Allen's orders were swiftly broken down, executed, and transmitted to every nerve ending of this nascent business entity by his increasingly efficient core team.
Commercial warfare simultaneously erupted on two distinct yet complementary fronts.
The first front was in the 'clouds' of New York's high society.
Three days later, when Charles Tilford, in his Tilford Trading Company on Fifth Avenue, opened the day's New York Tribune, an article occupying half a page, seemingly a news report, immediately caught his attention.
The article's title was not sensationalist, but carried the calm and concern of an intellectual: "The Invisible Table Killer: Lead Poisoning and the Safety Concerns of Canned Foods."
Written by an anonymous person calling himself a 'Health and Science Columnist,' the article used detailed data and case studies to explain, in simple terms, how traditional lead-soldered canning techniques allowed trace amounts of lead to slowly seep into food during heating and long-term storage.
It also detailed the irreversible and devastating damage these trace amounts of lead could cause to the brain development of children.
The entire article was logically rigorous, well-supported by evidence, and imbued with scientific precision and humanitarian care.
It was only at the end of the article that it 'casually' mentioned:
"...Fortunately, we are pleased to see that Williams Food Company, a burgeoning local enterprise in New York, has taken the lead in adopting a revolutionary, completely lead-free mechanical seaming technology, setting a new benchmark for food safety in our city..."
Mr. Tilford finished reading and couldn't help but let out a heartfelt exclamation of praise.
He picked up the newspaper from his desk and went directly to Allen's company.
"Williams."
As soon as he arrived, his voice was filled with excitement.
"I saw today's newspaper, and I must admit, this is the most brilliant advertisement I've seen in my thirty years in business! You didn't boast about your product; you simply created 'fear,' and then turned yourself into the only 'antidote'!"
"I merely stated a fact, Mr. Tilford."
Allen smiled at this, but his voice remained calm.
"I believe your customers are intelligent people."
"They're not just intelligent, they're practically spooked now!" Tilford laughed.
"This morning I received at least twenty letters, all from my old customers. They were all asking if the European imported canned goods they bought before were 'lead-free'! This one article of yours has practically sent all traditional canned food brands to the guillotine!"
"So, regarding our Gold Label series..."
"Don't worry!"
Tilford's tone was full of a businessman's shrewdness.
"I've already had my staff turn your 'science popularization article,' along with that beautiful 'shield' logo you designed, into a promotional sign, placed right next to the Gold Label cans! I can foresee that my stock will be depleted within three days. Get ready for my next big order, young man!"
Meanwhile, at the Williams Food Company factory, Corporal Jones was directing workers to load a batch of brand-new canned goods onto a carriage.
The labels on these cans were starkly different from the exquisite red background, gold trim, and shield logo design of the 'Williams' series.
They used the cheapest paper and the crudest black ink printing.
On the label, there was only a silhouette of a worker vigorously swinging an iron hammer, with two rough characters below it: "iron man."
"Sir."
Jones walked up to Allen, who was supervising, and reported in a low voice.
"The first batch, a total of two thousand cans of Iron Man Stew, has been entirely produced. To be honest, the taste of this stuff... is far inferior to our 'Red Label.'"
"Its purpose isn't to be delicious, Jones."
Allen picked up a can of "iron man," looking at the crude label.
"Its sole mission is to fight, to bleed, to die. It is our hound, thrown into the mud to fight rats. While 'Williams' is the aristocrat sitting in the box, elegantly watching the beast fight show."
"I understand, sir."
Jones nodded, half-understanding.
"Go."
Allen ordered, then thought for a moment and said again:
"Send this entire shipment to Mr. Gable. Tell him the show can begin."
The second front quietly opened in the muddiest streets of the Bowery District.
At Mr. Gable's grocery store, when the first batch of "Iron Man Stew" was placed on the shelves, its shockingly low price immediately caught the attention of all customers.
"Twenty-four cents?! My God, Mr. Gable, you didn't mark the price wrong, did you?"
A regular customer exclaimed in surprise.
"Not marked wrong, new product launch, the factory is losing money to gain popularity."
Mr. Gable replied with a 'sincere' expression, following the script Allen had taught him.
Just then, Silas Croft, who had made a small fortune by imitating Allen, swaggered into the store.
He had come to 'show off' to Gable and inquire about the sales of 'Williams.'
"Good afternoon, Mr. Gable," Croft said triumphantly, "I hear Williams' canned goods aren't selling well lately, are they?"
"Yes, times are tough," Mr. Gable sighed, acting perfectly.
Croft's gaze was soon drawn to the unfamiliar 'iron man' can on the shelf.
When he saw the "twenty-four cents" price tag, the triumph on his face instantly froze.
"What... what the hell is this?!" he cried out, "Twenty-four cents! Who made this?! Does he want to die?!"
"I don't know either, Mr. Croft."
Mr. Gable spread his hands, a look of helplessness and sympathy on his face.
"I heard it's a new greenhorn in town, doesn't know the rules, thinks he can capture the market by losing money. Alas, these young people today... You see, with him doing this, even your business and mine are hard to do."
Mr. Gable's words, twisting facts and sowing discord, were seamless.
Croft believed him instantly.
He looked at the can of "Iron Man Stew," then at his own "Croft's Delicious Stew" which sold for twenty-five cents, and felt a surge of anger rush to his head.
He had painstakingly imitated the technology, worked tirelessly to cut costs, and only then set the price at twenty-five cents, earning only two or three cents per can.
Now, a 'price butcher' even more ruthless than him had suddenly appeared out of nowhere!
"Bastard! A bastard from who knows where!"
Croft trembled with rage.
"Does he think he's the only one who can play the price war? I'll fight him!"
He stormed out of the grocery store, leaving a harsh warning for Mr. Gable before he left.
"You wait, tomorrow! My cans will sell for twenty-three cents! I want to see how long that idiot can afford to lose money!"
Mr. Gable watched his retreating figure, then turned and made a victory gesture towards the shadows of the shop.
Allen emerged from the back door of the warehouse, a cold smile on his face.
"He took the bait, Mr. Gable. A greedy and foolish fish has bitten the poisoned bait we prepared for him."
That evening, Catherine's desk held two distinctly different reports.
One was a flood of new orders for the 'Gold Label' and 'Red Label' series from Tilford Trading Company and other uptown stores, along with the massive advance payments they had made.
The other was a sales report on "Iron Man Stew" and Croft's latest movements, sent by Mr. Gable.
"Sir,"
Catherine's tone was filled with awe at Allen's one-two punch.
"Everything is according to your plan. Our brand advertising successfully created a 'lead panic' in high society, and sales of the 'Gold Label' series are expected to be thirty percent higher than our most optimistic estimates."
"And in the Bowery District."
"Croft has officially announced that he will reduce the price of his product to twenty-three cents. And our 'Iron Man Stew,' being a whole cent cheaper, sold over five hundred cans today alone. Although we barely make any profit, we successfully brought the war to Croft's doorstep."
"Very good, spread the word."
"Increase the advertising for 'Williams' brand. I want every middle-class housewife in New York to be anxious about lead poisoning."
"At the same time, send Mr. Gable a new pricing list—starting tomorrow, the retail price of 'Iron Man Stew' will be adjusted to twenty-two cents."
He looked out at the myriad lights of New York, his voice soft but filled with the finality of a verdict.
"I don't want to play with him for too long. One month. I'm only giving him one month."
"After one month, I want the name 'Croft,' along with his ridiculous chef's portrait, to completely disappear from the shelves of New York."