An Ex-Thug Chased by Enchanting Billionaire Women

"Ma, Samson promises. Samson is going to repent and won't be a thug anymore. From now on, I'm going to find a real, honest job. So please, Ma, don't come back to haunt me, okay?" Samson whispered. His voice was deep and raspy, but there was a flicker of genuine terror in his tone.

Bejo, standing behind him and holding an umbrella that looked comically small for Samson’s massive frame, nudged the umbrella closer. "Boss, it’s almost sunset. we need to collect the 'protection money' from the cafe owners. They haven't paid this month's security f*e yet," he said, sounding completely innocent.

Samson spun around. His hardened face and piercing gaze made Bejo nearly drop the umbrella.

"Hey, Bejo! I just promised Ma that I’ve repented. You little devil! Do you want my mother to rise from her grave because of what you just said, huh?!" Samson bellowed.

"But Boss, if we don't shake people down, how are we going to eat? Gopar already finished our entire backup basket of rice this morning," Bejo countered, pointing at Gopar, who was happily munching on peanut crackers under a frangipani tree.

"I’ll find a job. Tomorrow, all of you are coming with me. We’re finding honest work!" Samson declared, marching away from the grave with iron resolve.

The next day, Samson, Bejo, Gopar, and Ucok walked down the main boulevard. The sight was terrifying. Samson led the way with a "ready-to-kill" expression, followed by Bejo, who was looking around suspiciously; Gopar, clutching a bag of fried snacks; and Ucok, wearing a bright pink silk scarf around his neck.

"Where to now, Boss?" Ucok asked.

"Let's try a restaurant first. Look, there's a Padang restaurant up ahead," Samson said, approaching the crowded eatery.

Samson took a deep breath, trying to practice a friendly smile, which unfortunately looked more like a murderous grin.

"Excuse me, Boss." Samson’s bass voice thundered through the room. "I'm looking for work—"

Instantly, the clinking of spoons and the chatter of customers stopped. The owner, who was holding a serving ladle, began to tremble. Taking in Samson’s giant stature and the scar over his eyebrow, not to mention Bejo looking around as if casing the joint, the owner turned deathly pale.

"Mercy, Bang! Mercy!" The owner frantically reached into the cash drawer. "Here, take these two hundred thousand. Please don't break my tables! I promise to pay earlier next month!"

Samson stared blankly at the money being shoved at him. "No, Boss. I mean, I want to be a dishwasher or a chicken butcher—"

"Don't do it, Bang! The chickens will die of heart attacks before you even touch them!" the owner screamed, pleading for them to leave. "Just take the money and please don't come back! My customers are all running away!"

Outside the restaurant, Samson and his three "minions" stood in silence, staring at the two banknotes in his hand.

"What is going on? We actually want to work," Samson lamented.

"Try somewhere else, Boss. Don't give up yet," Bejo encouraged.

Samson agreed, and they moved on. This time, they headed to a Hardware Store. Samson figured his strength would be useful there.

"Good afternoon, Sir. I’d like to apply for a job as a laborer," Samson said as politely as possible to the elderly shop owner.

The old man looked at Samson, then at Ucok, who was dusting the display case with his pink scarf, and finally at Gopar, who was busy sampling crackers from a tin on the counter.

"L-laborer?" the old man stammered. "No, I don't need help. I'm an old man; please don't rob me."

"Sir, we aren't here to rob you; we just want to apply for a job," Samson tried to explain.

"No, I don't need anyone. "Please leave; don't trash my shop," he said, handing over fifty thousand rupiah. "That’s all the money I have; please just go."

“Sir, we don’t want your money. Keep it, we’re here to work—”

“I don’t have anything! Please leave, take the money, and get out, or I’ll call the police!” The old man threatened, grabbing a broom and pointing it at the four of them.

“Sir, it’s not that we aren’t brave, but we are here for a job. Our Boss is incredibly strong; he can carry five bags of cement at once!” Bejo said, patting Samson’s muscular arm.

"Five bags of cement?!" The old man grew even more hysterical. He wasn't thinking about productivity; he was imagining Samson getting frustrated and hurling those cement bags at his head.

Suddenly, the man screamed at the top of his lungs. "Help! There are thugs trying to tear down my shop with cement!"

"No, that’s not the concept, Sir!" Samson cried out in frustration.

However, seeing the old man about to blow an emergency whistle, Samson was forced to retreat. "Let’s go, move out! "Before the locals actually beat us up for being suspected of a hardware store coup!"

They ended up standing on the sidewalk with a total of two hundred and fifty thousand rupiah in "forced donations." Samson stared at the sky in despair. He intended to be the family's economic hero, but instead, he had become a psychological burden to the city’s residents, as his failed attempts to raise money only added to their stress and frustration.

"Boss," Ucok said, stroking his dusty pink scarf. "I think the problem isn't our intention but your aura, Boss. It’s too... well, you know. Like you want to eat people alive."

"Really? I felt like I was being as soft as silk," Samson replied, rubbing his face.

"Soft? Boss, even your breathing sounds like a broken tractor engine," Gopar chimed in, opening his second bag of fried snacks.

"So what now? Stop eating and help me think!" Samson groaned.

"Oh! Boss, I heard a new salon just opened at the end of the street. Why don't we try there?" Bejo suggested.

"But I can't cut hair," Samson complained.

"At least you could wash hair or use a flat iron, right?" Ucok said.

"That’s right! Even being the cleaning crew wouldn't be a problem," Bejo added.

"Fine, let’s go," Samson said. "But I’m warning you, if we get kicked out again!"

They arrived at a modern minimalist building. The scent of aromatherapy and expensive perfume hit their noses. Samson nodded confidently and stepped inside. As the glass door opened, a bell chimed. Samson tried to put on his "gentlest" face.

"G-good afternoon." Samson tried to speak softly, but it still sounded like muffled thunder.

Three hairstylists holding hair dryers froze instantly. A woman getting her hair washed jumped so hard that shampoo suds got into her eyes.

"W-what do you want?" one employee asked, hands trembling while holding a pair of thinning shears. "If you're here for protection money, we just opened yesterday, Bang!"

"No! We want to apply for a job!" Bejo shouted helpfully. "My Boss here can do the cleaning or wash hair!"

Samson took a step forward, intending to show how strong his hands were for wringing out towels. However, because he was too large for the cramped salon, his shoulder accidentally clipped a display shelf of expensive perfumes.

CRASH!

Glass bottles shattered across the floor. A pungent, overwhelming fragrance filled the room.

"MY PERFUMES! MY MERCHANDISE!" screamed the salon owner, rushing out from the back.

Seeing her expensive bottles shattered and a giant, fierce-looking man standing there, she became hysterical. "THIEF! HELP! A THIEF IS ROBBING MY SALON!"

"No, Ma'am! It was an accident!" Samson panicked. He tried to pick up the glass shards, but it only looked like he was reaching for a weapon.

"HELP! THEY HAVE WEAPONS! THIEVES!" another employee screamed, throwing a bottle of hairspray at Samson.

Hearing the screams, locals began to gather outside with wooden planks.

"Boss! It's not safe! Run!" Bejo yelled, yanking Samson’s shirt.

"Hey, I'm not a thief! I just want a job!" Samson tried to defend himself, but seeing the mob turning violent, he had no choice. "Run!"

The four of them bolted down the sidewalk. Samson led the frantic escape, followed by a wheezing Bejo, Gopar (who was still managing to chew a piece of fried tofu), and Ucok, who was desperately holding onto his pink scarf.

"Dammit! This is just great!" Samson cursed as he ran. "I try to repent, and this is the trial I get, Ma?!"

Once they were far enough away, they stopped at a quiet corner to catch their breath. Samson leaned against a utility pole, his face flushed with shame and anger.

"Hah... hah... Boss, maybe we should just go back to being thugs," Bejo panted, clutching his knees. "Applying for a job just gets us mistaken for armed robbers."

Samson fell silent, staring at his large palms. "I just want to change, Jo. Does the world really not give me a single chance?"

"It's so hard to be a good person. Maybe we were just born to be thugs?" Gopar commented.

"There's no such thing," Ucok grumbled.

"Let's just go back for now. Use that money to buy food for today," Samson ordered.

"But Boss, is this money 'halal' or 'haram'? We didn't actually shake them down," Bejo asked innocently.

"It's halal," Gopar answered casually. "They gave it to us, didn't they?"

Samson sighed, lacking the energy to debate Gopar’s stomach-friendly ethics. "Just consider it a donation. Go buy the food and let's go home," Samson said, walking away first.

"You got it!" Bejo replied enthusiastically.

***