Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 644 They're used to being beaten, they must have experience!
The chaos in London and the despair in Medellín unfold simultaneously on the timeline.

Defense Secretary Malcolm Rifkind's "strategic coma" came at just the right time.

If I can't handle the problem, surely I can handle myself?

Buckingham Palace and 10 Downing Street found themselves in an unprecedentedly awkward situation. The disastrous defeat at the front urgently required a decision, but the commanding officer had "suddenly fallen seriously ill" and was hospitalized in an intensive care unit. The doctor's vague diagnosis report stated that "excessive fatigue has caused neurological shock, and the recovery time is uncertain."

The brain is the most troublesome thing. If you pretend to be dead, do you think they can beat you up?
The next 24 hours became a classic demonstration of the inefficiency of the British bureaucracy.

Emergency cabinet meetings were held repeatedly as various factions engaged in a fierce and extremely selfish tug-of-war over the selection of a new defense minister.

Nobody wants to take over this mess, and they're even more afraid of becoming the next Malcolm to be put on the hot seat.

Arguments, buck-passing, and weighing the pros and cons—precious time flew by in lengthy meetings and behind-the-scenes political deals.

While London was still arguing over who should sit in that hot seat.

The remaining British troops and BBC team, who had been besieged in Medellín for more than 72 hours, were at their mental and physical limits.

With ammunition exhausted, food and water cut off, and the stench of rotting corpses permeating every nook and cranny, despair pressed down on everyone's nerves as if it were a tangible reality.

In a bunker trembling from the artillery fire, a young soldier finally broke down. Unable to bear the fear of becoming "live-stream material" for drug lords, he ended his life with his last bullet before his comrades could react.

"I can't take it anymore! I can't take it anymore!!"

The gunshot was like the last straw that broke the camel's back; his comrades didn't even have time to stop him, or rather, they didn't have the strength to stop him.

Almost simultaneously, at another isolated outpost, several soldiers, out of ammunition and food and riddled with wounds, faced with armed men who were closing in from all directions from the ruins and whose eyes were like those of wild beasts. They chose to lay down their weapons and raise their hands.

Their eyes were vacant, and their cheeks were so thin from hunger.

Drug traffickers also understand the importance of information warfare.

They quickly set up rudimentary but effective live-streaming equipment. Although the footage was rough and shaky, it was clear enough to showcase their spoils.

They roared, laughed, and boasted about their victory in heavily accented Spanish and broken English at the camera.

The camera pans across the dejected British prisoners of war, their faces bruised and bloodied, their uniforms torn and their eyes unfocused. Finally, with a deliberate cruelty, the camera lingers on the bodies of several British soldiers lying haphazardly in place, their postures contorted, their uniforms soaked in mud and dark red, silently telling the tragic story of the defeat.

A figure suddenly appeared in the center of the frame, waving a captured British standard rifle as if it were a ridiculous fire poker.

He roared at the camera:

"Look! Open your dog eyes and take a good look at London's elite!" He suddenly grabbed a prisoner by the hair, forcing his blood-stained, terrified, and humiliated face towards the camera. "This is your Britain? Ha!! A bunch of unweaned sheep! Cowards!"

The people around immediately burst into shrill laughter, and some even spat at the prisoner.

Another man interrupted, poking the cold body on the ground with the butt of his rifle, his tone filled with utter contempt:

"Look at this pile of junk! Is this what the British Empire looks like on land? Where are your tanks? Where are your planes? Where are your SAS (Special Air Service)? Are they hiding under women's skirts and trembling?"

"Have your queen come here carrying a rocket launcher!"

He faced the camera and exaggeratedly imitated the imagined British soldiers running away with their heads in their hands, which once again caused his companions to burst into laughter.

"Trash! The fighting power of you British is nothing but a pile of stinking garbage!"

The leader who spoke first roared again, spitting almost onto the camera, "We? We only have broken guns and cannons, and fearless bones! With that, we can beat you well-dressed pampered soldiers to a pulp! As easy as crushing bugs!"

He paused deliberately, leaned closer to the camera, and every wrinkle on his face, contorted by his maniacal laughter, was clearly visible. A cruel smugness gleamed in his eyes, his gaze fixed on the other side of the ocean.

"London! Did you hear that? You're a bunch of cowards! Liars! Sending these useless trash to their deaths while you hide in your palace drinking tea! What about your honor? What about your 'empire on which the sun never sets'? Bah! We've trampled you into the mud! A garbage army with a garbage government! Hahahaha!"

Wild laughter, vulgar curses, the visual impact of the corpses, and the dizzying effect of the shaky camera combined to create a highly impactful feast of humiliation.

They were not just displaying spoils of war; they were using the most primitive and brutal methods to forcefully demonstrate the conclusion that "the British army's combat effectiveness is garbage."

This is something most people already know.

But if you say that out loud, don't they have any pride?!
These men reacted quickly to their own shame, immediately blocking signals and deleting content globally. However, the bloody and humiliating live broadcast clips spread like a virus through network gaps and encrypted communications.

Within just a few hours, the UK was as if a bomb had been dropped on it.

"shame!"

"Save our soldiers!"

"The government is incompetent!"

"Stop this pointless war!"

Angry crowds surged toward central London from all directions, heading straight for Buckingham Palace, a national symbol.

A massive crowd filled the square and the streets leading to the palace, their roars nearly lifting the heavens. Eggs, tomatoes, and even Molotov cocktails were hurled at the palace's closed gates and the police cordon.

Order was teetering on the brink of collapse in the face of boiling public resentment.

Faced with this out-of-control situation, the highest-ranking commander in charge of security at the scene fled in panic, and then quickly issued a "Thatcher-style order!"

"Queen's Royal Guard! Prepare! Disperse the crowd!"

Under the sunlight, well-trained warhorses snorted and pawed the ground restlessly, their gleaming breastplates and red tassels on the saddles reflecting a blinding light.

With a sharp whistle and a stern shout from an officer, this honor guard, a symbol of the empire's former glory, actually launched a charge against unarmed protesters in the streets of 21st-century London!
"My God! They've gone mad!"

"Cavalry! The cavalry are charging!"

"Run!"

The crowd erupted instantly.

Terrified screams replaced angry slogans. The heavy hooves of horses trampled on the cold cobblestones beneath the Queen Victoria Memorial. The first few protesters were unable to dodge and were violently knocked down by the tall horses, or even mercilessly trampled by the large hooves. Their screams were heart-wrenching.

However, this time, the rear of the crowd did not completely collapse!
Having suffered so many losses, how could they not be prepared? The people had long been on guard against this move. In the hearts of the British lower classes, Thatcher was nothing but a pile of dog shit. If the visa officer asked you why you came to Britain, you could just say that you wanted to defecate in front of Thatcher's grave, and you'd be guaranteed to pass.

"Long pole team! Charge! Stop them!" A hoarse but extremely penetrating roar rang out from the chaos.

At the rear of the protest march, a group of well-prepared "reserve forces" suddenly burst out from the gaps in the crowd.

They were not empty-handed; each of them was holding a thick wooden pole more than two meters long!
These long poles were clearly collected hastily; some were scaffolding poles from construction sites, some were barriers from roadblock removal, and some were even thick wooden strips removed from park fences.

They were not a mob, but quickly split into groups of three or two, gritting their teeth and pressing the ends of their long poles firmly against the stone ground, forming a sloping, crude but deadly barricade!

"Hold on! Poke the horse's legs! Poke the horse's belly!" The commander's voice was resolute.

The leading warhorses were caught off guard. Accustomed to ramming through soft human bodies, they had never faced such a dense array of hard spears aimed directly at vital points!
"Thud!" A long pole slammed into the side of a chestnut warhorse. Even through the thick cloak, the force of the impact made it neigh in pain and rear up! The cavalryman on horseback was caught off guard and only managed to avoid being thrown off thanks to his superb horsemanship, but his charge came to an abrupt halt.

"Bang! Crack!" Another long pole struck precisely at the foreleg joint of a black horse.

The warhorse let out a mournful whinny, its forelegs buckled, and it crashed forward! The cavalryman on its back was thrown off like a kite with a broken string, the sound of his helmet hitting the stone slab clearly audible. He rolled on the ground and was instantly swallowed up by the chaotic shadows of feet.

"Well done! Again!" roared the crowd wielding long poles, their faces a mixture of fear, anger, and a hint of vengeful satisfaction.

They are no longer lambs to be beaten.

At the same time, an even more devastating blow struck, shattering the cavalry's spirits!

"A surprise for them! Throw it!" someone shouted from the crowd.

Dozens of small cylinders wrapped in red paper tubes were seen being vigorously hurled into the middle and rear of the charging cavalry ranks.

"Crackling and popping—BOOM!!"

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

firecracker!

Countless lit firecrackers exploded violently above, below, and around the cavalry and their horses!
The acrid smell of gunpowder instantly filled the air.

The warhorse was utterly terrified!

These royal warhorses, which undergo rigorous training and can even maintain their composure amidst the sound of cannon salutes, have never experienced such close, irregular, and intensely loud explosions. The immense fear instantly overwhelmed all their training achievements.

"Hiss—!" A white horse suddenly reared up and spun wildly in place, flinging the rider on its back like a leaf in a whirlwind.

"Heave-ho!" Another brown horse completely lost control, turning around recklessly and charging towards its own ranks, knocking over a fellow horse beside it.

"Steady! Steady!"

The officers' shouts sounded so pale amidst the deafening firecrackers and the mournful neighing of warhorses. The entire cavalry's charge formation instantly crumbled, turning into a chaotic battlefield of men and horses tumbling over each other.

Soldiers were constantly thrown from their saddles by the violent jolting and collisions of the frightened horses, their heavy armor slamming against the ground with dull thuds.

The time has come!

"They've fallen! Charge!"

"Avenge our wounded brothers!"

"Get 'em!"

The pent-up anger, like a volcanic eruption, finally found an outlet! The crowd that had been fleeing and hiding just moments before surged back like a flood bursting its banks!

The angry crowd surged toward the cavalrymen who had fallen from their horses or were trapped by their frightened mounts.

Fists, feet, stones picked up at random, even the long poles that had just been used to achieve their goals...

Raindrops rained down on the symbols of the empire, now clad in magnificent uniforms but utterly disheveled! Helmets were dented and deformed, ornate red uniforms were torn apart, and exquisite spurs were crushed in the chaos. Curses, roars, the cries of the wounded, the terrified neighing of warhorses, and the distant wailing of sirens filled the air…

Beneath the statue of Queen Victoria, in the square that symbolizes the heart of the empire, the sun still shines on the golden angel atop the monument, but on the ground, the former glory has been trampled, leaving only out-of-control violence and boiling resentment.

The already intoxicated crowd even began storming Buckingham Palace!
The gate was smashed open, and hundreds and thousands of people rushed in...

Just like when the French people stormed the French royal palace and beheaded Louis XVI!
The royals began to panic, and under the protection of security personnel, they fled somewhat haphazardly through the emergency exits.

This scene was clearly captured by the mobile phones of countless passersby and instantly spread to every corner of the world via the internet.

The cavalry charge in front of Buckingham Palace was more devastating than the live broadcast of the Medellín drug lords' attack.

It tore away the last shred of dignity in Britain, branding the labels of incompetence and brutality onto the face of this once invincible empire.

The funniest thing, of course, was the breaching of Buckingham Palace.

Inside the National Palace in Mexico.

Victor leaned back in his chair, watching the scene on television, and shook his head. "The British are getting worse and worse. Churchill has already ruined the future of their entire country."

"Boss, the British have really lost face. They've gotten their home base into their own. Don't you think they're going to collapse?"

Casare couldn't help but want to laugh.

Back when drugs were rampant in Mexico, he wasn't sarcastic at all. But after Victor started drug enforcement, he started to contradict him. And after they formed an alliance, he started badmouthing Victor everywhere. No wonder people can't stand him.

“When the body can’t support ambition, collapse is inevitable.” Victor shook his head, stood up, and turned off the screen.

Then I heard him whisper almost in murmur: “From Louis XVI to Nicholas II… now it’s the turn of Victoria’s descendants.”

He paused, then turned to the bewildered Casare beside him and said, "History is never the history of any one person, but the history of the people. From the perspective of the British people, the monarchy and the cabinet have failed miserably."

I wiped it!

A people-centered view of history?!
……

(End of this chapter)