Chapter 6: Ninety Percent Off Everything

Chapter 6: Ninety Percent Off Everything

The air in the mall parking lot was cold and still, holding the pre-dawn grayness of a world not yet awake. It was 5:45 AM, two days before the official end. Streetlights cast long, lonely shadows across the asphalt. One by one, cars and vans, their headlights cutting through the gloom, pulled into the employee parking area behind Apex Electronics #734. There was no chatter, no friendly greetings. The twelve members of the team got out of their vehicles and gathered by the steel rear entrance, their faces illuminated by the dim security light, their expressions a mixture of grim resolve and giddy terror.

Arthur arrived last. He didn't say a word, simply gave a solemn nod and inserted his key into the lock. The deadbolt's heavy, metallic clunk was the only sound, the starting gun for their revolution. They filed into the pitch-black stockroom, the familiar scents of cardboard and plastic wrap now charged with illicit energy.

Arthur flipped a single switch, bringing the stockroom’s harsh industrial lights to life. The meticulously arranged piles of merchandise, their arsenal, stood waiting.

“Alright,” Arthur said, his voice a low command that echoed in the cavernous space. “You all know the plan. We do this quick, clean, and quiet. We are following the letter of the law. Their law.” He held up the thick binder, the Management Operations Handbook, like a priest holding a sacred text. “Section 7, Subsection D, Clause 12. This isn’t a heist. It’s a manager’s discretionary asset devaluation to facilitate immediate sale. Remember that.”

He led the way onto the main sales floor. It was a ghostly landscape of darkened aisles and silent displays. He powered up a single point-of-sale terminal at the front register, its screen glowing to life in the oppressive dark. The rest of the store remained unlit. This entire operation would happen in the shadows.

“Dave,” Arthur said softly. “You’re first.”

The old veteran, his face set like stone, pushed his heavily laden cart forward. It was piled high with the networking gear and custom installation tools that represented his stolen retirement. He placed the first item, a commercial-grade server, on the counter.

Arthur picked up the scanner. The silence was so profound that the tool’s cheerful, high-pitched beep sounded like a gunshot. The item appeared on the screen: NetGear Pro-Series Server. Retail: $2,499.99.

Arthur’s fingers moved over the keyboard with practiced ease. He navigated to the price adjustment menu, a screen he’d used a thousand times to mark down an open-box toaster. He typed in the override code, selected ‘Manager Discretionary,’ and then the reason code: ‘Closing Facility Liquidation.’ Finally, he entered the discount. -90%.

The price on the screen instantly changed: $249.99.

A collective, sharp intake of breath came from the onlookers. Seeing it in theory was one thing. Seeing it happen was another. It felt like watching someone crack a bank vault with a library card.

One by one, Arthur scanned Dave’s items. Beep. A spool of fiber-optic cable. Beep. A network diagnostic toolkit. Beep. The sound wasn’t just a transaction anymore; it was the rhythm of their victory, a steady drumbeat of retribution. Each beep was a blow against the lie of ‘underperformance.’ Each beep was a reclamation of a stolen future.

Dave’s final total for over forty thousand dollars’ worth of equipment came to just over four thousand. He inserted his credit card, the machine chirped its approval, and the receipt printed out, long and damningly legitimate.

“Next,” Arthur said, his voice unchanged.

Sarah went next, her hands trembling slightly as she unloaded the components of her future audio engineering studio. The 32-channel mixing board that retailed for ten thousand dollars scanned in at one thousand. The case of microphones worth five grand became five hundred. The beeps continued, methodical and relentless.

Then it was Leo’s turn.

He pushed his two carts forward, a mountain of black and silver boxes that contained his entire dream. He felt a tremor of unreality, the fear that he would wake up at any moment. Arthur gave him a small, encouraging smile.

Arthur picked up the Blackfire Cinema 6K Pro camera body. Beep. Retail: $12,500.00. Arthur typed. New Price: $1,250.00.

Leo felt his breath catch in his throat. This single piece of equipment had been the subject of his daydreams for a year. He’d run the numbers a hundred times, trying to figure out how many decades it would take him to afford it.

Next came the Zeiss lenses, each one scanning with a triumphant chirp. The professional tripod. The Aputure lighting kit. The Sennheiser shotgun mic. Then the components for his editing rig: the motherboard, the graphics card powerful enough to render a small universe, the wall of high-speed storage. The scanner beeped and beeped and beeped, a symphony of liberation. It was the sound of his new company, Apex Media, being born.

The final retail subtotal on the screen was a staggering $73,458.27. Arthur applied the discount.

Total Due: $7,345.83.

Leo stared at the number. It was still a huge amount of money, a terrifying amount to put on a credit card. But it was also the bargain of a lifetime, an investment in himself made possible by corporate greed and a forgotten line of text. He slid his card into the terminal. The seconds it took for the transaction to process felt like an eternity.

APPROVED.

The word glowed green on the small screen. It was done. It was his.

Within an hour, it was over. Twelve transactions. Twelve futures secured. Arthur printed the final end-of-day report. The numbers were glorious in their absurdity. Total Merchandise Sold (Retail Value): $489,672.41. Total Sales Revenue: $48,967.24. A near half-million-dollar blow to the company, executed flawlessly, legally, and without a single item being technically stolen.

There were no cheers, no celebration. The mood was one of somber, profound satisfaction. In the pre-dawn darkness of the parking lot, they loaded their vehicles. The weight of the boxes was tangible, real. This wasn't a fantasy anymore.

When the last box was loaded, they gathered at the employee entrance one final time. One by one, they walked back into the empty stockroom and placed their store keys and plastic name tags on a clean, empty pallet. It was a silent, symbolic resignation.

They walked out together and Arthur locked the door behind them for the very last time. They stood there for a moment, a small, united band of rebels, looking back at the dark silhouette of the store that had been their home, their prison, and now, their salvation. The first hints of pink and orange were beginning to stain the eastern sky. A new day was dawning.

They didn't look like victims. They weren't a group of discarded, laid-off retail workers shuffling off into unemployment. As they turned and walked towards their cars, they were armed. They were victors. They were the founders of twelve new companies, walking away from the ashes of the old world to build their own. And they had the receipts to prove it.