1 My BBQ joint, "The Corn-Fired Grill," uses dried corn kernels for fuel. It’s cleaner than charcoal and more sustainable. Until today, when a young girl showed up and, through a flood of tears, threatened to report us. "I'm a farmer's daughter! The one thing I can't stand is people wasting food!" "When crop prices are low, farmers starve! You're all just vile capitalists!" she declared, her face set in a look of fierce determination. I nodded, apologized immediately, and promised I would no longer buy corn from her town. Then I went to the next town over. But this year, the rains came and didn't stop. When all the corn in her town rotted in the fields, unsold, the farmers came knocking, asking why I hadn't come to buy their harvest. … The girl showed up on a busy night, the restaurant packed. She was sobbing as if she'd suffered a terrible injustice. At first, seeing how young she was, I tried to explain. "Listen, sweetie, corn doesn't have to be eaten to be useful." Before opening, I'd done my homework. Using corn as fuel wasn't a whim. Only a small fraction of all corn grown is for human consumption; the rest is used for animal feed or industrial purposes. You can ferment it into ethanol and put it in your car's gas tank. Why couldn't I put it in a furnace? I thought a little education would clear things up. But she only cried harder, her lip trembling. "I don't wanna hear it! Corn is cheaper than charcoal, so you're just doing this to make more money!" "There's no such thing as an honest businessman! You can't talk your way out of being a heartless monster!" I had to explain again. "You're right, using corn is more cost-effective. But I buy all my corn at market price from local farmers. Whether it's old, stale, or just won't sell, I take it all. This is corn that's so dry and hard, it's been sitting in silos for years. No one would ever eat it. Normally, it would just rot. Now, they get extra income, and I save on costs. It's a win-win." Wasting food isn't about how it's used; it's about failing to realize its value. A customer at a nearby table chimed in. "The farmers are happy, the owner's happy. What's it to you?" Seeing she had no allies, the girl's face flushed with anger. She stormed into the grill and grabbed a carton of eggs. Then, she started throwing them. Everywhere. Slimy, disgusting streaks of yolk ran down the walls. Splatters hit other customers, the raw, fishy smell clinging to their clothes. She acted as if she were a revolutionary, holding an egg aloft like a banner. "You're not burning corn! You're burning the sweat of our farmers!" she screamed. "A farmer's daughter will not allow this!" Unbelievable. She was accusing me of waste, claiming to be a voice for the farmers. Yet, in less than a minute, she had smashed over twenty eggs. Who was the one being wasteful now? Who was speaking for the poor hens that worked so hard to lay those eggs? Her tantrum spent, she straightened her shoulders and marched out, wrapped in a shroud of self-righteousness. I wanted to chase after her, but the restaurant was in chaos. Customers were leaving in droves, complaining that this random disaster was worse than finding a hair in their food. I had no choice but to stay and manage the fallout. I promised everyone their meal was on the house and that I’d cover their dry-cleaning bills. As for the girl, from the look of her clothes, her family didn't have much. Even if I caught her, she wouldn't be able to pay for the damages. I let it go. In business, you have to pick your battles. The world is full of fools; I'd just have to count this as a lesson. The next day, I opened up as usual, only to be ambushed by a pack of reporters shoving cameras in my face. "Do you have a response to the allegations online?" That's how I found out I'd gone viral. Someone had posted a video exposing my "wasteful" use of corn. But it didn't stop there. The video spun a vile rumor. "A woman owning a business? She must have slept her way to the top." "I bet some sugar daddy paid for this whole place." At first, people were skeptical. Then the original poster dropped a photo of me in the comments. In the picture, there was a sticky, white puddle in the middle of my skirt. Paired with the suggestive captions, it was designed to make people's minds go straight to the gutter. The comments section exploded with filth. "Pop quiz: If she's using the kernels for fuel, what do you think she's using the cobs for?" "Now we know the real reason she's buying all that corn." I laughed, a bitter, angry sound, and clicked on the poster's profile. Dozens of selfie videos confirmed it. It was her. I sent her a private message. "You know exactly where that picture came from." It was just egg yolk from when she'd pelted me last night. I thought she was just having a meltdown, but this was a different level of vicious. And from another woman, no less. She didn't even bother denying it. Her reply was instant. "Hehe, a farmer's daughter has to defend her crops!" I told her what she was doing was illegal. Slander. She didn't care. She just kept repeating the same childish taunt. "Aww, did I strike a nerve? U mad?" Fine. Let the video ferment. Once it crossed the viewership threshold for criminal charges, we'd see who was really mad. Thanks to the online mob, not a single customer came in all day. Instead, I got a visit from the police, the fire marshal, and the health department. It turned out the girl had filed a full suite of complaints against me, a tactic she’d learned online. My conscience was clear. I told them to inspect whatever they wanted. I wasn't worried about that. But one thing bothered me. Why was she so obsessed with me? If she was truly outraged about using corn as fuel, my grill wasn't the only one doing it. Her actions were clearly meant to destroy me, personally. I couldn't think of any time I might have crossed her. What could she possibly gain from all this? Something wasn't right. The grill was forced to close pending the inspections. With the unexpected free time, I decided to drive out to the countryside and sign my contracts for the fall harvest. I'd made a promise to support the local farmers, and I wouldn't back out, even if my restaurant stayed closed for the rest of the year. The drive out was rough. Recent rains had turned the country roads into a muddy mess, and my car bounced and slid the whole way. When I arrived, I had to wait a long time before the town's mayor, an old man named Hemlock, finally came out to see me. He looked sour. I remembered my first year buying from them. The whole town had thanked me with tears in their eyes. They said I had saved them, giving them enough money to have a proper holiday season. Seeing their joyful faces was what made me decide to come back every year. "Sarah. You're here again," Mayor Hemlock said, sitting down and taking a sip of tea. Maybe he was just having a bad day. I didn't let his attitude bother me. I wasn't doing this for thanks. I handed him the contract. "Same as last year. You know the drill." He didn't take it. He set his teacup down with a deliberate clink. "I've been thinking. This one-dollar-a-pound rate… feels a little low, don't it? The cheapest charcoal is four dollars a pound. Why shouldn't you give us that three-dollar difference?" He looked at me with narrowed eyes. "We're simple country folk, Sarah. We don't take kindly to being cheated." This was bizarre. Suddenly everyone was an expert on my corn procurement. "Mayor, you're misunderstanding," I said calmly. "First, the contract clearly states that I'm buying your low-grade, unsellable corn. The market price for that is fifty cents a pound. I'm offering double that. Second, I have to cover all the transportation costs myself. When you factor that in, my total expense is about the same as buying charcoal." The town was tucked away in the hills. A single trip for a truckload of corn cost me thousands in gas alone, not to mention the time and effort. That's why no other buyers ever came out here. It's why, for years, their corn sold for pennies on the dollar, if it sold at all. Most of it just sat in their barns and rotted. And there was another thing. I'd noticed they liked to mix small rocks into the corn sacks to add weight. I figured they were just trying to make ends meet, so I always turned a blind eye. I never called them on it. The mayor seemed to waver, maybe convinced by my logic, or maybe just remembering how desperate things were a few years ago. He sighed and finally decided to sign. "Ah, fine. Take your profits, then." His words stung. He made it sound like I was begging him. I wanted to just get up and leave. But I thought of the other families in the village who were counting on this, so I swallowed my pride. The mayor put on his reading glasses and scrutinized the contract, reading it over and over. Finally, just as he was about to put pen to paper, a hand shot out and knocked the pen from his grasp. "Mayor! She's ripping you off! Don't sign it!" I looked up. It was the girl from my restaurant. "I went to the city and did my research," she announced. "This woman is sucking our blood, paying a dollar a pound for our corn!" "Do you know how much a corn tart costs in the city? Eighteen dollars! She can make three tarts from a single ear of corn that she buys from us for pennies!" The girl's name was Jenna, and this was her hometown. She puffed out her chest and launched into her grand vision. "I've already figured it out. We'll all pool our money and open our own dessert shop in the city. We'll process the corn ourselves and sell it at a huge markup! We'll make a thousand times more than we would selling to this crook!" I almost burst out laughing. So that was it. She wasn't mad that I was "wasting" their corn; she was mad that I was buying it at all, getting in the way of her get-rich-quick scheme. All that righteous talk was just a cover. But what she didn't seem to realize was that gourmet products like corn tarts and corn bread are made from premium, sweet corn. This village, with its poor, alkaline soil, could never produce that kind of quality. Besides, fad foods like corn tarts were already past their peak. The novelty had worn off, and no one was paying those inflated prices anymore. But Jenna was lost in her own fantasy business empire. "Mayor! We have to keep this wealth in our community!" she urged. "We just need to raise fifty thousand dollars to open the shop. I promise, I'll make this whole town rich! We won't have to bow to greedy capitalists ever again!" Fifty thousand dollars. Split among the families in town, that was a couple of thousand each. For most of them, that was a huge chunk of their annual income. But the mayor didn't even hesitate. He agreed on the spot and called a town meeting. Everyone was dazzled by the potential profits, scrambling to invest. They turned to me, their faces twisted with indignation. "You witch! Preying on honest farmers! You've been getting rich off us for years, haven't you!" "She knew one ear of corn could be worth fifty bucks, and she cheated us because she thinks we're all uneducated hicks!" As they worked themselves into a frenzy, someone's eyes turned red with rage. He grabbed a nearby sickle and swung it at me. Before I could react, a sharp pain seared across my arm. Then another. This wasn't just about business anymore. They were attacking me. I had tried to do something good, never asking for anything in return, and this was how they repaid me. My consideration, my turning a blind eye to their petty cheating, it was all a joke. I saw another blade coming down. There was no time to dodge. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact. The pain never came. Someone had grabbed the man's wrist, stopping the blade inches from my face. "Assault with a deadly weapon is a felony! I've already called the police!" The word "police" sobered the mob. They shuffled back, suddenly timid. My rescuer was a man named Miller. He was from a neighboring town. He had approached me before, asking if I could buy their surplus corn too, but my grill's demand was limited. I'd had to turn him down. He was just passing through today and saw that my deal had fallen through. He made his offer again. "If they don't want to sell, we do!" But after being betrayed like this, I was hesitant to get involved again. "Don't worry," he said, seeing the look on my face. "We're not like them. We're not ungrateful." "We know our corn isn't top quality. We'll take whatever you think is a fair price. And we'll split the transportation costs with you, fifty-fifty." Hearing this, Jenna scoffed. "A low price? Fifty cents a pound? Are you crazy? Do you have any idea how much that's worth once it's processed? You should invest with me." Mr. Miller just shook his head. "We're not looking to get rich quick. We just want an honest, steady income." I thought it over. His offer was more than fair. I wasn't the type to let one bad experience scare me off forever. If he was sincere, I was willing to give his town a chance. I drew up a new contract and signed it with him right there. "I'll be back with the trucks after the harvest." Jenna watched the whole exchange, her laughter growing louder and more mocking. "Fine, fine. Have it your way. Throw your lot in with the crook. But when you see us rolling in cash, don't come crawling back, begging for a piece of the pie." As I got in my car, I took one last look at her.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "386626", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel