Felix's detailed commands were swiftly translated into action, executed by his increasingly efficient core team and transmitted across the nascent business entity. Commercial warfare erupted simultaneously on two distinct, complementary fronts.
The first front opened in the 'clouds' of New York's high society. Three days later, Charles Tilford, in his Fifth Avenue headquarters, opened The New York Tribune and was immediately struck by a half-page article. The title was sober and intellectual: "The Invisible Table Killer: Lead Poisoning and the Safety Concerns of Canned Foods."
Authored by an anonymous 'Health and Science Columnist,' the piece rigorously explained how traditional lead-soldered canning techniques allowed trace amounts of lead to seep into food, causing irreversible damage, particularly to children's brain development. The article was detailed, evidence-based, and imbued with humanitarian concern. It concluded only by 'casually' mentioning: "...Fortunately, we are pleased to see that Argyle & Co. Foods, a burgeoning local enterprise, 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 let out a heartfelt exclamation of praise. He hurried over to Felix's factory.
"Argyle," Tilford greeted him, his voice buzzing with excitement. "I saw today's newspaper. This is the most brilliant advertisement I've seen in thirty years! 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," Felix responded calmly.
"They're not just intelligent, they're practically spooked now!" Tilford laughed. "I received twenty letters from old customers asking if the European imports they bought were 'lead-free'! This one article has sent all traditional canned food brands straight to the guillotine!"
"So, regarding our Gold Label series..."
"Don't worry!" Tilford interrupted with a shrewd flourish. "My staff have already transformed 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 foresee my stock being depleted within three days. Get ready for my next large order, young man!"
Meanwhile, at the Argyle factory, Corporal Jones supervised the loading of a starkly different batch of canned goods. The labels were cheap, printed in crude black ink on the lowest quality paper, featuring only a silhouette of a worker swinging a hammer, with two rough words: "Iron Man."
"Sir," Jones reported to Felix, "The first batch of two thousand cans of Iron Man Stew is produced. To be honest, the taste of this stuff... is far inferior to our 'Red Label.'"
"Its purpose isn't to be delicious, Jones." Felix picked up a can, 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 'Argyle' is the aristocrat sitting in the box, elegantly watching the beast fight show."
"Go," Felix ordered. "Send this entire shipment to Mr. Gable. Tell him the show can begin."
The second front quietly opened in the grimiest streets of the Bowery District. When the first batch of "Iron Man Stew" was placed on Mr. Gable's shelves, its shockingly low price immediately drew attention.
"Twenty-four cents?! Mr. Gable, did you mark the price wrong?" a regular customer exclaimed.
"Not wrong, new product launch," Gable replied with a 'sincere' expression, following Felix's script. "The factory is losing money to gain popularity."
Just then, Silas Croft swaggered into the store, intending to gloat over Argyle's declining sales. "Good afternoon, Mr. Gable," Croft said triumphantly, "I hear Argyle's canned goods aren't selling well lately, are they?"
"Yes, times are tough," Gable sighed, feigning helplessness.
Croft's gaze then fell upon the unfamiliar 'Iron Man' can and the twenty-four cent 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." Gable spread his hands, a look of sympathy replacing his helplessness. "I heard it's a new greenhorn in town, doesn't know the rules, and thinks he can capture the market by losing money. You see, with him doing this, even your business and mine are hard to do."
Gable's fabricated tale was seamless. Croft instantly believed him, the narrative of a reckless competitor fitting his worldview perfectly. He looked at his own "Croft's Delicious Stew," which sold for twenty-five cents and earned him a paltry two cents per can. Now, an even more ruthless 'price butcher' had appeared.
"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, leaving a harsh warning for Gable: "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 him go, then turned and flashed a victory sign toward the back of the shop. Felix emerged from the shadows, a cold smile on his face. "He took the bait, Mr. Gable. A greedy and foolish fish has bitten the poisoned bait we prepared."
That evening, Catherine presented two distinctly different reports. The first showed a flood of new orders for the 'Gold Label' and 'Red Label' series from Tilford and uptown stores.
"Sir," Catherine said, awe in her voice. "Our brand advertising successfully created a 'lead panic,' and sales of the 'Gold Label' series are thirty percent higher than our most optimistic estimates."
"And in the Bowery District," she continued, "Croft has officially announced he will reduce his price to twenty-three cents. 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. Increase the advertising for the 'Argyle' brand," Felix commanded. "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 lights of New York, his voice carrying 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."
The war was now entering its second week. The dual stranglehold was proving even more effective than the most optimistic projections. Uptown, the "lead panic" continued to ferment. Mr. Tilford was ecstatic: "My Gold Label is completely sold out. My customers are pre-ordering your canned goods! I now need you to double the supply!"
Downtown, the squeeze was fatal. "Our Red Label sales have seen a strong rebound," Catherine reported, "as even Bowery citizens, worried about health, are now willing to spend a little more on the shield logo product."
"What about Croft? And our 'Iron Man'?" Felix asked.
"Croft lowered his prices again three days ago. His canned goods dropped to twenty cents, and our 'Iron Man Stew' also dropped to nineteen cents." She pointed to the ledger. "At nineteen cents, we lose about half a cent per can. Last week, our total strategic loss on the Iron Man project was thirty-two dollars."
"Thirty-two dollars..." Felix smiled slightly. "Using thirty-two dollars to tie up a competitor's entire energy and disrupt the entire low-end market's pricing system. That's cost-effective."
"Mr. Gable says Croft is almost insane," Catherine continued, eyes wide with awe. "He doesn't understand why this 'Iron Man Stew' can engage in such a suicidal price war with him, as if it has unlimited money."
"He doesn't know yet, his nightmare is far from over." Felix's gaze drifted toward Five Points.
That afternoon, Catherine, accompanied by factory guards, found the small workshop that supplied Croft with cheap iron cans. The owner was a scrawny Irish tinsmith named Finn.
"I represent my employer, and I'm here to discuss a business deal with you," Catherine stated, placing an envelope containing fifty dollars on Finn's greasy table.
"My employer hopes to buy all of your workshop's production capacity for the next three months. The price will be twenty percent higher than what you currently sell to Mr. Croft."
Finn was stunned. "All of it? And twenty percent more?"
"Yes. However, the contract needs to be absolutely confidential. If Mr. Croft asks, tell him you received a large order from Philadelphia and can't supply him." Catherine placed a second envelope with fifty dollars on the table. "This is the deposit. Sign now. Mr. Finn, my employer asked me to tell you something: Smart people always find a new, sturdier ship before the old one sinks. Mr. Croft's ship has already started to leak."
Finn looked at the hundred dollars, thought of Croft's increasing desperation, and signed the contract instantly.
When Catherine returned, Felix was enjoying a celebratory whiskey with Bill.
"Felix, you truly are a devil!" Bill exclaimed. "Croft is like a mad dog, trying to buy meat at high prices. But since we cleared out the surrounding supply, the wholesalers raised prices another ten percent! Croft was so angry he almost flipped their tables!"
"Very good." Felix refilled Bill's drink. "His selling price is collapsing, and his costs are soaring. Soon he will discover that he can't even buy the iron boxes to pack his own rubbish."
"Sir," Catherine stood at the door, her feelings complex. "Isn't what we're doing... too cruel? This is equivalent to cutting off all his paths to survival."
Felix put down his glass. "Catherine, remember, in the world of business, there is no cruelty, only life and death. Kindness to a competitor is cruelty to oneself. Croft is not an opponent worthy of sympathy; he is exchanging the public's health for his meager profits. What we are doing is not destruction, but 'purification.'"
The noose had completely tightened. Selling price, cost, reputation, and packaging, every pillar Croft relied on was mercilessly pulled away, one by one. His business life had entered its final countdown.