Chapter 50: The Cost of Moonshine
“Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Callander.”
The promise of ten percent of the moonshine profits instantly revived Benedict’s spirits.
Moments ago, he’d felt crushed—but now, all his frustration melted away. Compared to cold, hard cash, what else in this world could possibly matter?
Nothing was more seductive than the almighty dollar.
He hadn’t expected Davey’s talk of partnership to be genuine. At first, he’d assumed it was just another empty promise.
After all, Davey now held his formula—and considering their power dynamic, even if he refused to share the profits, there wasn’t a damn thing Benedict could do about it.
He’d met plenty of rich men and businessmen in his life—ruthless types who’d bleed a man dry and still demand his bones.
The wealthy were greedy beyond reason, and none of them would ever willingly share their earnings.
“Alright then, Mr. Benedict,” Davey said evenly. “Now let’s talk about production costs.”
Davey wasn’t doing this out of kindness. The reason he offered that ten percent cut was because he recognized Benedict’s value.
He hadn’t expected perfection from this operation; he just wanted a decent-tasting moonshine.
But Benedict had far exceeded his expectations—creating something that not only matched the flavor of fine whiskey but had its own unique charm.
Talent, Davey knew, was rare and precious in any era.
Exploit it too harshly, and it would die off. Work together, and both sides could thrive.
Benedict, now with a taste of reward, wouldn’t think about running—he’d be even more committed to protecting their shared interests.
“Mr. Callander, our production costs aren’t high,” Benedict began eagerly. “The real value lies in the complexity of the process itself. Flavorings and colorants cost only a few dollars a bag, enough to last us quite a while.”
“To produce one large batch—about a hundred gallons or so—the cost runs around thirty dollars. Bottling comes to roughly twenty to thirty cents per bottle.”
“Oh, the only real expense is the glass bottles themselves. They’re seven and a half cents each, though if you order in bulk, I’m sure the manufacturer would offer a discount.”
“Of course, that doesn’t include labor or transport costs. But Mr. Callander, with the quality of our moonshine, we could sell it for $2.50 a bottle, and people would still line up to buy it. We won’t have to worry about sales.”
As Davey listened, the numbers began forming a clear plan in his mind.
On the current market, most strong liquors sold for between two and five dollars a bottle. Premium brands cost more, of course.
Even within the same label, there were different tiers and price points.
In Valentine, though, even the “expensive” liquor was relatively cheap.
Brandy sold for $3.00 a bottle.
Kentucky bourbon went for $3.75.
Gin was $2.10, Guarma rum $2.50, and whiskey $2.60.
All of these were among the town’s best-selling spirits.
Then there were lighter drinks—beer, for example, cost around $1.50 a bottle.
Moonshine, on the other hand, varied wildly. Low-quality batches could go for as little as a dollar, but those were often mixed with industrial alcohol—cheap, dangerous, and sometimes lethal.
High-quality moonshine, however, could fetch $2.25 on the black market.
“Produce at full capacity, Mr. Benedict,” Davey said after a pause. “I want five hundred bottles ready as soon as possible.”
“Don’t worry about distribution—I’ll handle that.”
Right now, he was running low on cash. And without money, everything became difficult.
But now that the formula was set, it was time to bring in revenue.
“Very well, Mr. Callander,” Benedict said, bowing slightly. “Though I do have one small request.”
“Could you find me a reliable assistant? Bottling is tedious work, and frankly, my time would be better spent perfecting the product rather than wasting it on such dull tasks.”
“It really gets in the way of my creative process, you know.”
Davey gave a small chuckle. “Of course, Mr. Benedict. I’ll see to it as soon as possible. But for now, I’ll need you to manage on your own. I expect these five hundred bottles ready for transport by this time tomorrow.”
Benedict sighed but nodded. “Alright then, just don’t keep me waiting too long, Mr. Callander.”
Davey picked up two bottles of the fresh moonshine and left the cellar.
Outside, Donal was waiting.
“Mr. Callander,” he greeted as Davey approached.
Davey handed him one of the bottles. “Try it. This is our own brew.”
Donal took a sip, and his eyes went wide with amazement.
“My God, Mr. Callander—is this really moonshine? It tastes like something straight out of a fine distillery!”
Author's Note
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