The Mafia Empire
Chapter 42: Chapter 42 Transportation Cost

"Slow down… a little!"

"Yes, slow down a little!"

"Alright!" Graf patted the side of the truck's cargo bed, casting an envious glance at the young man stepping down from the driver's seat. The young man couldn't have been more than twenty-something, yet he was already driving a truck. Graf's childhood dream was to be a truck driver hauling cargo through city streets, freely cruising without anyone to hinder his path.

Unfortunately, he still couldn't afford a truck, nor did he know how to drive.

The truck driver, Myron, was the son of Mr. Kreen. Mr. Kreen had invested a substantial sum in this truck, using his position and connections at the station to offer short-haul transportation services for various clients. It was clear that capitalists didn't become successful by mere luck. His insight was sharp, and his instincts, astute.

In less than a year, he had recouped his investment, and now everything he made was pure profit. During particularly busy months, Myron earned more than his own father—and not just by a little.

This is the logic of supply and demand. Not everyone could afford a truck; those who could were generally capitalists themselves. They'd prefer to spend more money on a sedan rather than buy a truck.

What? How do they handle transportation? Of course, they let workers carry the loads! Otherwise, why provide them with food, drink, and wages? To spoil them like parents? No, they're there to work!

Moving 2,500 crates of liquor isn't something you can finish in one go, and this was just the first batch. All the The Fellowship Association members had come to help Julian store this liquor. Julian had given them a decent salary and the courage to hold their heads high, so it was only right that they help him—even if it wasn't the most pleasant of tasks.

Leaning against the cargo bed, Myron looked at the burly man beside him and patted his hairy arm. "Hey, buddy, got a light?"

Graf rolled his eyes, took out a match, struck it against Myron's trousers, and, with a whoosh, it ignited. Myron cupped his hands around the match, took a couple of puffs, and, after blowing out some smoke, patted Graf's hand. Graf casually tossed the match to the ground and stomped it out.

"Tell me, why build the warehouse outside the city? The roads aren't great. Won't it be a hassle to transport it all back in later?" Myron, used to city deliveries, was puzzled by Julian's choice. The roads outside the city were mostly gravel and dirt. They were fine when the weather was clear, but a little rain would make them a nightmare.

And renting storage within the city wasn't particularly expensive, either. Ternell, being a small city, only charged about fifty cents a day for a hundred square meter warehouse about fifteen bucks a month.

Graf didn't know how to answer and, with another eye roll, kept silent, watching the younger guys load the goods.

"Because winter is coming," came a voice from the other side of the truck—Julian's voice. He walked over to Graf's side, glanced at him, and Graf quickly joined the others at the back of the truck to continue loading cargo. "It'll be winter in three months, and cold storage can damage certain elements in the liquor.

I'm not exactly educated on this stuff, but apparently, too much cold affects the flavor in undesirable ways.

"So, I bought this farm and built a specialized storage facility to ensure the liquor gets through winter safely and is ready for next year's festivities."

Honestly, Myron didn't really understand what Julian was talking about. What exactly changes? No one knew for sure. But he nodded along anyway, with an "Oh, that makes sense" look. He'd read more than most around here, so he needed to act like he understood, even if he didn't.

"How were the road conditions on the way here?" Julian, having finished his explanation, smiled and patted Myron on the shoulder. Myron was still getting used to being patted by someone younger than him but knew well enough not to offend Julian—Julian was wealthy. Myron and his father disagreed on many things in life, but they agreed on one point: don't offend the rich.

Taking a couple of puffs, Myron flicked his cigarette to the ground and straightened up. "The road was alright, sir. Not too bumpy, no slippery spots, but it was a bit far."

Hiring Myron for these deliveries at eighty cents per trip was reasonable, especially considering the multiple trips needed. Moving everything would take about seven or eight trips, costing a minimum of five dollars. It wasn't easy to make five bucks back then; most station laborers only made around eight or nine a month. Only someone like Graf, with his size, could earn more than ten.

Julian's eyes quickly fell on the truck. He ran his hand along the cargo bed, the cool metallic feel satisfying. "How much does a truck like this go for now?"

"Five hundred fifty bucks—and that's not even the full investment." Julian crossed his arms and tilted his head, prompting Myron to elaborate. "For example, maintenance. At least twice a year for parts replacement and repairs, which costs about fifteen bucks. Then there's the cost of using crystals.

"With my usual route mileage, I'm covering about three to four thousand kilometers a month. That means, on average, I'm spending around two bucks every three days, or over a hundred bucks annually. All in all, I'm looking at nearly two hundred bucks a year just to keep it running."

At this, Myron couldn't help sighing. Originally, he thought buying the truck for five hundred fifty bucks would be a one time investment, only to replace out it costs him an additional two hundred a year, and this all comes from his profits. If he didn't have these costs, he'd have moved out to live on his own by now.

Julian nodded, mentally calculating. With high proof liquor now bottled, he'd need to start planning for transportation. Relying solely on others for transport wasn't sustainable. Transport costs made up a fair share of expenses, and using third parties risked exposing certain secrets. He'd decided to buy a truck.

Buying a truck used to be a big deal for Julian—five hundred fifty bucks was like a fortune. But now, it was manageable, not even cutting into profits much. Just fifty five bottles of high proof liquor would cover it.

In this world, trucks and cars ran on crystals, unlike in his dreams, where vehicles ran on gasoline.

Once a standard sized crystal was loaded into the power chamber and the chamber's hatch closed, a catalyst would flow in when the vehicle started.

The catalyst's contact with the crystal would trigger an intense reaction, producing high temperatures and pressure, which would vaporize the catalyst and create a sustained internal pressure that could drive the truck's gears, propelling the vehicle forward.