Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 688 Wasting My Ashtray!

The "honor" that Marcus Blelock defended with his life could not prevent his father, Elton Sr., from making a decision under extreme grief and realistic considerations.

After the family doctor, who had been urgently summoned, administered a sedative to old Elton and provided some initial treatment, this venerable Texas family machine, under the actual control of the second son, Cole, began to operate with remarkable efficiency.

Marcus's body was disposed of quickly and discreetly, and it was publicly stated that it was "an unfortunate hunting accident."

Meanwhile, Cole conveyed the Brelock family's final decision to the Mexican side through that secret satellite phone line: full cooperation.

The "pledge of allegiance" they offered was surprisingly substantial and deadly. It was not merely a verbal promise, but also a complete revelation of the core secrets of the Southern Logistics System of the Texas Provisional Government, as well as the intricate network of interests among several powerful families and numerous shady transactions.

This intelligence, delivered through Mexico's efficient intelligence system, was precisely aimed at the Paulo Constantine Stuart government, which was struggling to hold on the Red River front.

……

Red River Front, Dezhou Temporary Command Post.

The communication channel was filled with desperate cries and the cacophony of static interference.

Paul Constantine Stuart stared intently at the map, his eyes bloodshot, where the blue arrows representing his own troops were shrinking and retreating.

"Mr. President!"

A communications officer practically burst in, clutching a newly deciphered telegram.

Paul looked up abruptly. "What now?! Corpus Christi has completely fallen?"

His biggest fear was that the southern ports would fall completely, which would cut off the possibility of importing external supplies.

The communications officer's voice was filled with anxiety, "It's our logistics! The main supply depots No. 3, No. 5, and No. 7 leading to the Red River front were just now, almost simultaneously, struck with precision by the Mexican Air Force and long-range artillery! The stockpiled fuel, ammunition, medicine... all gone! More than 80% lost!"

"What?!!"

Paul was struck dumb, staggering back a step and bumping into the map shelf behind him. "How is this possible?! The locations of those warehouses are top secret! They're heavily guarded and disguised..."

His words stopped abruptly.

The communications officer, barely daring to look him in the eye, trembled as he handed over another telegram. "Just received an open telegram from the Houston area... Yes, it's from the Brelock family..."

Paul snatched the telegram, his eyes scanning the text. With each line he read, his face grew paler.

That was not a simple surrender statement, but a manifesto filled with words such as "exposing the incompetence and corruption of the Paul Constantine Stuart government, which led Texas into the abyss of destruction," "calling for reason and peace to avoid more unnecessary sacrifices," and "deciding to submit to reality and cooperate with Mexico to restore order!"
This is not just betrayal; it's the most fatal blow stabbed in the back, rubbing salt into the wound and announcing to the world Paul Constantine Stuart's failure!
“Brelock… old Elton…?! His son Marcus isn’t…” Paul’s voice was hoarse, filled with disbelief, shock and rage.

“The news is confirmed… Marcus Brelock committed suicide. Right after his family made the decision,” a staff officer beside him added in a low voice, his tone complex.

Paul was stunned.

Even an old family like the Brelocks, known for its stubbornness and loyalty, chose to betray them!
Are there no good people left?
Is there any more heavenly justice?
This means that the foundation of the Texas ruling class is completely collapsing beneath his feet!
“It’s over…” Paul muttered to himself, his body swaying slightly, and he had to reach out and hold onto the table to barely keep his balance.

As if to confirm his idea, bad news came in like an avalanche over the next few hours.

Following the Brelock family, several other influential and powerful families in Texas—the Johnson family, the Garrett family, and even some previously staunch independent lawmakers—have issued similar statements through various channels.

The content was largely the same: condemning the Paul administration's "adventurous policies" that led to the disaster, calling for an end to resistance and "constructive dialogue" with Mexico to "preserve the lives and property of the people of Texas."

The wall fell and everyone pushed.

The trees fell and the hozens scattered.

These families control Texas’s economic lifeline, local armed forces, and media mouthpiece.

Their collective defection instantly emptied the last shred of confidence and the social foundation upon which the Paul Constantine Stuart government depended for survival.

The already demoralized troops at the front lines, upon learning that their rear was on fire, supplies were cut off, and their retreat route was blocked, collapsed at an accelerated pace. Organized units began to refuse to carry out orders and even scattered.

Paul Constantine Stuart locked himself in the command room.

He knew he was finished.

His dream of a Texas republic vanished in an instant.

The question now is no longer whether he can hold Texas, but whether he can escape alive.

……

Just as Texas was descending into a death throes of chaos, at the National Palace in Mexico City.

Victor sat behind his large desk, listening to his subordinates' latest report on the situation in Texas, without any surprise on his face.

The Brelock family's "surrender" and the chain reaction it triggered were exactly what he had anticipated.

He believed he understood the virtues of these Anglo-Saxon elites well enough; they valued power and interests far more than vague notions of "honor" and "loyalty."

"Tell the front lines to speed up the takeover. For those families who are pragmatic, give them some incentives to stabilize morale. As for the few who are still stubborn... get rid of them. Their assets can be used to reward those who have made contributions," Viktor instructed calmly.

"Yes, sir."

Just then, the secretary knocked and entered: "Sir, the special envoy from the Louisiana Commonwealth has arrived."

Victor raised an eyebrow. "Tell them to go to meeting room number one."

Reception Room No. 1 is one of the most luxurious reception rooms in the National Palace, and is usually used to receive the highest-ranking foreign guests.

He tidied himself up a bit before walking over at a leisurely pace.

Pushing open the door, one sees a white man, around fifty years old, dressed in a smart dark suit, with his hair neatly combed, admiring an oil painting on the wall with his hands behind his back.

He was accompanied only by two young men who appeared to be assistants.

Upon hearing the door open, the envoy turned around, a deliberately maintained, slightly reserved and arrogant smile on his face.

"Lord Victor."

He extended his hand, his tone carrying a scrutinizing quality. "I am William Braddock Jr., representing President Floyd Ross and the Commonwealth of Louisiana. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to meet with me."

Victor did not shake hands with him immediately. Instead, he walked to the main sofa and sat down first, before gesturing for him to sit down. His attitude was casual and even somewhat dismissive.

He lit a cigar and sized up the other person through the wisps of smoke. "Stop with the pretense. I don't like that. Just say what you want."

William Braddock Jr. seemed somewhat displeased with Victor's slight, but still maintained diplomatic etiquette, sitting down on the opposite sofa with his back ramrod straight.

"Your Excellency, Your Excellency President Ross has noted the remarkable progress made by the Mexican army in Texas."

Braddock carefully chose his words, “First of all, please allow me, on behalf of Louisiana, to express my sincere gratitude for the effective strikes against Mexican forces that have greatly weakened our common enemy, the Paulo Constantine Stuart rebel group. Your military action has objectively eliminated a major threat to peace on the east bank of the Red River.”

A typical politician's opening remarks: first, elevate the other party, and then emphasize the "common enemy" and "objective assistance" to pave the way for subsequent topics.

Viktor exhaled a smoke ring, smiled noncommittally, and remained silent, waiting for the other party to continue.

Seeing that Victor wasn't responding, Braddock had no choice but to continue, raising his voice slightly: "Given that the Stuart regime has effectively collapsed and the future arrangements for the Texas region are on the agenda, our country believes that, as a direct stakeholder and victim of this crisis, the Louisiana Commonwealth has the right to participate in and lead the post-war reconstruction of the Texas region."

He leaned forward slightly, trying to amplify the weight of his words:
"President Ross proposed that the Red River serve as a natural dividing line, with the eastern part under the trusteeship of the Federal Government of Louisiana and the western part temporarily administered by Mexico. This would be the most practical and fastest way to restore regional stability. Therefore, we hope that Mexican troops will cease any military operations on the east bank of the Red River within the next 72 hours and begin an orderly withdrawal to the west bank."

After he finished speaking, the meeting room fell into a brief silence.

Viktor slowly puffed on his cigar, and through the swirling smoke, he sized up Braddock. Suddenly, he chuckled softly, the sound coming from deep in his throat, carrying undisguised sarcasm.

Viktor's voice was muffled by the smoke, "Do you think we're playing house here... dividing up territory? The east bank of the Red River is yours, and the west bank is mine?"

Braddock's reserved smile froze for a moment; he straightened his back and his tone became serious:

"Sir Victor, please watch your words. I represent the Commonwealth of Louisiana, and we are discussing the legitimate succession of the former United States of Texas. This land is not trespassing, either legally or historically, and our proposal is the most reasonable solution based on actual power and regional stability."

Victor scoffed, stubbing out his cigar in the crystal ashtray. "When you were being dragged along the Red River by Paul's crippled army, eating mud, why didn't you talk to me about real power? Where was your power when my tanks rolled across the border and my planes razed Corpus Christi to the ground?"

His voice gradually rose, "Now you're coming here smelling blood, trying to snatch meat from my mouth? By what right? By your President Ross, who hides in his office in Baton Rouge and can't even clean up the gangs in his own state? Or by your National Guard, which is worse than a militia?"

Braddock's face darkened completely. He took a deep breath, trying to maintain his diplomatic composure, but his tone had already become harsh:
"Sir, I must remind you. While your military action is swift, the international community will never recognize the annexation of territory by force. The Louisiana Commonwealth enjoys broader international recognition and support. Cooperation is your wisest choice. Otherwise..."

“Otherwise what?” Victor leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Otherwise you’re going to unite to punish me? Condemn me? Or is your great army preparing to cross the Red River to test the sharpness of my Mexican army’s blade?”

He leaned back abruptly on the sofa, waved his hand dismissively, and said, "Save your breath, Braddock. Your bluffing tricks might fool kids, but you want Texas? Sure."

A cruel smile crept across Viktor's face: "Let your President Ross come and take it with his army. If he sets foot on even an inch of the west bank of the Red River, I, Viktor, will immediately hand over the entire state of Texas. How about that? Fair enough?"

Braddock was enraged by this blatant humiliation, his face turning ashen.

Victor did not fly into a rage, but looked at him with an extremely strange expression.

Victor scanned him.

In an instant, a massive, filthy stream of information flooded into Viktor's mind like a burst dam, revealing the true faces hidden beneath the glamorous diplomatic mask.

[In 1978, at the port of New Orleans, narcotics were smuggled using diplomatic pouches as cover, with profits shared with the Sicilian family...]

In 1982, at the Braddock family's sugarcane plantation, the bodies of Mexican laborers who died accidentally were buried in the fertile soil of the sugarcane field. Records indicate they left voluntarily. There were approximately over two hundred bodies!

In 1985, in Baton Rouge, a competitor's factory caught fire, killing the entire family. The investigation was terminated without cause.

In 1989, they funded a right-wing assassination squad in Central America to eliminate uncooperative union leaders and hang their bodies on a bridge for public viewing.

In 1993, a private hunting ranch used kidnapped illegal immigrants as moving targets for amusement, recording and storing the videos, which they would then watch and comment on from time to time.

[This practice continues to this day, maintaining close ties with several underage trafficking networks in the South, favoring specific types of girls, and supplying a significant number of young women to America's powerful and wealthy elite.]

Braddock felt a chill run down his spine from Victor's sudden silence and strange gaze.
Victor finally spoke, his voice eerily calm, "Mr. Braddock, does your Braddock family... enjoy hunting?"

Braddock was taken aback, completely unprepared for the question, and didn't react for a moment: "What?"

“I mean,” Viktor slowly picked up the heavy crystal ashtray on the table, weighing it in his hand as if admiring its craftsmanship, “isn’t using ‘two-legged sheep’ as moving targets more interesting than hunting foxes or deer…? Especially that desperate running and screaming, it must really stimulate your… aristocratic tastes, right?”

boom--! ! !
It was like a thunderclap in my ears!

Braddock's face turned deathly pale instantly, and his pupils contracted to the size of pinpoints due to extreme fear!

"What...what nonsense are you spouting?!" Braddock screamed, his voice shrill and piercing, completely losing his previous composure and replaced by raw panic. "This is slander! Defamation! I'm going to..."

"defamation?"

Viktor had already walked up to him, looking down at the trembling, disgraceful so-called "diplomat," his eyes filled with the utmost disgust and violence.

"You bastards!"

Viktor's voice deepened, "Always dressed in the finest clothes, speaking the most high-sounding words, yet your bellies are stuffed with the filthiest dregs and rotting flesh, do you think you're worthy to talk to me about law? About blood ties? About civilization?"

He suddenly raised the crystal ashtray in his hand, the movement was as fast as lightning, and it was ruthless!
"You only deserve this!"

Before he could finish speaking, the heavy ashtray, accompanied by a whooshing sound, slammed down hard and precisely on William Braddock Jr.'s forehead!

"boom!!!"

A dull sound that makes your teeth ache!

The crystal ashtray was so hard and heavy that Braddock's forehead was instantly torn open, and blood gushed out like bursting tomato juice, splashing all over Victor's face and body, and even onto the ceiling!
Before Braddock could even utter a sound, his eyes bulged out, and his body crashed backward like a felled log! Blood gushed rapidly from the horrific wound on his head.

The entire meeting room was deathly silent!
The two young assistants were terrified by the sudden bloody violence. They froze on the spot, their pupils dilated, and they made gurgling sounds as if they were being choked, but they couldn't utter a single word.

Viktor flicked the blood-splattered flesh from his hands, the warm, sticky liquid on his face intensifying the ferocity in his eyes. He didn't even glance at the convulsing body on the ground, his gaze sweeping coldly over the two assistants.

"Ah...ahhh—!" One of them finally broke down, letting out a piercing scream, and turned to rush towards the door. Victor was faster.

He didn't even take big strides to catch up; he just casually stretched out his foot.

"Thump!" The fleeing assistant tripped and fell heavily onto the thick carpet.

Viktor walked forward unhurriedly, stomped his left foot hard on the assistant's back, pinning him firmly to the ground.

The assistant struggled in vain, clawing at the carpet with his hands like a pinned insect.

The other assistant was completely terrified; his legs went weak, and he knelt down on the ground.

Viktor's attention was on his feet.

He bent down and picked up the crystal ashtray, which was stained with blood and fragments of brain tissue and had even some cracks at the edges.

"The noble blood of the Anglo-Saxons?"

"Only bastards care about bloodlines. More noble than me? I'll make sure you die before me!"

"Let me see if it's really more popular than others."

He lifted his foot, and the assistant beneath him, who had just caught his breath, tried to turn over.

At this moment!

Victor raised the ashtray high, twisting his body in a powerful arc, like a baseball player swinging a bat with all his might, with a violent, artistic beauty, and slammed it down!
"Bang!"

This time the sound was even more muffled, mixed with the cracking sound of bones breaking. The assistant's head visibly caved in, his body convulsed violently, and then remained completely still. Blood and a grayish-white substance slowly seeped out.

The kneeling assistant let out inhuman whimpers, his crotch quickly becoming soaked, and a foul-smelling liquid seeped out.

He turned to the last survivor.

"No...don't kill me." The assistant slumped like a rag doll, pleading incoherently, "I can do anything for you...anything..."

Viktor tilted his head, scrutinizing him as if admiring a work of art about to be destroyed. He slowly walked over, his bloodied right hand patting his assistant's pale cheek, leaving several bloody marks.

“Anything?” Victor’s tone softened.

The assistant nodded frantically, a glimmer of desperate hope igniting in his eyes.

“Alright.” Victor smiled, revealing a set of white teeth that stood out starkly against the backdrop of the blood-soaked room.

"Then help me... clean up the scene."

The assistant was stunned and didn't understand.

Victor's smile vanished instantly. He abruptly reached out, grabbed his assistant's hair, and roughly dragged him to Braddock's body, slamming his face into the still-expanding pool of warm, sticky blood!
"Lick it clean!"

"Eat it! Drink up your damn noble blood!"

The assistant struggled frantically, gagging and suffocating, his limbs flailing wildly, blood smearing his mouth, nose, eyes and ears—a horrific and absurd scene.

Viktor held him down tightly, enjoying the futile resistance of his prey beneath him, until the struggling force gradually weakened.

Finally, he let go.

The assistant collapsed to the ground like a rag doll, curled up, coughing violently and vomiting stomach contents mixed with blood. He was already half-conscious.

Viktor straightened up and looked around the messy, slaughterhouse-like luxurious reception room.

He took a deep breath, and the strong smell of rust in the air gave him an unprecedented feeling of comfort.

He straightened the blood-stained collar of his shirt, walked to the door, and opened it.

The secretary and guards standing outside the door remained calm, as if it were just an ordinary meeting taking place behind the door.

"Clean it up," Viktor ordered calmly, as if he were remarking on the weather. "Drag out the envoy who's still breathing inside, find a doctor to keep him alive, and then use his satellite phone to contact Baton Rouge."

"Tell President Floyd Ross a message."

Viktor paused.

"Make him wash his neck and wait for me to come over and talk to him... about what aristocratic taste is!"

"What a fucking waste of my good ashtray."

……

Texas, north of Austin, on the Colorado River.

Even amidst the ongoing conflict in the Red River region and the south, the afternoon here remained tranquil until a group of reporters carrying cameras and microphones and a group of solemn-looking young students shattered this peace.

They surrounded an elderly man, Dr. Stanley Hopkins, a statewide renowned professor of history at the University of Austin, a famous interpreter of the "Texas Independent Spirit," a prolific writer known for his sharp words and unyielding integrity.

That's what Gandhi was called back then.

"Hero," "Goblin Guardian," "My Niece's Warm Man," "The Immortal of the Sun," and many other titles.

People with this kind of title are usually extraordinary!
Dr. Hopkins wore a slightly worn black suit with a Lone Star badge pinned to his chest, and his silver hair was neatly combed.

With a martyr-like solemnity and resoluteness on his face, he walked slowly but firmly toward the riverbank.

Several of his close friends and academic colleagues, along with a dozen of his most devoted students, followed closely behind, all with somber expressions, as if attending a solemn funeral.

Reporters captured all of this with their cameras.

In wartime, such symbolic news events are highly inflammatory.

Dr. Hopkins stopped on a slightly protruding rock by the river. He slowly turned around to face the camera, his cloudy old eyes glistening with tears and determination.

"My compatriots! My friends! My students!"

His voice was desolate and hoarse, echoing across the riverbank through the microphone, "You all see it! The skies of Texas are being torn apart by the enemy's iron wings, our land is being trampled by the invaders' iron hooves! The Red River is weeping, the southern plains are burning!"

He waved his arms, becoming increasingly agitated.

"The government of Paul Stuart may have failed, and the powerful and wealthy may have surrendered! But the spirit of Texas must not perish! The backbone of free Anglo-Saxon citizens must not break!"

He pounded his chest violently. "I, Stanley Hopkins, have spent my life writing books and advocating for the independence and freedom of Texas! Now, the city is about to fall, the nation is about to perish, how can I live on in the enemy's clutches and watch the roots of my culture be brutally eradicated?"

He pointed to the gently flowing Colorado River, its waters shimmering in the afternoon sun, looking...quite refreshing.

"Today! I emulate the ancient Roman sage Cato, and even more so, the indomitable spirit of our Texas forefathers! I will throw myself into the Colorado River! With my death, I will awaken the courage and integrity in the hearts of all Texans! Let my soul become an eternal, solitary star, illuminating this land of freedom!"

His speech was poignant and stirring, filled with the power of classical tragedy.

Several old friends had already begun wiping away tears, while the students were even more outraged, with some shouting "Professor, no!" and others roaring "Texas will never perish!"

Reporters frantically pressed their shutters, capturing this "historic moment."

Dr. Hopkins took a deep breath, glanced around at everyone one last time, as if to etch it all into his memory. Then, resolutely, he turned and walked step by step toward the river.

The camera followed him closely.

He took off his leather shoes and placed them neatly on the shore, then put on his socks and stepped into the shallows.

The river water gradually rose above his ankles and calves...

Everyone's hearts were in their throats.

Just then, Dr. Hopkins abruptly stopped in his tracks.

The river water was just above his knees at that moment.

His body visibly trembled violently, as if he had been electrocuted.

The previous tragic and resolute expression froze instantly, then twisted and disintegrated in an extremely rapid way, replaced by an extremely real and undisguised... astonishment and fear.

He suddenly looked down at the river water that had submerged his knees, as if he had seen something extremely terrifying.

Then, before anyone could react, he made a move that left all the cameras and everyone present speechless—

He turned around in a flustered, almost tumbling manner, ten times faster than when he went down, and stumbled back to the shore, splashing water everywhere.

He stood in the shallow water on the bank, dripping wet, his suit trousers clinging to his thin legs, looking utterly disheveled. He hugged his arms, his teeth chattering, his face deathly pale; the tragic heroism of moments before had vanished, replaced by an almost comical terror.

An eerie silence enveloped the riverbank. Only the camera continued its faithful operation.

A reporter, instinctively and somewhat bewildered, asked, "Dr.... Dr. Hopkins? What's wrong? Weren't you going to...?"

Dr. Hopkins abruptly raised his head, his lips trembling, and in a shrill voice, tinged with a mix of sobs, anger, embarrassment, and resentment, he uttered a sentence destined to "go down in history":
"Water! The water is too cold!!!"

……

silence.

Deathly silence.

Only the rushing sound of the Colorado River seemed to mock this farce mercilessly.

The reporters exchanged bewildered glances, their expressions shifting from shock to disbelief, then to a strange, distorted look of suppressed emotion. Several students stared wide-eyed, as if their faith had crumbled in an instant.

His old friends awkwardly turned their heads away, wishing they could disappear into the ground.

Dr. Hopkins seemed to realize his slip of the tongue; his face turned pale and then red, and he hugged his cold body, trembling as he tried to salvage the situation: "I meant the river was freezing cold! This...this is detrimental to a scholar's last shred of dignity! Yes! Dignity! I cannot be so undignified...Achoo!"

A loud sneeze completely interrupted his explanation.

Finally, under the extremely complicated gazes of everyone, an old friend who couldn't bear to watch any longer took off his coat and draped it over him, then helped him up, and in an indescribably awkward silence, he slunk away from the riverbank as fast as he could.

The following day, media outlets controlled by Texas and even Mexico reported the news without reservation.

Mexican television stations went to great lengths to ridicule it, repeatedly broadcasting it as a perfect illustration of Texas's "hypocritical elites."

The titles are varied:

"The Spirit of a Lone Star? The Colorado River Witnesses the 'Ice Water Patriots'!"

The water was too cold! Dr. Hopkins' martyrdom ceremony ended unexpectedly.

A Giant in Theory, a Dwarf by the River: A Failed Performance

From Cato to the Clown: On the Bottom Line of Some Texas Scholars

Dr. Hopkins' reputation for "the water is too cold" spread overnight to both sides of the conflict, becoming a highly ironic black joke in the war and the final straw that broke the trust of many still hesitant Texans in the old elite.

When Victor, who was in Mexico City, saw the news, he reportedly just scoffed and commented:
"Even dying requires choosing a day with the right water temperature? Is this the Texas tough guy they're all hyping up? He's fucking... less courageous than the ghost under my ashtray."

He casually tossed the report aside, his tone full of disdain: "They even pick and choose when it comes to suicide. These men should have been swept into the dustbin of history long ago. Tell the front lines to speed things up. I don't want to see this farce again."

………………

(End of this chapter)