After reaching that fragile transportation alliance with Charles Reeves, Allen did not relax.
Because he knew very well that the counterattack from the New York Wholesalers Alliance would come soon.
Therefore, during this brief period of peace, he had to forge a sharper weapon for himself, one that could be used on a completely new battlefield.
This afternoon, Allen's hotel suite welcomed a guest who was completely different from all the businessmen he had met before.
"Mr. Williams, this is Mr. Fowler, the columnist for the Chicago Chronicle, whom I mentioned to you."
The stockbroker, Blackwood, gravely introduced the man beside him.
Allen looked at Fowler before him.
He was about forty years old, tall and thin, wearing a wrinkled woolen coat.
His hair was disheveled, his eyes were somewhat cloudy from long-term alcoholism, and he smelled of cheap whiskey, inexpensive cigars, and old newspaper ink.
"Hello, Mr. Williams."
A mocking smile hung on Fowler's lips as he surveyed the luxurious suite, his tone flippant.
"It seems the capitalists in the East really know how to enjoy themselves more than us country bumpkins in the West. Tell me, esteemed sir, you've spent a fortune to invite a drunkard like me, who's about to be kicked out of the newspaper office. Do you want me to write a biography for you? To sing praises of how you transformed from a poor boy into a big boss who exploits workers?"
Facing this thorny opening, Allen did not get angry. He just smiled and poured Fowler a glass of Scotch whiskey.
"Mr. Fowler, I didn't invite you here to praise me. On the contrary, I want to ask you to crusade against some of our mutual old friends."
"Old friends?"
"Yes." Allen pushed the glass towards him.
"For example, the directors of the Pennsylvania Railroad, or the shareholders of the New York Central Railroad. I imagine you have more to say about these people than I do, don't you?"
Fowler's hand, which was reaching for the glass, stopped in mid-air.
He looked up, and sharp light shot from his cloudy eyes.
"I read your series of reports on railroad land grants from a few years ago, Mr. Fowler."
Allen picked up his glass and said unhurriedly.
"That was the most brilliant and insightful investigative article I've ever seen. You used the most detailed data to expose how those railway oligarchs exploited Congress's land grant acts, acquiring millions of acres of state-owned land out of thin air, and ultimately forming a monopoly."
Then Allen's tone shifted, tinged with regret.
"It's a pity, though, that such a great article was ultimately suppressed by a concerted effort from the major mainstream newspapers."
"They have money, Mr. Williams. With money, they can turn all newspapers into their mouthpieces."
Fowler's tone was filled with cynical resentment.
"But now, things are different."
Allen looked at him and said slowly.
"Because I also have money. And I am willing to spend money to buy your pen, to buy your anger, to buy your heart of justice that has not yet been completely corroded by alcohol."
He placed a prepared plan on the table.
"I am currently at war with the Eastern Railroad Alliance. They are using the most despicable means to try and strangle my partner in Chicago, Mr. Charles Reeves, and his Mississippi and Eastern Railroad Company."
"Reeves?" Fowler clearly knew the man.
"He's a respectable fool, a Don Quixote who dares to charge at windmills."
"Exactly." Allen nodded. "And now I need you, Mr. Fowler, to be the bard who sings of this Don Quixote."
"I want you to write his story. To write the story of a stubborn idealist who fought against the darkness of an entire industry for half his life for the sake of 'fair freight rates.'"
"And I also want you to continue to expose how those railway oligarchs use capital, connections, and dirty backroom deals to suppress every opponent who dares to challenge them."
"Write down everything you've wanted to write in your life but haven't dared to because of fear and oppression. Write it as a series, a series that will shake all of Chicago."
Fowler listened quietly.
His breathing also began to quicken.
What Allen described was precisely his dream, yet it was so out of reach.
"Write it out? And then what?"
However, after calming down, he sneered and retorted.
"Will my timid editor throw my manuscript into the fireplace? Mr. Williams, you are too naive. The media today are all just lapdogs of capital."
"I know that, of course, so I plan to buy your newspaper along with you."
Allen's understated remark was like a bomb dropped into a calm lake.
Even Blackwood, who was accompanying them, showed surprise.
"You... what did you say?"
Fowler couldn't believe his ears.
"The Chicago Chronicle." Allen said, "I've investigated. It's on the verge of bankruptcy, and its owner is eager to get rid of it as a burden. How much does it cost to buy it? Ten thousand dollars? Or twenty thousand?"
He turned to Blackwood:
"Mr. Blackwood, tomorrow, you go and talk to its owner. I want to acquire ownership of this newspaper."
Then, he turned his gaze back to Fowler, who was completely stunned.
"When I become the new owner of this newspaper, the first thing I will do is appoint a new editor-in-chief. And you, Mr. Fowler, will become the chief investigative reporter for this newspaper."
"I will create a brand new column for you, let's call it 'Truth Under the Tracks.'"
In this column, you will have editorial freedom without any interference.
As long as your articles are factual and supported by evidence, then no matter who your enemies are, or how powerful they may be, I and this newspaper will be your strongest backing."
Fowler, a man who had been disappointed for half his life, tormented by alcohol and reality, and made cynical, was completely broken at this moment.
He looked at Allen, this man twenty years his junior, this mysterious capitalist from the East.
The other party gave him not just a salary, a job.
But a newly sharpened sword of vengeance.
A stage where he could realize his lifelong ideals.
"Mr. Williams..."
He picked up the whiskey glass on the table and drank it in one gulp.
The strong liquor seemed to ignite the flame in his heart that was about to extinguish.
"Who exactly are you? The devil? Or an emissary sent by God?"
"I am just a businessman, Mr. Fowler." Allen smiled, "A businessman who believes in the power of public opinion even more than he believes in money."
He extended his hand to Fowler.
"So, will you join?"
Fowler looked at that hand, stunned for a long time.
Then, he showed a smile like a wild wolf, full of fighting spirit and cruelty.
He firmly grasped that hand.
"You will get more than just a cooperation agreement, Mr. Williams."
His voice was hoarse, but full of power.
"What you will get is my everything."
Only after Fowler left the hotel with a renewed vigor did Blackwood speak.
His tone was filled with bewilderment.
"Mr. Williams, I must say this is a very... extravagant move."
"Buying a newspaper just to publish a few articles. This investment is not cost-effective from a business return perspective."
"Who said I was only doing it to publish a few articles?"
Allen walked to the window, looking at the myriad lights of Chicago in the distance.
"Blackwood, you must remember. A newspaper never prints news. It prints the 'reality' in people's minds. It shapes public emotion."
"And public emotion, once ignited, will be a weapon more powerful and more terrifying than any railroad, any bank."
Allen had gathered all the weapons needed to launch this war.
Capital, transportation, public opinion.
A trinity.
Next, it was time for all of America to witness a spectacular show, personally directed by him, titled "Ant Fights Elephant."