Chapter 6: Survival of the Fittest

She showed me the script—some billionaire falling for a waitress, classic viral bait. “Just park the Maybach in the background. That’s all they need.”

Production crews usually needed invoices. That’s when I learned my cousin had set up an LLC, got an EIN number, even listed a registered agent. But since it was just for filming, not commercial use, it wasn’t illegal.

He’d thought of everything—tax IDs, business cards, a fake website. I had to admit, I was impressed.

The feeling of skating through legal loopholes was surreal.

It was like walking a tightrope, always waiting for it to snap. But every day, it held.

We weren’t breaking the law, just bending it out of shape.

It was the kind of gray area that made you wonder who you were becoming.

My cousin’s wife gave it to me straight: I’d be swamped, so whenever I could sleep, I should take it. “People need sleep, but filming doesn’t stop for anyone.”

She handed me a thermos of coffee and told me to nap in the car between shoots. “You’ll thank me, trust me.”

The car was still rented to influencers: four hundred a day for the crew, two hundred for the TikTokers. The difference was, we had to work with the crew’s schedule, but the influencers had to work around the car’s availability.

It was like juggling two jobs—one for the big spenders, one for the hustlers. My phone was blowing up nonstop.

So, while the car was technically rented at four hundred a day, as long as we didn’t delay the crew, daily income was six hundred, and my cut was four-twenty a day.

For the first time, fifteen grand didn’t seem so crazy.

The influencers didn’t care. Even if the crew wrapped at three in the morning, one text from me and they’d roll up on Bird and Lime scooters, ready to shoot with the Maybach.

I’d hear the whir of scooters at all hours, a parade of hopefuls in hoodies and slippers, all for a minute with the Maybach.

Honestly, they preferred filming late—no one bothered them dancing in the street at 2 a.m.

Sometimes I’d sit on the curb, sipping coffee, watching them spin and shout into the night. It felt like a secret world.

Things got wild fast.

Requests piled up. My phone never stopped buzzing. Sleep became a distant memory.

Then the Maybach owner vanished.

He stopped answering texts. Calls went straight to voicemail. The car just sat in my driveway, collecting dust.

He never contacted us, so not only were we not in breach, but by contract, he still owed us twenty bucks a day for safekeeping.

I kept track of the days, wondering if I’d ever see him again. Each morning, I checked the car, half-expecting it to be gone.

I worried about him, afraid something had happened in the hospital and I was making money off his misfortune.

The guilt gnawed at me. I pictured him in a hospital bed, his family desperate for answers. Memories of my own hospital visits came flooding back—the endless waiting rooms, the clatter of nurses’ shoes on tile, the vending machines humming in the corner.

I went to the hospital to ask, only to learn he’d checked out weeks ago. No forwarding address, nothing.

I wondered—could he have died?

The thought haunted me. I dreamed of funerals and empty driveways.

But even if he had, wouldn’t his kids come to claim the car? This was a Maybach.

It didn’t add up. Who just abandons a car like that?

I couldn’t rest easy. The owner’s disappearance ate at me.

I called my cousin, but he just shrugged. “People are weird, man. Don’t overthink it.”

Still, my cousin kept me busy every single day.

He had me running shoots, pickups, drop-offs. I barely had time for a burger.

A whole month passed, and the owner never got in touch.

Thirty days. The Maybach became just another fixture in my life, like a stray dog I couldn’t shake.

In that anxious state, I finally got paid.

It was payday. My cousin told me to meet him at our favorite diner—the kind with sticky red booths, bottomless coffee, and a slice of cherry pie for dessert.

My cousin insisted on paying me in cash. He took me out, then dropped a thick stack of bills on the table, right next to the ketchup bottle.

The bills hit the Formica with a heavy thump, drawing glances from the regulars. He grinned, sliding the stack my way.

It was a serious wad—over twelve grand for the month.

I ran my thumb along the edges, feeling the weight of every sleepless night and risky move.

It was the most cash I’d ever held. It felt heavier than it looked.

I wanted to count it, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I just stared, wondering if this was what winning felt like.

I checked online: fifteen grand in cash weighs about two and a half pounds, so this stack was about two pounds.

I pictured myself at Planet Fitness, curling dumbbells. Now, here I was, curling a month’s pay.

I’d never thought I’d be measuring my pay by the pound.

It felt like something out of a Scorsese movie.

But I was still downcast. My cousin picked up a slice of brisket for me and asked why I looked so glum.

He nudged the plate toward me, eyebrow raised. “What’s up, man? You look like you lost your dog.”

I asked, “If the owner doesn’t contact us for a month, what if he died?”

My voice cracked. I stared at the brisket, not daring to meet his eyes.

My cousin laughed. “Then you hit the jackpot. When his kids come for the car, we’ll stall and make them prove they’re the real heirs—let probate court sort it out.”

He said it like a joke, but I could tell he meant it.

I said, “Aren’t we being too ruthless? Is this how you always made money?”

I could barely get the words out. I wanted him to say no.

He replied, “I’ve done a lot of jobs. Is it that you can’t quiet your conscience?”

He wasn’t angry, just curious, like he was trying to figure out my angle.

I said, “When my mom was sick, I borrowed your car to take her to the hospital. The doctor said she had cirrhosis. I didn’t cry then—I smiled and told her it was treatable. After arranging everything, I sat in your car and cried, where my mom couldn’t see me.”

The memory washed over me. I remembered gripping the steering wheel, trying to keep the sobs silent.

My cousin asked, “What are you trying to say?”

He looked at me, eyes softening a bit.

I whispered, “Because of us, those families in their darkest moments don’t even have a place to hide and cry.”

I could barely speak. My throat was tight, eyes burning.

He picked up another piece of brisket, chewing as he spoke. “Before you worked for me, how much did you make a day?”

He didn’t miss a beat, but I knew he was making a point.

I said my monthly wage was three grand—so a hundred a day.

I felt small admitting it. Like I was confessing to being a nobody.

“And the Maybach? How much do we rent it for a day?”

He kept his eyes on his plate, but I could feel him watching me.

I whispered, “Six hundred. But that doesn’t mean it’s right. I kind of want to quit. I want to return the car.”

My voice was shaky. I expected him to argue, to try and talk me out of it.

He just said, “Okay.” He wiped his mouth and told me to eat, saying he’d give me an answer after I was full.

He pushed the plate closer, like a full stomach could fix my conscience.

I thought, no matter what he said, I wasn’t changing my mind.

I kept repeating it in my head, over and over. I was done.

After we ate, my cousin suddenly said he wanted to drive.

He tossed me the keys, grinning. “Let’s take a spin.”

He drove the Maybach to his house, grabbed the keys, and told me to wait at the door.

His place was a sprawling ranch with a wraparound porch, hydrangeas lining the driveway. I waited, shifting from foot to foot, wondering what was next.

His house was pure suburbia. He carried up a case of Budweiser, stood on the balcony on the second floor.

He cracked open a bottle, took a long swig, then set the rest down at his feet. The sun was setting, throwing long shadows across the lawn.

I wondered what he was up to, when suddenly he grabbed a beer bottle and aimed it at the Maybach.

My heart stopped. I thought he was messing around, but then I saw the wild look in his eyes.

I was frozen.

I couldn’t move. My feet felt glued to the driveway.

I waved my hands frantically, but he smashed the bottle down!

Glass exploded against the hood, shards flying everywhere. I yelled, “What are you doing?” but he just laughed, the sound echoing over the lawn.

I rushed forward, arms out to shield the car. The bottle shattered, glass slicing my skin.

I felt the sting, warm blood trickling down my fingers. I didn’t care—I just wanted him to stop.

I screamed for him to stop, but he didn’t.

He was on a mission, eyes wild.

He grabbed another bottle.

I saw the muscles in his arm flex. I panicked, looking for cover.

Desperate, I scrambled onto the Maybach and used my body as a shield.

I sprawled across the hood, arms wide. I must’ve looked insane, but I didn’t care. The car was all I had left.

I heard a loud bang on my head—the beer bottle hit me. Lucky for me, it was empty, or I’d be toast!

Stars burst behind my eyes. I tasted blood. But I stayed put.

Crying and shouting, I begged him to stop.

My voice cracked. I could barely see through the tears.

He stood above, laughing like a maniac: “Here’s your answer! You’re a person, a living person with parents. That’s just a car. Why are you lying on it?”

His words echoed. Everything went quiet for a moment.

I froze.

I felt numb, pain fading to the background.

Why was I lying on the car?

The question rang in my head, louder than the pain.

Maybe because this car made six hundred a day, while I only made a hundred busting my ass.

I thought about all the bills I could pay, the things I could finally afford.

No.

I shook my head, tears streaming down my face.

I’d already decided not to make money like this anymore.

I remembered my mom, her tired smile. The promise I made to myself.

A chill ran through me.

The night breeze cut through my shirt, making me shiver.

Maybe it was because a side mirror cost two grand, a windshield nearly three grand, and every part was worth more than me—even with insurance and a fat deductible, I’d be paying for years.

I realized how breakable I was, how little I was worth.

My cousin’s aim was perfect—every bottle landed on me, never the car.

He could’ve smashed the Maybach, but he didn’t. He was making a point.

He kept laughing, but I heard the sadness in his voice.

He said, “You talk about conscience—let me tell you, this is the American dream! Survival of the fittest, the rat race. Conscience is just for people who can afford to lose.”

His words hit harder than the bottle. I felt something crack inside.

He didn’t lecture me with big ideas. He just made me realize I had parents hoping for my safety, and here I was, risking myself for a hunk of metal, scared of paying for repairs.

The lesson was brutal, but it stuck.

My parents put me through school, hoping I’d make it, but someone else’s idle car income was a level I’d never reach.

I thought about everything they gave up, all the dreams they had for me.

Even if I got hit by a car, a hundred years of my life wouldn’t buy a Maybach, even if it was totaled after fifteen years.

The math was simple, and it hurt.

For some reason, my nose tingled with grief.

I wiped my face, smearing blood and tears.

Why had the world turned out like this?

I wanted an answer, but none came.

My cousin finished smashing bottles. He raised his hands, letting the night air wash over him. His voice was loud, but there was sorrow in it.

He stood on the balcony, arms wide, like he wanted to hug the world and shove it away at the same time.

“Back when I sat at my desk, I saw my thirty-year future in the computer screen.”

He paused, staring into the dark. “I saw myself getting older, stuck in the same job, never getting ahead.”

“The rich feast while the poor freeze on the streets. That’s America. The rat race. Conscience is just a bedtime story for the broke!”

His voice cracked. For the first time, I saw the fear behind his swagger.

“Even if everyone hates me, I’ll make sure my parents, my kids, and I live in warmth and comfort!”

He meant every word.

I was covered in glass, bleeding, but the Maybach was spotless.

I looked down at my hands, at the blood pooling in my palms. The car gleamed in the twilight, untouched.

I cried and laughed. I didn’t know which was which anymore.

The sound bounced off the driveway, raw and broken.

In that moment, I looked just as crazy as my cousin.

We were two sides of the same coin, trapped in the same game.

He didn’t give me a lecture. He used Budweiser bottles to show me how the world works.

It was a lesson I’d never forget.

I wiped off the blood, drove the Maybach to a self-service car wash, and carefully cleaned it—because at dawn, it still had a job to do.

I moved on autopilot, scrubbing every inch, the smell of soap and blood swirling in the air.

I let go of my conscience.

Piece by piece, I gave it up, until all that was left was the grind.

Society is survival of the fittest, not what they teach you in school.

I remembered those lessons—be honest, work hard, play fair. None of it seemed to matter now.

Honest people owe a quarter million on a mortgage for a busted house, can’t keep up, and lose everything.

I’d seen it—friends losing homes, families falling apart.

Dishonest people owe billions, send their families abroad, and live like kings.

The news was full of stories like that. The world was upside down.

This is the world!

I felt the weight of it, heavier than that stack of cash in my backpack.

All the paths to big money are in the criminal code. My cousin guides me through the loopholes—we don’t even break the law.

He knew every shortcut, every gray area. I just followed his lead.

After washing the car, I leaned close to the rearview mirror to check my cuts. They looked nasty, but they’d heal.

I poked at the bruises, wincing. Nothing broken. I’d survive.

I forced a laugh. “At least I don’t need a mechanic.”

As I checked my wounds, suddenly, a plastic bag appeared behind me!

I saw a shadow in the mirror, then everything went black.

It smelled like cheap trash bags and stale air. I panicked, arms flailing.

Someone punched me in the gut. I doubled over, gasping, but with the bag over my head, I couldn’t breathe!

My lungs screamed for air. I tried to twist away, but hands pinned me down.

I fought, but blows came from all sides!

Fists, knees, boots—I couldn’t count how many. My world shrank to pain and panic.

I couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe—just took the beating!

I was a punching bag, helpless.

I tried to tear off the bag, but my hands were pinned.

They gripped my wrists, nails digging in. I kicked, but it was useless.

I was pressed to the ground, suffocating, as they cursed and kicked my head.

Their voices were muffled, angry. I caught “thief” and “payback.”

Panic exploded inside me. I trembled, not knowing if the Maybach’s owner had sent them. I was terrified—for the car, for myself!

The more I panicked, the harder it was to breathe!

My chest burned. I started to fade.

I was about to lose it.

Tears streamed down my face, mixing with sweat and blood.

The lack of oxygen made stars explode in the darkness. Every shallow breath was warm, filled with my own exhaled air.

I tried to suck in anything.

But even carbon dioxide was a luxury—whenever I tried to breathe, the plastic bag sucked tight to my nose and mouth, making even that impossible.

I clawed at the bag, nails ripping at the plastic, but it wouldn’t give.

I collapsed, limbs numb, head spinning.

Everything faded to gray, then black.

Suddenly, I heard a car engine roar to life!

The Maybach was starting up, and the keys were on me!

I realized in horror—they were after the car, not me.

These guys had a spare key—they were really after the car!

I remembered the owner had given me the only key. Someone must’ve had a copy. Or maybe this was a pro job.

I freaked out!

Adrenaline kicked in. I couldn’t let them take it.

This was a car worth more than my life—how could I let it be stolen?

I thought of my cousin, my commission, all those sleepless nights.

In desperation, ignoring the pain and my pinned hands, I pressed my face hard against the ground!

The rough asphalt scraped my skin raw. I didn’t care.

I even opened my mouth and ground my front teeth on the pavement!

It hurt—so bad!

I screamed into the bag, the sound muffled.

I heard my teeth crack, grinding again and again. The pain shot through me like lightning.

Every nerve ending was on fire, but I couldn’t stop. I had to do something—anything—to stop them.

But I couldn’t stop!

Desperation gave me strength I didn’t know I had.

I knew how much a Maybach cost, I knew how much two front teeth cost, and I knew exactly how much my life was worth—especially with American healthcare bills and car insurance deductibles looming.

The numbers flashed through my mind—costs, commissions, repairs. It all blurred together.

Maybe it was just a toy for the rich, but if I lost this toy, my life would be wrecked, my family ruined!

I’d never get another shot. Not in this world.

Or would I?