CHAPTER EIGHT

The man who stepped out of the car was just coming back from the club With his babe, more like his sex partner. He was steering the wheel at a high velocity, while the speakers in the car blared with music.

He had been kissing at intervals while driving which made him run out of control and had knocked Franklin down.

"Oops," the girl in the car exclaimed, though her tone lacked any real concern.

He could have just driven past, but he wanted to have fun. He came out of his car to meet Franklin, who was just getting up from the floor.

Franklin spun to face him, about to say something, but he didn't get the chance as the guy had already started shouting, Franklin just looked at him, muddied.

"Watch where you are going, you moron. Now, look, you hit my car with that thing. Do you know how much this car is worth? You, and your assets--if you have any, are not worth this expensive car," the man spouted, his voice full of anger.

Franklin was very sure he did not crash into his car; it was the man who drove recklessly, as though he owned the road. He was the one who drove at a high speed and almost injured him.

He wondered how a scooter could even leave a scratch on his car, let alone damage it. Franklin was furious. He would not have someone blame him for something that was not his fault at all.

"Excuse me, you knocked me down. It is your fault and your carelessness. You have no right to yell at me for something that is not my fault but your mistake. You should do otherwise. You are not acting according to the law," Franklin retorted, his voice firm.

The young man burst into laughter as he directed his gaze at Franklin, carefully studying him before laughing once again. With a mocking tone, he taunted, "What can you do? You're just a poor delivery guy with no qualifications at all. What do you know about the law? I bet you know nothing, hence your ability to confidently spout nonsense. Haven't you realized that we, the rich, are above the law? We can do whatever we want. So, drop that attitude, dude." His words oozed with arrogance as he asserted their control over the rules.

As Franklin pondered on his words, he felt like he belonged to a different world. His father had taught him to be kind to everyone, regardless of their position or class.

He thought the world was a beautiful place where people lived together in harmony. But as he grew up, he began to see a different world—a world where the poor were oppressed, and the rich could do whatever they wanted.

Just then, a young lady came out of the car, dressed in a mini skirt. She walked over to the man and then took a look at Franklin. "Oh, you!" she exclaimed, pointing her finger at him.

"You know him, babe?" the man asked, hugging her as if to flaunt their relationship.

"Yes, I do. His name is Franklin. He was my classmate back in high school," she said, giving Franklin a look that was not quite understandable.

"So, she is the one. The high school dog," Franklin thought and chuckled aloud.

She was given that name because she wanted to belong to the "pop-up girls," and so, she always did whatever they asked her to do.

"I thought you said you were from a rich family. So, what are you doing, driving a scooter, and putting on a delivery uniform?" she mocked, her tone dripping with disdain.

Franklin's countenance had changed. Why were people like this? What happened to the right to work? Why were the poor being trampled on?

The more he thought about all this, the angrier he became. Not like they had any money of their own; they were dependent on their parents' wealth. He deserved an apology from both of them.

"Apologize, now," Franklin demanded, his voice firm and unwavering.

"And what if I don't?" the man countered, his tone defiant.

"I said you should apologize because you are wrong. You knocked me down and still insulted me. You owe me an apology," Franklin insisted, his patience wearing thin.

The man and the lady looked at each other and laughed. "You must be dreaming, young man. Hmm, I admire your audacity. How can a poor delivery guy like you look at me in the face and still have the boldness to ask me to apologize.”

Franklin's frustration surged as he glared at them, contemplating involving the police. "Apologize, or I'll call the cops!" he threatened firmly.

The man chuckled dismissively, showing no concern for Franklin's warning. "Oh, scared of the police, are we?" he taunted. "Go ahead, call them. Let's see how that turns out."

Perplexed by the man's confidence, Franklin struggled to understand his motives.

Fortunately, two passing road safety officials caught sight of the scene.

"What's happening here?" one of the officials inquired, addressing the group.

Before Franklin could respond, the man took the opportunity to tell a false story. "This delivery guy crashed into my car with his scooter," he claimed. "I asked for compensation, but he started hurling insults instead."

Franklin gaped at him in disbelief, astonished by his ability to fabricate a convincing tale.

The two officials, determined to resolve the situation, expressed their intent to inspect the car for damage.

However, the man, sensing trouble, tried to dissuade them. "No need for that. Just take my word for it and write him a citation. He's clearly at fault," he insisted, growing increasingly agitated.

The officials maintained their professionalism. "We need to check for ourselves. Let us do our job," they asserted.

Realizing his deception could be exposed, the man resorted to desperate measures. "Do you know The Howards?" he asked, watching the officials closely.

By the mention of the powerful family, the officials' demeanor shifted slightly. "Yes? Why do you ask?" they responded, curious.

"I'm Max Howard, their son," the man claimed, smirking triumphantly.