[Oh, that's... that's bad, boss. That's very bad. We are talking... like... bad, smelly pussy bad. Like, the worst kind. If you go ahead with this... if you cash this... you are going to be tied... like, married... to the "Lord of the Milkers." You will be his little milk-money-laundering-bitch. Be careful, boss. So careful.]

Alex didn't want the stupid system to tell him what the hell was happening right now. He didn't need its stupid, gross analogies!

His own brain was already screaming at him! He should have thought this through!

He should have known! He should have caught on the second that weird, discount-store, half-assed ninja guy just... approached him with a giant, free-money cheque! Ninjas don't just give out free money!

Hell, for everything that was holy and good... he should have at least... AT LEAST... just looked at the name! Just once!

He should have looked at the name of the person who was so "dearly" and "generously" giving him the damn cheque!

A cheque for two... million... crowns! What kind of idiot... what kind of total, complete, drooling moron... doesn't even read the magic piece of paper that's going to make him a millionaire?!

He was. He was that fool.

Alex's whole vision just... turned down. Everything went dark and fuzzy at the edges. All he could see... all he could feel... was rage.

It was pure, uncut, blinding rage. A rage against those... those milk terrorists! Those dairy-loving bastards!

They... they actually fooled him!

Him! The great Alexander Shepheard! The man who was supposed to be the richest guy in the city! The guy who was about to have the most... the biggest... the hottest... harem members! All of it!

His entire beautiful, lazy, sex-filled future... it was all ruined... by a bunch of idiots... who named themselves after titties!

'They will pay for this! I will find them! And I will make them PAY!'

Alex was fuming. He was radiating so much pure, angry heat that he was probably going to set the bank's stupid carpet on fire.

"Hey, you! Bastard! Move along! We are all waiting here, you know!"

An old, cranky voice yelled out from the back of the line. Some ancient old man was calling him out, angry that Alex was just standing there, frozen in his tug-of-war, having a silent, murderous meltdown.

Alex... quickly... slowly... turned around. He turned his whole body and looked right at that man.

He was so full of that fuming rage... all that humiliation and fury... that when he glared... his eyes actually appeared a shade lighter than normal. It was like they were glowing. Like two blue, angry, "I'm-about-to-murder-an-old-man" headlights. He looked insane.

It instantly worked. The poor, cranky old man's face went white with terror. He just... squeaked... and hid. He literally dove behind the large woman in front of him in the que.

"Um... sir...?"

The cashier's voice was so wary. It was the careful, nervous tone you use when you're talking to a crazy person. The kind of person who might be hiding a bomb... or... a lot of milk. He, too, saw exactly what just happened. He saw Alex's psycho-glowing-eye-glare and the old man vanishing in fear.

Instantly, Alex's face snapped back to normal. The rage... POOF!... gone. It was replaced by the most awkward, fake, 'I'm not a psycho, I promise' smile in the history of the world.

"Heh... heh..."

Alex scratched the back of his head with his free hand. He could not let go of the other hand. The hand that was still clutching the toxic, evil, milk-terrorist cheque.

He couldn't cash it... but he couldn't let go of it... because... then the cashier would have it... and... and... he would become a milk terrorist!

"I am so so sorry, sir," he said, his voice all high and friendly and super fake. "It appears... it appears... I... I made a mistake! A silly, silly mistake! I... I forgot to get a sign... here!"

He pointed vaguely at the cheque he was still holding onto.

"A... a very important... signature! Silly me! I... I will be right back, okay? So, so sorry to bother you!"

....

Walking on the cobblestone path, Alex could only think about one single, burning thing: he was going to find these ridiculous "milk terrorists."

He was going to hunt them down, beat the hell out of them, and somehow, some way, he was going to take his money back from them. His mind was just a hot, furious loop of promised revenge.

[By the way, boss, have you figured out why you got that money from the milk terrorists!]

The system's sudden, unwelcome question made him stop dead in his tracks right there on the street. He squinted his eyes, the white-hot rage momentarily fading, replaced by a new, cold, dawning realization.

He... he actually forgot to think about that part. He had been so completely caught up in the sheer, giddy excitement of getting all that money, and then he was so totally blinded by the rage of the trap, that he never once stopped to ask the most important question: why was he getting paid in the first place?

But now... now that his head was finally a little clear and the anger had cooled down... he could clearly understand exactly what was going on.

He slowly dragged a hand all the way down his face, a feeling of absolute, sinking dread washing over him like a bucket of... well, milk.

'I... I did it, huh?' he thought, his own mind betraying him with the unavoidable truth.

[It seems like that's the logical conclusion, boss.]

The system's calm, simple confirmation was like a hammer blow. The milk terrorists' "milk"... that bizarre, village-ruining, liquid-replacing magic... it wasn't just some random event.

It was created by the prodigy, Alexander Shepheard. It was his stupid, nerdy invention. He was the source. That was the real reason he was getting paid this hefty, two-million-crown amount. It wasn't a gift. It wasn't a bribe. It was a payment.

It was his cut... because he, the original, "prodigy" Alexander, had straight-up aided in terrorism.

'This is so bad,' he thought, the panic finally starting to set in, replacing the rage completely. He needed to get there... to that village... and he needed to be done with them.

He had to shut them down, clean up this entire mess, and destroy any evidence... before anyone... ever... finds out that he was the one who created this whole stupid, milky problem in the first place. He absolutely had to go now.

The only question was how. He could, he supposed, go crawling back to Juliana and her little party of "heroes," which sounded incredibly annoying. Or, he could try to go it alone, which sounded dangerous, difficult, and like a lot of work.

His final, and maybe best, option was to get into another party with different adventurers, strangers who wouldn't ask so many questions, and just take down the milk terrorists that way. That was the only logical conclusion he could see.

If this whole thing dragged on, if it became a huge national story, his name might eventually come out as the creator. He would be ruined. He had to act fast.

Alex let out a long, hissing breath, feeling a headache starting to pound right behind his perfectly-groomed new look.

He needed to calm down, first! This whole situation—the money, the bank, the milk terrorists, the future—it was all spinning in his head. He had to think this through, properly, and only then could he make a real, logical decision about his next move.

This two-million-crown along with his prestigious name was everything, and he couldn't mess it up.

"And in order to calm down," he mused to himself, his eyes scanning the street, "what exactly... should I..."

He was actively thinking about ways to relax, maybe find a dark, expensive-looking bar and finally order a real drink. But then, his eyes... they just... landed on it.

His gaze locked on to a little, sad-looking shop right across the street. It was a tiny, two-storey building, cramped and squeezed tightly between two other, taller buildings, like it was being bullied by the rest of the block.

He knew that faded, peeling, green paint. He recognized that dirty front window. It was... The General Shop. The very same shop that belonged... to non other... than Lily. And, of course, her pathetic... cuckold... husband, Marcus.

A slow, awful, vicious... evil smile... formed on Alex's perfectly-shaved face. The pounding in his head didn't just stop; it vanished. Instantly.

'Yes,' he thought, his mood suddenly becoming so, so much better. 'I think... I know exactly... how... I can calm down... right in here...'

He grinned, a full, manic, shit-eating grin. He didn't hesitate. He didn't even check for traffic. He just... strutted... confidently... across the street.

He grabbed the rickety, old handle... yanked the store door open... and the tiny, annoying bell... ding-a-ling-a-linged... loudly... announcing his glorious arrival.

It was time to pound away some of his sorrows!

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