Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 736 Are we going to fight again?

“Little Bush, I am a straightforward man. To protect my fellow citizens and to make amends for the immense trauma and humiliation they and our nation have suffered, your promises and reparations alone are not enough.”

"what do you want?"

Then, fearing the other party might make an unreasonable demand, Bush reminded them, "I find it hard to agree to anything too outrageous."

"My Marines must go ashore and establish a security zone in Maine, especially in Portland and the worst-hit areas in the north, to directly protect our citizens, maintain order, and eliminate any rioters who dare to threaten the safety of Mexican citizens. Your police and National Guard need to cooperate unconditionally."

"What?! Are you crazy?!"

George W. Bush practically jumped out of his chair and roared into the microphone, "Let foreign troops set foot on American soil to maintain order? To suppress my people? Absolutely not! Don't even think about it."

Lead the wolf into the room!

This is utterly absurd! To have the Mexican army "protect" American citizens in the US and, incidentally, "suppress" American rioters?

This is even more humiliating than the French surrendering back then!

If George W. Bush signs this agreement, he will immediately become the most infamous president in American history, forever nailed to the pillar of shame!

We'll build a separate mountain for him later.

“Little Bush, you can’t solve the problems in Maine right now. Your government has lost control of the situation. Your soldiers are looting. What you can’t protect, I will protect for you; what you can’t solve, I will solve for you.”

"You motherfucker... Fuck you! Victor! Go to hell!"

George W. Bush's pent-up anger overwhelmed his last shred of reason in that instant. He roared out that classic Chinese curse into the microphone with all his might, and then slammed the phone receiver hard against the landline!
Proper diplomacy doesn't involve getting angry, but this is just... infuriating.

Even a clay Buddha has some anger.
Your grandma's legs, Victor!
"Beep—beep—beep—"

Viktor held the microphone that was emitting a busy tone, a rare look of surprise and bewilderment on his face. He blinked, seemingly not quite reacting, slowly took the microphone away from his ear, looked down, and then looked up at Casare, who was also somewhat frozen beside him.

The two stared at each other, and the atmosphere became somewhat awkward for a moment.

A few seconds later, as if finally confirming something, Viktor asked Casare with a hint of disbelief, "Did he just curse at me? And then hang up?"

Casare's facial muscles twitched slightly. He wanted to laugh but felt it was inappropriate, so he could only nod awkwardly, "Uh...yes, boss."

Viktor stared at the phone for two seconds, then suddenly burst out laughing. The laughter grew louder and louder until it turned into an uncontrollable uproar.

Casare stood by, unsure of what to do.

Damn, the boss laughed!

The last time he laughed like that, a tribe in the central state died, and Casare felt a chill run down his spine.

Damn it, this is it, this is it, people are going to die.

...

Inside the Oval Office, George W. Bush regretted hanging up the phone almost instantly, but he forced himself not to show it, only muttering "Shit! Shit!" under his breath in frustration.

He felt a sudden dryness in his mouth, and subconsciously grabbed the still-steaming coffee from his desk, tilting his head back and gulping it down without even looking at it.

"puff--!"

The scalding hot coffee burned his tongue and mouth, and he immediately spat it all out. He slammed the coffee cup down on the table in a fit of rage, and angrily yelled at Chief of Staff Karl Rove, who just walked in at that moment, "Why is the coffee so hot?! Who prepared it?!"

Karl Rove was taken aback by the absurd question, and subconsciously thought to himself, "Is the coffee still hot? What's gotten into the president?" But he dared not show it on his face and could only stand there awkwardly.

are you crazy!

George W. Bush immediately realized he had asked a stupid question. He rubbed his face vigorously, trying to dispel the dizziness caused by extreme fatigue and stress, and asked with a frown, "Carl, what's wrong now? I hope it's not another bad news."

The chief of staff then came to his senses and hurriedly reported: "Mr. President, Canada has unilaterally closed all border crossings with Maine and the national highway leading to Canada, and has increased troop deployments on the Canadian side of the border. At the same time, the Canadian Ministry of Foreign Affairs has formally submitted a note to us."

"The document states that, given the current serious and out-of-control security situation in Maine and the potential spillover risks, in order to ensure the safety of Canadian citizens and the integrity of the border, the Canadian government has decided to temporarily suspend the flow of people and goods with Maine until the security and order in the region are effectively controlled by the United States federal government and meet basic security standards."

After hearing this, Bush didn't fly into a rage as usual. He just sighed deeply, as if he didn't even have the strength to be angry anymore. He felt a throbbing pain in his temples, as if someone was drilling into them with an awl. He silently opened his desk drawer, took out a bottle of prescription painkillers, poured out two pills without even looking at them, and swallowed them dry.

Seeing his action, Karl Rove's eyes flashed with worry, and he couldn't help but advise, "Sir, this painkiller has strong side effects and is addictive. It cannot be taken so frequently, and especially not in excessive amounts..."

George W. Bush waved wearily, interrupting him. "Karl, my head is throbbing. In our current situation, what do we care about dependency? Let's just take it one step at a time and get through this first."

The chief of staff, seeing his sunken eye sockets and obvious blisters at the corners of his mouth, knew how much pressure he was under and could only nod helplessly.

Bush leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes to let the medication take effect, and then remembered to ask, "How did your call with Victor go? Was it smooth? What conditions did he propose?"

Upon hearing this, George W. Bush's lips twitched uncontrollably. He opened his eyes, his gaze filled with complex emotions—anger, frustration, and a hint of self-mockery.

He said in a peculiar tone, “Smooth? Oh, very smooth. We had a deep and frank exchange.”

Chief of Staff Karl Rove's face lit up with a glimmer of hope upon hearing this.

George W. Bush continued, speaking in a flat tone as if he were talking about something unrelated to himself: "I greeted his mother without any problems."

Karl Rove's expression froze instantly: "...???"

Wang Defa?
Confused!
But despite Bush's constant talk of "begging for mercy," what he was really thinking about was nothing more than six words: "To fight external enemies, we must first pacify internal strife."

Huh…

It reminds me of a stock trading master.

But there are also some hawks.

The following day, July 20, 1997.

The Washington Beacon, one of the largest and most influential newspapers in the United States, published a poignant and cautionary editorial on its front page, with a powerful headline in bold black font:

How much more homeland will we lose?

"Yes, we had the last laugh in our protracted standoff with the bear, and we thought a new world order led by the United States and based on our values ​​was about to arrive. However, before the champagne of victory had even faded, we were horrified to discover that a deadly threat was rising from what we once considered our 'backyard' and was beginning to gnaw at our body."

"Texas, the land that flows with the blood of the Alamo, is lost; California, the Pacific jewel that gave birth to Silicon Valley and Hollywood, has dimmed. Now, the Mexican fleet, those warships that not long ago flew our Stars and Stripes, are brazenly patrolling the Gulf of Maine, the gateway to our East Coast, and their commanders are even openly discussing shelling our ports."

"Today they can demand Maine, but what about tomorrow? Will it be the turn of New York, Florida, or even our capital, Washington? Every concession, every act of 'putting the big picture' doesn't bring peace and respect, but rather more greedy covetousness and more aggressive provocation! Are we to keep retreating step by step until one day we are forced to cower back to the shore where we started, like the descendants of exiled prisoners, slinking back to England in disgrace?"

"The backbone of America cannot be broken here. We must never become vassals of those we once pitied and aided on our own homeland. It is time to wake up, time to stop the infighting and pointless arguments, time to rediscover the courage and determination of our ancestors, and tell Victor, and the whole world: Fuck it, this is the end!" This editorial, like a boulder thrown into a calm lake, instantly stirred up a huge resonance and reaction across the United States, especially among political elites, veterans' groups, and conservative citizens.

Shouts like "We can't back down any further!", "Defend Maine! Defend America!", and "The cowardly government must step down!" began to appear frequently on the streets, in television interviews, and on radio hotlines.

However, while this patriotic fervor was surging in the United States, on the other side of the Atlantic in Europe, media outlets from various countries, watching from the sidelines, were filled with a complex sense of schadenfreude, offering merciless ridicule and sabotage to this editorial and the current predicament of the United States.

Anyway, we are very far from Mexico.

The Sun, Britain's best-selling tabloid, used an extremely satirical headline on its third page:

Dear American cousins, don't rush to 'come back,' we have no room here!

"We are flattered to see our cousins ​​across the ocean discussing the possibility of 'returning to Britain,' but we regret to inform you that we are full. As we all know, we are just a crowded little island and can hardly accommodate hundreds of millions of American citizens who cherish a sense of 'homeland.' Moreover, according to historical records, most of those who left were pursuing religious freedom, escaping political persecution, or, well, simply put, some restless 'pioneers.' We sincerely suggest that instead of considering 'returning,' you should seriously think about how to protect the vast land you now possess, which, in terms of area, is much larger than the whole of Europe."

The French newspaper Le Monde was even more impressive.

"The 'homeland' of North America, strictly speaking, belongs to the Native American peoples..."

These reports and commentaries from mainstream European media were quickly reprinted on the internet and cited by some liberal media in the United States, like buckets of cold water poured over the heads of those hot-blooded American hawks.

"Look! The Europeans are laughing at us!"

"They simply don't understand our pain and our determination!"

"These ungrateful bastards! Without us, they would have been ruled by Nazi Germany or the Soviet Union long ago!"

Anger, shame, helplessness... a variety of emotions intertwined, collided, and fermented within American society.

George W. Bush locked himself in his Oval Office, staring at the mountain of crisis reports and media summaries piled on his desk. His editorial, "How Much More Homeland Will We Lose?", and a satirical article from The Sun stood side by side, looking incredibly jarring.

He felt like he was being roasted over a fire, with enemies, restless domestic political rivals, angry citizens, and "old friends" watching from across the sea adding fuel to the fire.

"Homeland...homeland..." he murmured to himself, a bitter smile on his face. "Who still remembers what this land was like in the beginning?"

"The lighthouse is no longer a lighthouse."

……

Just as a wave of patriotism swept across the United States, the violent storm in Maine not only failed to subside, but instead, fueled by a nativist sentiment and a sense of impunity, it descended into an even more horrifying abyss.

Actually, we can take Vietnam as an example. Back then... tsk tsk tsk.

Augusta, a relatively remote neighborhood that still has Mexican-American families living in.

Several journalists from different media outlets are risking their lives to film and document the chaotic street scenes, while the distant shelling of the Mexican fleet can be faintly heard, further agitating the rioters on the ground.

Suddenly, a group of about seven or eight drunken white thugs wielding sticks broke down the wooden door of a small bungalow. They dragged out a Mexican-American girl named Maria, who looked to be only a teenager, while she was wearing a plain T-shirt and jeans. Her face was pale, and her terrified cries were drowned out by the thugs' laughter and curses.

"Hey! Look what we found? A little Mexican mouse hiding!" A thug wearing a baseball cap grabbed the girl's hair forcefully.

"Let me go! Please!" the girl pleaded in heavily accented English, struggling, but to no avail.

“Guys, let’s teach her what a real ‘American welcome’ is!” Another burly man in a vest, revealing large tattoos, began tearing at the girl’s clothes.

Reporters in the vicinity all pointed their cameras at this outrageous scene.

When journalist Sarah Jones saw the girl's desperate eyes, a surge of emotion welled up inside her. She could no longer tolerate such atrocities against innocent civilians, especially when the country's enemies were stationed overseas.

She abruptly stepped out from behind cover, handed the camera to her trembling assistant, and shouted at the mob, “Stop! What are you doing? Look at yourselves! Your enemies are the Mexican fleet at sea, Victor’s army, not this unarmed girl! Where is your courage? Is it only for bullying those weaker than you?! Turn your violence on the invaders!”

The thugs, who were about to commit violence, paused and turned to look at Sarah.

The tattooed burly man was stunned for a moment, then his face contorted with rage at being offended and humiliated.

Sarah's words were like a needle, precisely piercing their despicable and cowardly hearts, which they disguised as "defending their homeland" and "upholding justice."

"You bitch! What did you say?!" The tattooed burly man released the girl and walked step by step toward Sarah, his eyes fierce. "Are you telling us what to do? Which side are you on? Are you with these Mexican bastards?!"

"I'm just telling you what true courage and justice are!" Sarah's heart was pounding, but she still forced herself to meet his gaze.

"Courage? Justice? I'll show you what courage really is!" The burly man was completely enraged. He felt that his actions to "defend white dignity" were being questioned and challenged, and this challenge came from a female reporter who seemed to be one of his own, which made him even more intolerant.

He waved his hand sharply: "Grab this meddlesome bitch here too! Let her see with her own eyes how we 'welcome' the families of these intruders!"

Several thugs immediately abandoned the girl and rushed towards Sarah Jones and her film crew. The cameraman tried to protect the equipment but was hit on the back with a stick and fell to the ground screaming. The assistant screamed as he was pushed away. Sarah was roughly grabbed by the arms by two thugs and dragged to the middle of the street, where she was thrown together with the Mexican girl, Maria.

“You can’t do this! I’m an American citizen! I’m a journalist!” Sarah struggled, trying to use her identity to rouse their senses.

"Reporters? Bah!" The tattooed, burly man spat. "You media people, just like politicians, are all spineless! Today I'll show you who's in charge!"

Under the horrified gaze of other reporters, a brutal act of violence began in broad daylight. The thugs, like beasts who had lost their last shred of humanity, took turns raping Maria and Sarah Jones in front of multiple media cameras.

When the violence finally came to a temporary halt, and the two victims lay sprawled on the ground like rag dolls, their eyes vacant, with only physiological twitches and weak sobs remaining, the tattooed burly man seemed to still feel it wasn't enough.

Sarah Jones's words still burned in his mind—an accusation he couldn't refute yet loathed.

It made him feel that his self-esteem had been insulted.

As he pulled up his trousers, he drew a heavy, rusty carpenter's hammer from behind his waist.

He walked up to Sarah Jones, squatted down, looked into her unfocused eyes, and grinned maliciously, saying, "You bitch, now you know what 'bravery' is? This is it!"

After saying that, he raised the hammer high and, amidst the horrified gasps and screams of the surrounding reporters, smashed it down hard on Sarah Jones's head!
"boom!"

With a muffled thud, red blood and white brain matter splattered out instantly.

Sarah's body convulsed violently and then stopped moving.

Then, before anyone else could react, he did the same thing again, walking up to Maria, who was too terrified to even cry, and cruelly smashing her skull with a hammer.

The thug stood up, wiped the blood splattered on his face, and gave a maniacal smile to the cameras around him that had almost stopped working.

"Did you film it all? Huh? Tell Victor, tell the whole world! This is Maine's answer to you, you fucking Mexicans! You fucking meddlesome traitors, America is ours!"

……

(End of this chapter)