Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 665 Let the bullets fly for a while, until they fly over your skull!
The crystal chandelier in the Prime Minister's office in Madrid is so dazzling it makes your eyes dizzy.

Prime Minister González crumpled up a copy of the Mexican Foreign Ministry's note, made a lazy gesture, and precisely tossed it into the brass trash can in the corner with a soft "whoosh."

"Yes!"

"If I hadn't gone into politics, I would have gone to the NBA."

He grabbed the sangria on the table and gulped it down. "That bastard Victor, who hasn't read many books, really thinks he can overturn the table with a few inflammatory words?"

The Foreign Minister immediately laughed: "The Prime Minister is brilliant! Our statement was a textbook example of a counterattack, especially that last comment about his educational background, which was sure to strike them hard. Do they think they can boss us around? They've tried to steal a chicken but lost the rice instead!"

"Speculators!" González slammed his hand on the table, the ice cubes in his glass clinking loudly. "They don't even have the right to steal chickens! Back when the Spanish established the governor's palace in Tenochtitlan, his ancestors were still chasing deer naked in the mountains!"

The Interior Minister stepped forward and handed over a freshly printed copy of ABC, with the headline in bold on the front page: "Rapid Street Violence in Mexico: Experts Say Its National Character Has Inherent Flaws."

The Interior Secretary’s voice carried a hint of schadenfreude: “Last night’s attack on a Spanish businessman in Guadalajara has prompted the European Commission for Human Rights to issue a letter of concern, and public opinion is now entirely on our side.”

"A letter of concern? Let them worry about the dirty business in the Mexicans' crotches!"

González suddenly burst into a raucous laugh, “Let me tell you, if Cortez the Conqueror were alive today, he would hang that kid Victor from the spire of the Mexico City Cathedral!”

He walked to the French windows, gazing at the red and yellow bicolor flag fluttering atop the palace in the distance, his eyes filled with disdain: "These mixed-race bastards are just spineless scum. They won't know who they are until they've been whipped a few times. We built railways and schools for them during the colonial period, and now they're turning around and biting us? Do they really think Spain is still the devastated, broken country it was after World War II?"

Is it...

No?
It might be even worse now than during World War II.

González suddenly turned around, his smile turning sinister: "Let them make a scene! The bigger the better. It would be best if they could incite all the Latino immigrants in Madrid, so we'd have an excuse to clear them out. I've long disliked those scum gathered near the Atocha train station. Stealing, drug trafficking, rape... they're a cancer on the city!"

He suddenly grabbed the phone receiver, dialed a number, and roared into it: "Get me the editor-in-chief of El Mundo! Yes, right now! Tell that old man to put a commentary on the front page tomorrow, titled—'When Savages Try to Trifle with Civilization.' I want all of Europe to see how ungrateful Mexicans are!"

After hanging up the phone, he spread his arms wide like a proud bullfighter to his subordinates: "Why do we dare to criticize Viktor? Because we stand on the high ground of civilization! This is not rudeness, it is a cry for democracy! It is a head-on blow to those clowns who try to subvert the historical order!"

"As for compensation?" González suddenly lowered his voice, a ruthless glint in his eyes. "Slaves can't ask their masters for money! They're destined to serve the Spanish!"

A burst of laughter erupted in the office, and some people even started telling dirty jokes in a Mexican accent.

The sunlight streaming through the blinds cast distorted spots of light on the floor, much like the ugly faces of the group of people.

For the next two days, the air in Madrid felt like it was filled with gunpowder, and the sense of rejection on the streets turned from subtle eye rolls into blatant hostility.

When a Latino walks into a supermarket, the clerk behind the shelves will deliberately slam the merchandise down with a loud thud. On the subway, people will pinch their noses and move aside when they see brown-skinned passengers, muttering "smuggled bugs." Even at school gates, parents will stop teachers, point at a few Mexican-American students, and say, "Don't let them play with my child, or they'll get hooked on drugs."

This hostility finally exploded at the Bernabéu Stadium on Saturday.

The Real Madrid vs. Barcelona derby has always been a powder keg in Spanish football, but the tension on this day went far beyond the realm of football.

In the 63rd minute of the match, a glaring white cloth was suddenly lifted from the stands. It was a huge banner with a caricature of Victor in the center: his head was drawn as a deformed pumpkin, he was dressed in a ridiculous clown costume, and he was carrying a money bag that read "extortionist". Below, in bold black letters, it read: "Go back to your cornfield, you half-monkey!"

The moment the banner was unfurled, the Real Madrid ultras in the North Stand erupted in a tsunami of cheers, whistles, and profanities mingling together like hailstones crashing onto the pitch.

The live broadcast camera happened to capture this moment. Although the director hurriedly switched to a close-up of the player, that brief two-second clip had already been transmitted around the world via satellite signal.

In Mexico City bars, countless fans smashed their glasses in an instant. In the presidential palace's monitoring room, Casare slammed his fist on the table, causing a glass of water to bounce and splash water onto the newly printed diplomatic note. Even in the remote Yucatan Peninsula, an elderly Mayan man watching television trembled as he took off his hat and made the sign of the cross over the caricatured image on the screen. In his eyes, this was not only an insult to the leader but also a desecration of a nation's dignity.

The final whistle of the match became the starting gun for the riots.

Hundreds of fans draped in Spanish flags rushed out of the stands and pounced on the Latino fans gathered outside the stadium like hungry wolves.

Before a boy wearing a Guardiola jersey could react, he was grabbed by the hair and pinned to the ground, his back pounded with fists and heels. Several Colombian students tried to protect their companions, but were whipped hard in the waist with flagpoles, writhing in pain on the ground. Someone even rushed into a nearby food stall, overturning the cart of an elderly Mexican man, splashing scalding hot tortillas and chili sauce all over him, only to be met with shouts of "Get out of Spain!"

The sirens grew louder as they approached, but the arriving police officers seemed to have received some kind of signal.

They charged into the crowd wielding batons, but focused more on taking sides. When faced with Spanish fans who were chasing and attacking them, they only gave them a couple of symbolic shoves; while for the Latinos who tried to resist or escape, the batons fell mercilessly on their heads and backs.

An Ecuadorian youth, whose nose was bleeding profusely from being beaten, raised his hands and shouted, "I didn't lay a hand on him."

He was pinned against the wall by two policemen with his arms tied behind his back. As the rough handcuffs clicked onto his wrists, he heard one of the policemen mutter curses, "It's all because of you bunch of bastards that you've made such a mess of the stadium."

Ultimately, ambulances took away seven injured Latinos with head wounds, while police cars took away fifteen Latino fans "suspected of disorderly conduct," some of whom had only tried to help their fallen companions during the conflict.

When the streetlights outside the Bernabéu Stadium came on, torn Latin American flags were scattered on the ground, mixed among crushed tortillas and broken flagpoles.

Several Mexicans who hadn't been arrested squatted by the roadside, wiping the blood and tears from their faces with their sleeves, watching the police and those arrogant fans leave arm in arm, their throats feeling like they had a hot stone stuck in them, unable to utter a single word.

Meanwhile, in the Prime Minister's residence in Madrid, González was holding a wine glass, watching the censored images of the riots on the news, and sneered at the Interior Minister on the other end of the phone: "See? This is their lesson. Let Victor see that on Spanish soil, his people don't even deserve to cry out loud."

Spain is very xenophobic!
Inside the Oval Office of the Mexican Presidential Palace.

Victor sat on a dark leather sofa, an unlit cigar between his fingers. On the mahogany coffee table in front of him was a thick stack of diplomatic notes from Argentina, Colombia, Peru, Chile, and almost every Latin American country. The foreign ministries of these countries condemned Spain’s racial discrimination in the strongest terms. The Peruvian ambassador even included an X-ray of a Peruvian student whose ribs were broken during the Bernabéu stadium riots in his note.

“Mr. Victor, our expatriates in Barcelona have been attacked with sulfuric acid.”

The Colombian ambassador clenched his fist. "The Spanish police say they're investigating, but they haven't even caught a glimpse of the suspect! Protests have already started in the country, demanding the expulsion of all Spanish nationals. You have to set an example; we can't just let this go!"

The Argentine diplomat standing nearby immediately chimed in: "That's right! The Madrid newspapers actually attributed the riots to the inferiority of Latin American immigrants, which is an insult to the entire Latin America! We have already contacted the Latin American Cultural Association in Mexico City to organize a transnational protest next week, and we need Mexico to provide venue support."

Viktor raised his hand to signal them to calm down, picked up the iced cola from the coffee table, and slowly unscrewed the cap. The bubbles hissed in the glass jar, as if responding to the ambassadors' suppressed anger.

He's like a big brother now!
We're all following you, you fucking can't just abandon us.

Do you guys remember the banana wars from ten years ago?

He suddenly spoke, his voice as calm as a deep pool, "Back then, when Honduras' banana plantations were seized by American companies, the whole of Central America was clamoring for retaliation. And what happened? Our joint protest lasted only three days before they were divided by an agricultural subsidy. Guatemala secretly signed the agreement, El Salvador immediately withdrew its note, and in the end, only Honduras was left to bear the consequences." The Colombian ambassador opened his mouth, as if to say something, but was silenced by Victor's gaze.

“The banners at the Bernabéu weren’t aimed at any one person,” Victor said, gently placing the Coke can on the coffee table with a soft clang. “They were aimed at all of Latin America. They just wanted to throw us into chaos, to make us lose our composure like we did ten years ago, and then they’d pick us off one by one.”

He stood up, walked to the Latin American map hanging on the wall, and tapped his finger on the border between Argentina and Chile: "The far-right party in Spain is holding a rally of defenders of European civilization in Madrid next week. They have invited remnants of the French Revolution in Italy and xenophobic elements in Hungary. Do you think that if we rush in and shout for violence at this time, will we be helping ourselves or them?"

The Peruvian ambassador's expression softened somewhat: "You mean..."

"Let the bullet fly for a while."

Victor turned around, his gaze sweeping over everyone present. “The higher they jump, the more they expose their ugliness. Now the whole world is watching how Spain uses the cloak of civilization to cover up the filth of racism, how their police greet the perpetrators with smiles and wave batons at the victims.”

He walked to his desk, picked up a fax he had just received, which was an urgent notification from the UN Human Rights Council requesting the Spanish government to submit a detailed report on the Bernabéu riots.

“Last night, the Brazilian president called me and said they were going to propose at the summit to establish an anti-colonial racial discrimination monitoring agency. This morning, Uruguay announced a freeze on cultural exchange projects with Spain. You see, the longer the bullets fly, the more people gather under the gun.”

He pointed out the window: "In the Plaza de la Latina in Mexico City, people have spontaneously organized a candlelight vigil. It's not a protest, but a prayer for our compatriots who were injured at the Bernabéu. We want them to understand that Latin America is not a disorganized mess."

The office fell silent, with only the slight hum of the air conditioner vents.

The diplomats looked at Viktor's calm profile.

Something doesn't feel right. Does Viktor seem like the kind of person who can endure so much?

He's a very petty person.

But they looked at each other and could only listen to his "nonsense" for now, since it was impossible for Viktor to suffer a loss.

That afternoon, the Mexican Ministry of Foreign Affairs issued a brief statement, without condemnation or protest, containing only one sentence: "We believe in the fairness of the international community, and we also believe that history will ultimately judge all injustices."

The statement was interpreted by The New York Times as "strategic restraint by Latin American countries," while Madrid's El País mocked it as "cowardice in the face of inability to fight back."

Only a small number of high-ranking officials in Mexico understand this…

What is Viktor up to?
……

The dinner at the Prime Minister's Palace in Madrid was reaching its climax. González, holding a champagne glass, was boasting to the Minister of Defense with great enthusiasm: "See? Those Latin American monkeys made a fuss for three days, but in the end they had to shut up. The banners at the Bernabéu were a lesson for them. On European soil, they have to follow our rules!"

The Chancellor of the Exchequer quickly chimed in, "The Prime Minister is brilliant! Even Brussels is praising our firm and measured approach, saying it's the model for dealing with immigrant riots."

The crowd burst into laughter, but before the laughter had even subsided, the Prime Minister's private secretary suddenly rushed in, his face ashen, clutching a secure phone tightly in his hand, the receiver cord taut.

"Prime Minister, Catalonia..." The secretary's voice trembled as if he were about to urinate, "Just now, the President of the Catalan Regional Government held an emergency press conference at the Barcelona City Hall and announced... announced that an independence referendum will be held in three days!"

"!!!"

Everyone was startled.

Gonzalez slammed his champagne glass onto the carpet, splashing wine onto his shiny leather shoes. He grabbed his secretary by the collar. "Say that again!!"

"Go back to the office. All the senior management are here." He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, but his steps were a little unsteady.

There was a television in the office.

A breaking news report was playing on the screen. Catalan President Jordi stood before the blue and yellow flag of the Catalan autonomous community, his expression solemn like a statue: "After an emergency vote in parliament, with 68 votes in favor, 52 against, and 1 abstention, the Catalan Independence Referendum Law has been officially passed. At 9:00 a.m. three days later, we will decide our future with our votes."

The camera panned across the parliament hall, where supporting members of parliament stood up and applauded. Some held up signs that read "Free Catalonia." In the background, an electronic screen was playing a scrolling video of the War of the Spanish Succession in 1714, a wound that will forever remain in the hearts of Catalans.

"A bunch of traitors!" The Home Secretary abruptly overturned the table. "Last year they disrupted the referendum, and we sent the National Guard to shut down the polling stations. They dare to come again this time?!"

González slumped into his chair, his face grim.

On television, Jordi is reading out the referendum rules: "Any citizen who has resided in Catalonia for five years, regardless of nationality, may vote. A voter turnout exceeding 60% is required for the referendum to be valid..."

"Insane! They're dividing the country!" the Defense Minister roared, reaching for the phone. "I'm ordering the troops stationed in Barcelona to take over Parliament right now!"

"Halt!" González suddenly roared. "Do you want all of Europe to see Spanish troops shooting their own citizens?"

"Contact the Constitutional Court immediately!" Gonzalez gritted his teeth. "Declare the referendum illegal! Freeze all the regional government's financial accounts, and put Jordi and his gang on the wanted list!"

The TV presenter suddenly paused, and then a director ran up to him, holding a piece of paper. He glanced at it and looked surprised. "Breaking news! More than 100,000 people have gathered in Plaça Catalunya in the city center for a rally in support of the referendum. Someone has set fire to the Spanish flag."

The television footage instantly switched to the scene in the square, where tens of thousands of people, amidst the blazing fire, held up blue and yellow independence flags and chanted "Free Catalonia!" Several young people climbed onto the Columbus statue and tied the autonomous region flag to the statue's wrist.

González felt a wave of dizziness and nearly fell off his chair. He finally understood that the riots by the Latin American immigrants were just a smokescreen; the real killer move was hidden in Catalonia, an autonomous region that had been restless since the first day he took office, which was taking advantage of the stalemate between Spain and Latin American countries to deliver a fatal blow.

!!!

"Victor, it must have been Victor who did it!" Gonzalez's face turned ashen.

The night outside the window was deep in Madrid, but the lights of the Prime Minister's Palace were as bright as day.

Cabinet members were like ants on a hot plate, their phones ringing incessantly—urgent calls from Barcelona, ​​warnings from Brussels, and questions from the royal family.

Meanwhile, in Barcelona's city hall, Jordi had just hung up an anonymous phone call, and a deep voice lingered on the receiver: "The money has arrived. Now it's time for the Spaniards to have a taste."

Don't let us down.

……

(End of this chapter)