”

He let out a long sigh and took another sip. “I really hope your dream comes true, Lynch. You really are different from the others.”

“Should I be glad I’m different from them?”

“Absolutely.”

From there, their conversation drifted away from serious topics. They moved from the booth to the area around the stage—after all, Lynch had exchanged a large amount of small bills, and they had to be spent.

This strip club had clever management. From the moment you walked in, it was clear that every dancer had a legitimate job outside—some were even college students.

Wearing simple clothes and masks, paired with just the right amount of setup and backstory, the place somehow gained a touch of class despite its vulgar core.

During this emotional release, something amusing happened. One of the dancers must have noticed the wad of cash sticking out of Truman’s pocket and invited him onstage.

It was a common part of the show. Truman, already drunk and emotionally drained, had completely lost his usual composure.

The girl danced around him, performing moves full of suggestion, while he held a wad of cash in one hand, flinging bills into the air with the other.

The money fluttered through the still, enclosed air, swirling and falling slowly—until the whole place reached its peak energy.