New Rules

The heavy, ceaseless rain in Saint Denis continued to fall, a drumming, oppressive shroud over the city.

Compared to the bustling, albeit shadowed, streets of moments ago, Saint Denis now wore an eerie, unnatural quietude. A profound sense of unease settled over the deserted thoroughfares. Figures, dark and indistinct against the downpour, occasionally materialized and then vanished, moving with a grim, purposeful stride through the waterlogged streets. Most were laboriously carrying what appeared to be inert, corpse-like bodies, slung unceremoniously over shoulders or dragged by their feet, all heading inexorably towards Mr. Henry's vast Manor, a central point of their grim operations.

If it weren't for the occasional, choked groans of pain that escaped these seemingly inanimate individuals, faint and quickly swallowed by the rain, one might truly believe this place had become the underworld itself, a macabre procession of the damned destined for a subterranean judgment.

Signor Bronte and Mr. Martelli, both dressed in their absurdly bright, now soaking-wet, clown pajamas, braved the relentless heavy rain. Water streamed down their faces, plastering their hair to their foreheads. They shivered uncontrollably, their teeth chattering audibly, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and grotesque fascination as they closely followed the grim-faced figures leading the way. Their gazes darted nervously, horrified by the sight of other broken figures being dragged along both sides of the road, leaving faint trails in the puddles.

Too brutal! Bronte thought, a cold dread seeping into his very bones, making his skin prickle. Van der Linde is truly too brutal! This is beating them to within an inch of their lives! He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his eyes darting frantically. Apart from the two of them, miraculously still relatively intact and able to walk, everyone else could only be dragged, a testament to the savagery they had endured.

Even the newly appointed police chief, a man of considerable authority just hours ago, had been "invited" over by a trio of imposing figures, his limp, unresponsive form slung between them. Two ominous Maxim guns were conspicuously set up at the entrance of the Saint Denis Police Station, their dark muzzles aimed directly at the double doors, a silent, deadly warning. This made the remaining police inside the Saint Denis Police Station too terrified to even twitch, much less move a muscle, their faces pale with fear.

In addition, every single street intersection was now heavily guarded, manned by grim, silent figures, effectively and strictly controlling all thoroughfares in Saint Denis. Maxim guns, their heavy frames gleaming wetly, were even positioned at various vantage points, overlooking the city, their presence a stark, unmistakable declaration of absolute dominance.

Bronte had been a tyrannical force in Saint Denis his entire life; when had he ever witnessed a scene like this, a city so utterly subjugated, so swiftly and ruthlessly seized? The sheer scale and chilling efficiency of the operation was terrifying, a nightmare made real.

The terrifying spectacle unfolding throughout the streets, a horrifying tableau of silent conquest and brutal efficiency, scared Signor Bronte so profoundly that, in a moment of desperate, pathetic submission, he spontaneously handed the rope he held to Mr. Martelli himself, offering it with a trembling hand, an unspoken plea for the other man to lead him, to ensure their theatrical, self-degrading performance of submission was flawless.

The heavy, cold rain washed over Mr. Martelli and Signor Bronte, soaking them to the bone. The biting cold made Signor Bronte shiver continuously, his entire body trembling uncontrollably, a pathetic sight.

Damn it, he thought, a wave of profound misery washing over him, his face contorting in a grimace. He was already fifty years old; how could he possibly endure such physical and emotional torment? He wanted to cry out, to scream, Didn't they know that Bronte was afraid of water? The cold was unbearable!

Mr. Martelli, still dutifully holding the rope tied around Bronte's neck, continued to lead Signor Bronte forward. He maintained a determined stride, his face set, ensuring that the two of them looked sufficiently comical, a grotesque mockery of their former selves, as they shuffled through the rain.

Finally, amidst Signor Bronte's escalating apprehension and continuous shivering, they arrived at the imposing, now eerily quiet, facade of Mr. Henry's Manor. The grandeur of the mansion seemed to mock their current degradation.

"Go in, Mr. Van der Linde is waiting for you inside!" a gruff voice commanded, a burly gunman gesturing sharply with his rifle towards the open, inviting, yet deeply ominous, doorway.

The entire Henry Manor was completely swarming with Van der Linde Gang gunmen, a silent, disciplined occupation force. Two more Maxim guns, their dark barrels aimed menacingly outwards, were conspicuously set up at the grand entrance. Even two additional Maxim guns were positioned strategically on the second floor of the villa, their dark forms providing reinforced, unassailable firepower, their presence dominating the exterior. Inside, more than a hundred patrolling gunmen moved through the mansion's vast interior, their movements silent and efficient, almost completely occupying every room, every corridor.

Looking at the powerful, overwhelming force of over a hundred gunmen, with more continuously gathering from the murky distance, their ranks swelling, Signor Bronte felt a wave of sheer terror so intense he thought he was about to piss himself right then and there. His knees threatened to buckle, his legs feeling like jelly.

Two precise rows of gunmen lined up within the entrance, creating a silent, intimidating gauntlet, their expressions grim and unreadable. Their eyes, sharp and unwavering, were fixed intently, piercingly, on Signor Bronte and Mr. Martelli as they shuffled closer.

The terrifying, unwavering gaze of these men, combined with the extreme fear, made Mr. Martelli's crotch feel suddenly warm and wet, a sudden, involuntary release. This sickening sensation, mixed with the chilling, seeping rain that soaked his pajamas, created a strangely novel and utterly disgusting combination.

"F*ck! Mr. Martelli, hurry up and go, don't make Mr. Van der Linde wait impatiently!" Signor Bronte, his clown pajamas completely soaked and clinging uncomfortably to his body, let out a frustrated grunt. He then kicked Mr. Martelli's wet butt with what little force he could muster, a desperate, undignified shove. Mr. Martelli let out a startled yelp, stumbled forward, and then broke into a frantic, shuffling run towards the brightly lit room, pulling the rope that was still tied around Signor Bronte's neck.

As Martelli ran, the rope tightened abruptly, its constriction around Bronte's neck making him unable to hold back a loud, protesting fart, a final, undignified release that seemed to punctuate his utter humiliation.

Mr. Martelli quickly dragged Signor Bronte towards the villa's grand main hall, their grotesque parade continuing.

Upon entering the villa's once-grand hall, the scene within Mr. Henry's mansion was fully and horrifyingly presented to Signor Bronte. The vast space, usually filled with opulent decor, was now stripped bare.

All unnecessary decorations – the priceless tapestries, the antique furniture, the delicate sculptures – in the entire hall had been crudely cleared away, piled unceremoniously into other rooms, leaving the vast space stark, echoing, and bare. Only three plush sofas remained, arranged neatly to provide seating for Mr. Van der Linde, Mr. Morgan, and Mr. Callander, an island of normalcy in a sea of chaos.

And the polished floor of the hall was completely covered, literally filled, with the prostrate, suffering forms of the dignitaries of Saint Denis. The patriarchs of the eight great families of Saint Denis, the true, self-proclaimed controllers of the city, and various officials of the Saint Denis City Government at all levels, from minor bureaucrats to prominent figures – all were present, mostly lying on the ground in similar, contorted positions, groaning softly, pitifully, in pain.

They were all visibly beaten, their bodies curled up like shrimps, their faces bruised, swollen, and smeared with dirt. Their eyes, wide with a mixture of raw fear and profound helplessness, were fixed on Mr. Van der Linde, who sat imperiously on one of the sofas at the front of the room, observing them with a detached, almost clinical air.

But despite their obvious suffering and desperate pleas, they dared not utter a single word of protest or complaint. The reason was chillingly clear: the room was filled to the brim with burly men, their faces grim, holding steel pipes and rifles, their unblinking eyes staring intently at them, rendering all their thoughts and any imagined means of resistance utterly useless. Their power had been crushed, their voices silenced.

As Signor Bronte, still being dragged by the rope, approached the scene, Dutch, seated comfortably, his legs crossed, suddenly exclaimed in feigned surprise, a wide, almost theatrical grin spreading across his face. He leaned forward slightly, gesturing with an open hand towards Bronte. "Oh, sh*t! Is that Signor Bronte? Is that the uncrowned king of Saint Denis, the underground king of Saint Denis, Signor Bronte?!" Dutch chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to mock the very air. "Oh, damn it, Signor Bronte, why are you dressed like a clown! Oh, ho ho ho, you even have a rope around your neck!" He clapped his hands together with a performative flourish.

"Damn it, what a brilliant idea!" Dutch exclaimed, turning to Arthur and Mac, gesturing towards Bronte with a sweeping hand. "Arthur, Mac, look at Signor Bronte's outfit, my goodness, this is definitely the most fashionable attire in Saint Denis! I never thought our 'VDL' Clothing Store would meet a design rival today!"

"Hey!" Arthur couldn't help but let out a short, surprised laugh, a genuine burst of amusement, but then quickly stifled it, covering his mouth with a hand, a flicker of professional decorum returning to his face.

Mac, however, standing beside him, showed no mercy or restraint towards Signor Bronte. He threw his head back and laughed loudly, a booming, derisive sound, openly humiliating Signor Bronte. He pointed a finger at Bronte, his face split by a wide, mocking grin. "Oh, this damn clown is also a famous person in Saint Denis? Damn it, Arthur, you never told me Saint Denis had such a funny clown!"

Dutch laughed heartily, a deep, resonant sound that filled the hall, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He looked at Signor Bronte, whom Mr. Martelli was still leading like a pathetic dog on a leash, his face full of almost paternal, yet strangely manipulative, emotion. "I never thought Signor Bronte could be so flexible, so adaptable. Now, Signor Bronte, I truly admire you!" He paused, his gaze hardening slightly, a hint of steel entering his tone.

"But now is not the time to deal with you, Signor Bronte," Dutch said, waving a dismissive hand, a gesture that brushed Bronte aside. "So I think you can temporarily stand aside and let these noble gentlemen of Saint Denis talk to me properly." His eyes swept over the prostrate figures on the floor.

"Of course, of course, Mr. Van der Linde!" Signor Bronte stammered, his voice eager, fawning, more obedient than any dog. He quickly scrambled to his feet, pulling the rope tight around his neck, and consciously shuffled to the back of the room, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, melting into the shadows. At this point, humiliated as he was, he finally had a moment to scan the full, horrifying scene in front of him.

However, not looking was one thing, but truly seeing was an absolute shock. Those Saint Denis dignitaries he had fought and schemed with his entire life, the revered heads of each powerful family, were now lying on the cold, hard ground, their legs beaten black and blue, swollen and grotesque. They groaned constantly, a low, collective moan of agony, which made Signor Bronte's own legs ache with a terrifying phantom pain, a sympathetic pang that promised a similar fate.

Too f*cking ruthless! he thought, his eyes wide with morbid fascination and rising dread. The scale of the beating was almost artistic in its savagery.

These former Saint Denis dignitaries, once so grand and untouchable, no longer possessed their past grandeur; each lay on the ground like a broken, discarded doll, utterly defeated, resembling nothing so much as a dead dog. Their power had been extinguished, their pride shattered.

And Mr. Van der Linde, looking out at the floor completely covered with the bruised and broken forms of Saint Denis's most powerful dignitaries, finally allowed himself a triumphant smile. He clapped his hands together with a sharp, echoing sound that cut through the silence, stood up from the sofa with an air of absolute command, his posture radiating power, and began his long-awaited speech, his voice resonant, clear, and filled with a chilling conviction.

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" Dutch began, his voice booming slightly, filling the vast hall. He spread his arms wide in a sweeping, encompassing gesture, as if embracing them all into his grand vision. "Oh, I am very grateful for your trust in me. The success of this operation is inseparable from your collective will and firm belief!" He nodded sagely, as if accepting their unspoken homage.

"As I always say in our factories, I want to create a perfect living environment for everyone!" He pounded his fist lightly against his chest, a gesture of sincerity. "And today, is the great journey of our living environment taking a step further! A giant leap!"

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with a messianic zeal. "Gentlemen, as I said, my youthful experiences made me ponder for a long time. Why has America become so rotten? Why are we, the people at the bottom, always without hope, without happiness, and why have even the future and hope become an unattainable luxury?" He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled, broken figures, as if seeking their silent agreement.

"The world shouldn't be like this! Everyone should possess and truly have the right to a happy life!" He emphasized the last words, his voice rising passionately.

"Then why is it that we have been working, toiling, and striving, yet our lives have not changed at all?" He leaned back, his arms crossed, a rhetorical question hanging in the air.

"I pondered and pondered for a long time, and finally, I understood the problem." He tapped his temple with a finger, as if revealing a profound secret. "It's obvious! The reason we keep working without reward is certainly because someone is stealing our profits, someone is sucking our blood! And this is true for the entire America, so it must be because the entire America is being stolen from, and enslaved!" His voice grew louder, more impassioned, drawing them into his twisted logic.

"Therefore, the real problem is not with ourselves, but with these damned American upper classes, these damned Saint Denis councilmen, this damned United States Federal Government! Their actions have always been about exploitation and extortion, and that is the fundamental reason for our poverty and hardship!" He pointed a damning finger at the prostrate dignitaries, a gesture of absolute accusation.

"So, in order to improve our lives, I can only lead you in a coup! To overthrow this damned Saint Denis Government and establish a perfect environment of our own!" Dutch Van der Linde declared, his voice ringing with a chilling fanaticism, his eyes burning with an almost divine conviction.

Dutch Van der Linde used his familiar, well-rehearsed rhetoric to further brainwash everyone, reinforcing the anti-United States Government ideology that had been constantly instilled in their minds during this period. He was a master manipulator, weaving words into a tapestry of perceived injustices and promised salvation.

Damn it, he thought, a fleeting, private moment of smugness, his book, "American Purgatory," was certainly not read in vain.

Not only did he brilliantly distort the thinking of his own people, making them believe his version of reality, but he also skillfully placed himself and them in the same suffering camp, forging a twisted sense of solidarity. He made them feel only that Mr. Van der Linde was great, their savior, without having the time, or the inclination, to consider what Mr. Van der Linde truly gained from it all.

Of course, this alone was not enough; Dutch still needed to provide tangible, immediate benefits, to truly implement his grand words and solidify his power.

So, with a flourish, he took out a document, neatly folded, and handed it to Arthur, who had also stood up beside him, a silent sentinel. Dutch offered it with a slight bow of his head. "Arthur, my boy, you read the contents, I think you deserve this honor!"

Hearing Dutch's words, Arthur was utterly bewildered. He blinked, then frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. Huh? What did I do? Why am I qualified again? I clearly didn't do anything this time, just sat here waiting, and the workers had already captured the people!

Arthur looked at Dutch with a confused expression, his eyes silently pleading for a hint, a clue as to what was expected of him.

But Dutch just gave him a subtle, almost imperceptible shove to the front, constantly urging him with his eyes to begin his recitation, and even secretly punched him lightly, but firmly, in the back, a clear command.

"F*ck! Arthur, I'm building a golden statue for you, my boy!" Dutch whispered, a hint of impatience in his voice, his smile unwavering for the crowd.

Seeing Dutch's warning gaze, Arthur reluctantly took the document, his fingers fumbling slightly. He cleared his throat, a dry sound, then unfolded the paper and began to read from it, his voice a little shaky at first.

"Hmm! Ah! Document, yes, Saint Denis Property Transfer Document." Arthur began, his voice gaining a slightly more confident, if still puzzled, tone. "I… am willing to unconditionally transfer all property under my name, including but not limited to Saint Denis railway shares, Saint Denis thermal power station, Saint Denis tram, Saint Denis bank shares… to the Saint Denis City Government. All related industries shall be wholly owned and fully managed by the Saint Denis City Government!"

The more Arthur read, the deeper his frown became, a crease forming between his brows. He instinctively stroked his beard, a nervous habit, unable to figure out what Dutch was truly up to. The words sounded like a grand surrender, not a coup.

Damn it, he thought, a growing sense of disbelief. Could it be that their coup was only for such a small gain? Giving everything to the city government?

Oh, sh*t! Arthur internally groaned. Dutch is really senile, this isn't even as fast as selling arms for money! This seems like a net loss!

Arthur's brows furrowed further, a deep V of confusion. He looked at Dutch again, his eyes questioning, then, with a sigh, took out the next document, its pages rustling softly.

"Saint Denis Development Plan: Effective immediately, Saint Denis shall extensively recruit grassroots workers, with daily wages not less than eighty cents per person. Saint Denis-controlled enterprises shall significantly reduce the salaries of upper-level employees, proportionally adjust the salaries of middle-level employees, and proportionally increase the number and wages of lower-level employees." Arthur read, his voice gaining a monotone, procedural rhythm.

"Effective immediately, a Saint Denis living subsidy will be launched, with financial allocations from the Saint Denis Government to subsidize daily necessities and food for the public. Food prices shall not exceed… The latest Saint Denis Development Plan will be funded by special appropriations from the Saint Denis treasury to vigorously develop Lemoyne, promote planting industries, manufacturing, factories, and attract foreign investment…" Arthur continued, his voice steady, but his confusion growing.

"Any foreign-funded enterprises entering Saint Denis or even Lemoyne must comply with the new Saint Denis Government regulations… Effective immediately, the Saint Denis Government will establish special reporting points to impose corresponding penalties on relevant enterprises and individuals who do not comply with the new Saint Denis regulations… Date: November 17, 1899. This document is issued by Mr. Henry Lemieux, Mayor of Saint Denis and Governor of Lemoyne." Arthur finished, lowering the document, his face a mask of bewilderment as he looked at the stunned faces of the dignitaries and then back at Dutch, searching for an explanation.