Chapter 26 – Terry Milkovich Really Can't Quit Eating Shit
After shooing Lip away, William watched his back for a long moment and shook his head.
Lip looked clever enough at times — but put a woman in front of him and the kid lost every scrap of sense.
If William wanted to set a plan in motion, though, he needed a place to put it into effect. The empty house next to 2119 came to mind — but his cash on hand was far from enough to buy it. He'd have to raise money another way.
He rubbed his chin and ran through the plotlines of lowlifes in his head, looking for anything that could be monetized. Then he remembered the basement at the Alibi Room — the one Kevin had been tending for months. A room full of Marijuana plants, nurtured to good-looking maturity. One plant could fetch thousands. If there were a hundred… the numbers added up fast (minus costs, of course). Costs paid by the bar's owner, an old WWII vet named Stan — not William's problem.
---
Night fell and the Alibi Room glowed from the inside. Drunk patrons made a familiar din while the staff hustled to keep up. That chaos gave William his opening.
Dressed head-to-toe in black, a knit cap pulled down low and a dark mask over his face, he slipped inside without attracting attention. Apart from his eyes, no skin showed. The basement door was tucked away and, with a pry bar from his storage space, he forced the iron gate open. Warm, pungent air—equal parts soil, fertilizer and marijuana—spilled out. William pinched his nose; the smell was unbearable.
The room was a neat grid of healthy plants. As a rule-abiding sort of person, he despised this stuff — but the bar and its growers were poison-makers of a different stripe, not people he owed. He moved fast, loading pots into his spatial storage one by one until the room was emptied. A few minutes later, the basement was spotless.
He shook snow from his coat, dropped his gloves and mask into a trash can, and melted back into the bar as if nothing had happened. Now he had product — but he needed a buyer.
Terry Milkovich: Mickey's old man, classic small-town redneck, mustache aficionado and reactionary through and through. Fortunately for William, being white smoothed the first interaction; Terry didn't look at him with the instant contempt he reserved for less familiar faces.
Terry was at a pool table with his buddies when William approached — strangers don't often walk up and ask for him by name. Terry paused, chalking his cue, smoke hanging from his lips. He didn't answer immediately; he let the balls click and clack once more before straightening and studying William.
"Yeah?" he asked, wary but not hostile. With people like Terry, straight talk worked best.
William, who didn't have much else in the way of channels, palmed a small handful of leaves — a sample from the haul. "I've got a fresh batch I need moved," he said. "Want to help me shift it?"
Terry looked the small pile over, then back at William. The wheels in his head started turning. William knew there was risk: Terry could flip him, rob him, or try to control the whole deal. But William had options too — including a little thing called self-healing. If it came to a fight, he knew he could handle it. For now, he needed to see how Terry would price honesty versus greed.
The moment Terry saw the small pile of green leaves William placed on the table, he knew exactly what it was.
He picked one up, rolled it between his fingers, and gave a low whistle.
"Nice shit," he said, inspecting the texture. "So… how're you planning to sell?"
William leaned against the pool table, calm and collected.
"There are over a hundred plants. I'm not greedy — give me two hundred grand, and they're yours."
Terry froze for a heartbeat, running the math in his head.
One plant could go for seven, maybe eight grand retail. Even after factoring in labor, trimming, packaging, and middlemen, there'd still be three or four thousand in profit per plant.
Two hundred thousand for the whole batch?
That was a steal.
He'd walk away with ten times that if he flipped it right.
Terry forced a grin, masking the greed that flickered in his eyes.
"Sounds fair. Where's the stash?"
"No rush," William replied evenly. "Give me your number. Once I've got everything ready, I'll reach out."
That note of caution made Terry pause. The guy wasn't stupid — but no matter how careful he played it, Terry had already decided how this deal would end.
He nodded to one of his cronies.
"Get me some paper."
The man ducked over to the bar, grabbed a notepad and a pencil from Kevin, and handed them over.
Terry scribbled a number and slid the page across the table.
William glanced at it, tucked it into his pocket, and smiled.
"Here's to a smooth partnership."
Terry returned the smile — his eyes glinting with bad intentions.
"Oh, I'm sure it'll be real smooth."
With that, William turned and left the Alibi Room.
Behind him, Terry and his crew watched in silence until the door swung shut.
"Boss," one of them muttered, "so… once we get the goods, we waste him?"
Terry didn't even look up from the pool table. He lined up his next shot, let the cue ball crack across the felt, and said casually:
"What, you think we're gonna let some idiot walk away with two hundred grand? Hell no. We'll take the lot — and him, too."
They laughed, the sound blending with the jukebox hum and the clack of billiard balls.
---
Outside, William stepped into the cold night air, lighting a Marlboro as the neon bar sign flickered behind him.
Just then, the familiar chime of the system echoed in his head:
[Ding! New Mission Detected]
Terry Milkovich's greed has led him to covet your goods.
Teach him a simple truth: in business, integrity matters.
Reward: U.S. Military Standard Armament – 10 full kits.
Each kit includes:
Tactical combat helmet ×1
M4A1 carbine ×1
5.56mm ammo (10 boxes)
Beretta M9 ×1
9mm Parabellum ammo (10 boxes)
Fragmentation grenades ×5
Smoke grenades ×5
Flashbangs ×5
William took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a lazy stream of smoke.
"Tch… so the bastard was planning to double-cross me," he muttered.
He glanced at the glowing ash at the tip of the Marlboro and smirked.
The system's "reward" was tempting — a full arsenal, enough to outfit a small squad. That could fetch a fortune if he found the right buyers.
But there was still the same problem: he had no distribution.
"Figures," he said under his breath. "If you want something done right, you need your own operation."
Depending on shady rednecks like Terry wasn't a long-term plan.
He needed an organization — loyal, efficient, self-contained. Something of his own.
William sighed softly, flicked away the cigarette, and zipped up his jacket against the chill.
He didn't go home. He didn't stop by to see Bianca, or Fiona.
Instead, he moved towards the Chicago River, the engine growling low under him.
"If someone's already planning to rob me," he muttered, eyes narrowing,
"might as well dig him a grave before he gets the chance."
He smiled faintly, that cold, deliberate smile that never reached his eyes.
Because William was a cautious man — the kind of man who slept better knowing his enemies were already six feet under.