Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 656 He really acts like a dog.

Mexico City, the sun is blinding and the air is scorching.

A specially designed bulletproof glass prison van, under the heavy escort of deafening sirens and armored convoys, slowly rolled through the main streets of the city center.

Inside the cage, Gilbert was firmly strapped to a specially made metal frame.

His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and his waist and legs were tightly bound with leather straps, displaying him in a humiliating posture where he could not stand up completely.

His clothes were filthy, covered in sweat and dust. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyes were empty and lifeless. Only the occasional physiological twitches caused by strong light or loud noise proved that he was still alive.

Unfortunately, as soon as he got off the plane, he was stuffed into a prison van and paraded through the streets.

Even Guzman didn't receive this treatment.

Of course, it's also possible that they're afraid the other person will die while being paraded through the streets.

Wherever the prison van went, the streets were already flooded with dense crowds and countless cameras.

“Look! That’s Gilbert!” a middle-aged man pointed to the glass cage.

"It was him! It was their men who killed my son!" An old woman, tears streaming down her face, hurled a rotten tomato at the prison van. The tomato exploded against the bulletproof glass, releasing a spray of bright red, viscous juice. "You beast! Go to hell!"

"Animal! (You beast!)"

"Asesino! (Murderer!)"

"Que lo maten lento!" (Let him die slowly!)

The shouts and curses were like surging waves, one after another, almost overturning the prison van.

Stones, rotten eggs, and rotten fruits and vegetables rained down on the sturdy glass, leaving filthy marks.

Several children in school uniforms squeezed at the front of the crowd, looking at the people in the cage with curiosity and a hint of fear.

"Mommy, why is that bad guy locked in a glass box? Like a monkey in a zoo," a little girl asked, looking up.

“Because he did so many bad things, killed so many people, he’s a hundred times worse than the worst monkey.” The mother answered through gritted teeth, hugging her daughter tightly. “Remember what he looks like, never touch drugs, never become a monster like him!”

Reporters carried cameras and microphones, trying their best to capture every detail.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what you are seeing now is Colombian drug lord Gilbert being escorted to the Alpine Prison in Mexico City, where he will be held until his execution."

...

The police officers maintaining order remained expressionless, forming a human wall to block the overly agitated crowd that attempted to storm the prison van.

Their eyes swept over Gilbert.

“Serves him right! This is retribution!” a young policeman whispered to his colleague.

“Mr. Casare said he’d use slow slicing? I think that’s a good idea. We should use the most ruthless methods to deal with this kind of scum!” another policeman spat.

After that transparent prison van, covered in filth, drove into the plateau prison.

The bulletproof cage was opened, the straps binding him were untied, and two prison guards wearing gas masks dragged him off the frame like trash.

His legs were too weak to support his body, and he collapsed, his face slamming heavily onto the cold cement floor. The smell of blood and dust instantly filled his nostrils.

No one helped him up; only the dull pain of boots kicking his ribs urged him on, "Get up, you piece of trash!"

He staggered, being shoved through a series of heavy iron gates.

The smell of sweat, filth, rotten tomato juice, and fermented rotten egg liquid emanated from him, so strong that even he felt suffocated.

The guards along the way all frowned and covered their noses, their eyes filled with disgust.

"Should we wash him?" A new guard asked instinctively, looking at the moving mass of filth.

"Wash?" The old prison guard escorting Gilbert scoffed and shoved him hard. "Wash my ass! By then, they'll have cut off this skin, and the flesh underneath will be perfectly clean!"

Upon hearing this, Gilbert visibly trembled.

Who isn't afraid?
He is scared too!

He was moved to the deepest, highest-security cell in the prison.

The alloy door slammed shut behind him. The cell was small, cold, and had smooth concrete walls. Apart from a stainless steel chamber pot fixed to the wall and an equally cold faucet, there was nothing there.

There was no bed, no mattress, only a hard floor.

He curled up like a lump of mud, and to prevent him from committing suicide, he was watched 24 hours a day.

Meanwhile, in a heavily guarded office on the other side of the prison, the atmosphere was tense.

"Can't find it?" Lieutenant Colonel Rodrigo, who was in charge of the executions, tapped his fingers on the table in frustration, with several subordinates standing in front of him looking troubled.

"Not a single one? In the entire country of Mexico, you can't even find a single craftsman who knows traditional skills?"

"Lieutenant Colonel, it's not that we can't find anyone..."

One of the subordinates wiped his sweat and said cautiously, "We can't find anyone whose skills meet Mr. Casare's requirements. Nowadays, those who can do this kind of delicate work are either too old and their hands shake too much, or... or they are just amateurs whose skills are simply not up to par. Moreover, this job is too risky and the psychological pressure is too great. We have contacted several people, and none of them were suitable."

"Damn it!" Rodrigo slammed his fist on the table. "Are you suggesting we go up there and slice it piece by piece with a knife?"

Suddenly, his eyes lit up, as if he had grasped at some lifeline. "Mr. Casare only said that the desired effect should be achieved, but he didn't say that it had to be done by traditional methods, did he?"

He stood up and paced back and forth, an idea that grew clearer and clearer in his mind.

He picked up the encrypted phone, took a deep breath, and dialed the number that went directly to the top.

The call connected, and Casarena's distinctive voice came through: "Rodrigo?"

“Sir, it’s me.” Rodrigo’s voice carried a hint of barely perceptible tension. “We’ve run into some difficulties regarding… regarding the person who will carry out the ceremony in three days.”

"What?"

He quickly explained the trouble.

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone, a brief moment that made Rodrigo's palms sweat.

“Sir,” Rodrigo mustered his courage, “could we…use modern tools? Like miniaturized, high-precision laser cutting equipment? Or a specially made miniature waterjet? We have the best engineers who can precisely program and control the cutting depth, speed, and position, ensuring the process…is long and precise. Moreover, it’s more hygienic and more controllable, preventing operators from accidentally ending the process prematurely due to psychological fluctuations. The visual impact of the result might be stronger and more modern.”

well...

A modernized form of "death by a thousand cuts".

What kind of society is this? We have to rely on technology.

There was silence again on the other end of the phone, before someone finally spoke after a long pause:
"Yes, as long as it's slow enough, painful enough, and educational enough."

"Yes, sir! Mission accomplished!" Rodrigo breathed a sigh of relief.

He hung up the phone and waved to his subordinates, "Go and prepare. Find the best engineers and the best equipment. We need to design a modern execution." "Yes, sir!"

……

night.

Gilbert suddenly sprang to his feet, his gaze sweeping wildly across the bare cell.

Fuck!
There were no sharp objects, nothing to use for leverage, and no tools to end a life!

He really couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't sleep at all. When he closed his eyes, all he could think about was being watched like a monkey. This was too much for his proud personality, and he wanted to commit suicide!

"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" he growled like a wild beast, his eyes bloodshot.

Since we don't have the tools, we'll rely on ourselves!

He suddenly stretched out his hands, his filthy fingers twisted, and with a resolute determination to die together, he viciously grabbed his own neck!

"Ugh...!" A muffled groan escaped her lips, as if she were choking.

The thumb pressed firmly against the carotid artery, while the other fingers were embedded in the muscles on both sides of the trachea like iron clamps.

He used all his strength, his brain buzzed from the sudden lack of oxygen, and the edges of his vision began to darken.

The pain of suffocation is sharp and familiar, but it seems merciful compared to the impending "death by a thousand cuts".

Faster! Faster!
He screamed inwardly, clenching his fingers even tighter. His eyeballs bulged outward under the immense pressure, becoming bloodshot.

That guy's a real ruthless bastard.

I feel a lot of pain when I get a circumcision, but he can just grab his own neck. No wonder he was a tough guy who could endure it during Pablo's time!

It is said that when he was young, he was a factory worker and his little finger was crushed by a machine. He remained calm and lit a cigarette first. He was a tough guy.

However, just before he felt he was about to lose consciousness and fall into eternal darkness, in that very instant...

"Bang!" The observation window was suddenly pulled open!

"Damn! He's committing suicide!"

A guard's terrified scream rang out in the deathly silent cell.

Then came the piercing wailing of an alarm, and the alloy door was violently pushed open!

Gilbert's last conscious thought was of the blinding light outside the door and two dark figures pouncing in like wolves. His will to die gave him a final burst of strength, and he clenched his fingers even more frantically!

But it's too late.

A foot clad in a heavy military boot slammed into his ribs, the intense pain causing his body to arch instinctively, instantly releasing most of the force in his hand.

Immediately afterwards, a blinding blue arc of electricity, accompanied by a chilling crackling sound, struck him precisely in the side!
"Uhhh-!!!"

Gilbert's muscles suddenly convulsed violently out of control!

The violent electric current was like countless red-hot steel needles, instantly piercing through his limbs and bones!
His mind went blank, leaving only indescribable extreme pain and a sense of loss of control. Like a fish thrown ashore, his body bounced and twisted wildly on the ground, squeezing out inhuman screams.

The hand that was choking his neck had long since loosened its grip, and under the powerful stimulation of the electric current, he had completely lost control of his bladder and sphincter.

A warm, foul-smelling yellow liquid gushed uncontrollably from his crotch, quickly spreading across the ground and mixing with his sweat and filth, emitting an even more pungent and unpleasant odor.

The violent convulsions lasted for more than ten seconds before slowly subsiding. He lay slumped in the puddle of his own urine, his body still twitching unconsciously, his mouth and nose crooked, saliva and urine mixed together, his eyes completely unfocused, only the violent panting of someone who had survived the ordeal and physiological tears and snot remaining.

"Pah! Trash!" The guard who had just attacked spat in disgust, flicking the stun baton in his hand as if it were covered in filth. "Want to die? Dream on!!"

Some were still shaken; if he had died, they would have been in deep trouble.

Another guard, covering his nose and frowning at the mess on the ground and the incontinent prisoner, reported into the communicator: "Report, target attempted suicide by strangulation, but was stopped and is out of danger. Incontinence has occurred. Over."

Gilbert lay in the filthy mud he had created, his body trembling from the lingering electric current and immense humiliation.

"Demons!" he screamed hysterically, "You are all demons!!!"

"Looks like the electric shock just now didn't quite clear my head."

The prison guard with the stun gun grinned, revealing his gleaming white teeth. "Let him understand clearly who's in charge here!"

Before he finished speaking, without any warning, he swung his arm high, and the rubber baton, whistling through the air, struck Gilbert's curled-up back with vicious force!
"Ugh—!"

The dull thud and Gilbert's sudden, high-pitched scream rang out at the same time!
That blow felt like it snapped his bones; the intense pain instantly overwhelmed his crying, causing his body to jerk like a shrimp thrown into a frying pan.

But this is just the beginning.

Another prison guard joined in with a sinister grin. He put away his stun gun and also drew his rubber baton from his waist.

The two men attacked Gilbert like a drowning dog, their batons transforming into two blurry black shadows, whistling through the air as they relentlessly and densely struck him!

Six strikes per second is definitely achievable!

Each blow was accompanied by a short, piercing scream. Gilbert rolled, curled up, and tried to dodge the blows on the ground, but each twisting motion caused the stick to land in a new spot, bringing new excruciating pain.

"Howl! Howl again!"

A blow struck Gilbert hard in the ribs, and the pain was so intense that he almost suffocated, his scream turning into gasps for breath.

"Want to die? I'll make you wish you were dead!" Another blow slammed into his thigh, causing his muscles to spasm and twitch instantly.

"Let me make you understand! Inside this door, we are the gods!" The baton, carrying an insulting tone, lashed at his buttocks and the area near his humiliated genitals.

The two prison guards were getting carried away with their fight, their faces showing a sadistic pleasure and a sense of complete control.

It was unclear how much time had passed—perhaps a few minutes, perhaps only a few tens of seconds—but for Gilbert, it felt like an eternity.

“That’s enough,” one of the prison guards said, panting as he stopped, looking with disgust at the mangled mess on the ground. “If you keep hitting him, you’ll really break him.”

The other one, still not quite done, stopped, shook his aching arm, and poked Gilbert's swollen, bruised cheek with his baton: "You bastard, got it? This is the rule! Stay put, or if you cause any more trouble, you'll get another beating!"

The two men left the cell cursing.

"Bang!" The heavy alloy door slammed shut again.

In the cramped cell, all that remained was an overwhelming stench and Gilbert's faint, almost inaudible, broken breathing.

"Woooooooo..."

Gilbert lay sprawled on the ground, thinking, "That son of a bitch Mexican, he won't even let himself die!"

I feel like a dog!
……

(End of this chapter)