Alright, the online shitstorm had died down for now, and the buzz was at its peak.
Time to cash in on all that traffic, both online and off.
He needed a few more cameras installed, just in case Jack tried to weasel out or deny the whole thing.
The discount shopping app in his head lit up again.
Pinhole cams, portable ones, a big prize wheel, barbells—he bought a whole haul of gear piece by piece and hauled it all into the warehouse.
That night in the Gallagher dining room, the usual chaos soundtrack played out—silverware clattering, Carl yelling every few minutes. Shane finished eating, set his fork down, and tapped the table twice.
"Alright. Everybody listen up."
The whole family stopped and looked at him.
"After school on Friday, don't go running off. Everybody gets to the gym. I've got assignments for you."
"Paying gig?" Lip asked through a mouthful of potato.
"If you do it right, Saturday's gonna be the biggest payday we've had all week. Fuck it up and you're drinking air for dinner."
Shane stood up without explaining further.
"I'll give you the details then. For now, eat up. You're gonna need the energy."
He headed down to the basement to finish prepping, leaving the Gallaghers at the table trading glances.
Friday afternoon at the South Side Iron Gym. The warehouse buzzed with power drills and overlapping voices.
Shane was up on a ladder swapping out old cameras for the new high-def wide-angle ones with night vision he'd grabbed from the app. He'd spray-painted the casings the same dirty gray as the walls so they'd blend in unless you were looking straight at them. One was tucked behind a rusty vent, lens angled to cover the spot where Jack would probably stand. Another was hidden in the shadows of a ceiling beam.
Once they were secured, Shane hopped down and dusted off his hands. He glanced over at Lip, who was hunched over a laptop tweaking settings.
"How's the signal? I need real-time streaming, no lag."
Lip didn't even look up. "You think I'm an amateur? Got the RTMP server running smooth. Even threw together a chat room. Named it 'Who's the Pussy? Live Showdown.'"
He spun the laptop around so Shane could see the screen. "Whole Chicago's trolls are gonna be in there talking shit. Might even crash that server you rented."
Lip turned the screen back. "Seriously though, you going through all this just to beat up some meathead?"
"For the clicks, Lip," Shane said, checking the power cords on the new cams. "Clicks mean money. And humiliating an arrogant asshole? That's the kind of story that brings the clicks."
He walked over to the big prize wheel he'd built in the corner. It was about five feet across, divided into dozens of sections with flashy labels for the prizes—all very "premium":
Grand Prize (gold section): $500 cash!
First Prize (red): Shane Gallagher's Ultimate Transformation Plan—$199 value! (No coaching included)
Second Prize (blue): Limited-edition "South Side Iron Gym" cotton sweat towel ($10 value)
Third Prize (green): Free "Devil's Brew" energy drink ($3 value)
Everything else was a gray "Thanks for Playing" section that made up ninety percent of the wheel.
Veronica was sorting towels nearby, her mouth twitching. "This wheel's rigged as hell, right? These towels feel like sandpaper, and that 'ultimate plan' is just a PDF, isn't it?"
"PDF costs nothing to make," Shane said without missing a beat. "Towels are polyester—great for sweat. The five hundred bucks? Well…"
Kevin finished hammering the wheel together and grabbed a dart, grinning. "Hey Shane, let me test it. I'm a dart champ back at the bar."
He stepped up, squinted at the tiny gold $500 section, and flicked his wrist.
The dart flew straight—then, right before hitting the gold, it veered off in a weird little arc and stuck firmly in a gray "Thanks for Playing" section.
Kevin stared. "What the fuck?"
Shane and Lip exchanged a look. Lip burst out laughing first.
"Not the wind, genius. Physics," Shane said, walking over and yanking the dart free. He pointed at the back of the gold section. "N52 neodymium magnet hidden in there. Dart tip's got one too. Same poles repel."
Lip chimed in. "I added magnets to the other prize sections too, weaker ones. Unless you're Magneto, that dart ain't hitting the big money."
Shane pointed at the second and third prize areas. "Thick clear tape on those. Dart won't stick if the throw's weak."
Kevin's jaw dropped. "You're a fucking genius. Or a complete asshole."
Shane just smirked.
Over by the glowing blue barrels, Debbie was stirring a big batch of "energy drink"—basically water, salt, food coloring, and some cheap flavor powder from the app. She looked skeptical.
"Shane, this stuff's safe to drink, right? It's just water, salt, and this powder that smells like a factory."
"Perfectly safe," Shane said, dumping in more powder and stirring. "It's what every sports drink is—water, sugar, salt, and enough dye to make it look expensive."
He tapped the label on the barrel: "South Side Devil's Brew."
"Looks premium as hell, doesn't it? If they win it, they get a free cup. If not and they still want one, five bucks a pop. Tell 'em it's our secret formula and it'll add ten pounds to their lifts."
Debbie nodded slowly, still stirring. It did look like something you couldn't afford.
With the prep mostly done, Shane clapped his hands and gathered everyone in the middle of the warehouse for a final family briefing.
He stood in the center, eyes sweeping over the crew, and started laying out the plan.