Working as a police officer in Mexico

The former Security Minister Restrepo's head, thrown by a drug trafficker at the entrance of the government building, was captured by journalists.

In the photo, a sedan faced dozens of military police, with the drug trafficker inside flipping them off arrogantly, a head rolling on the ground, not even pixelated, just posted as it was.

Then, piece by piece, the reports began to appear on the front pages.

"Colombia on the brink under the Drug Association!"

"Our country! Our nation! To die under drugs!"

It has to be said, sometimes, journalists are a bunch of "iron-headed" people, but it is this kind of witness that prevents history from being forgotten.

Just like during the Panama War, when the U.S. Military very "specially and exceptionally" banned all war correspondents from entering the combat zone, corralling the journalists in a place where they could only get official news from the U.S. forces.

This actually violated the "Geneva Conventions."

Back then, a Spanish journalist named Juan Rodriguez sneaked into the battlefield and took many photos of the time. However, ultimately, this journalist was assassinated in front of many witnesses, in a non-combat zone...

Well... a madman in a non-combat zone of the U.S. Military, holding a U.S.-issued M9 pistol, found him "precisely" among the crowd of hundreds of journalists and then shot him in the head three times.

CNMD!

Indeed, bad reviews I will humanely destroy.

It must have been the work of a madman... no, surely a madman did it.

If madmen do it, not to mention drug traffickers.

All 17 newspapers in Colombia reported the incident, after which drug traffickers from various regions stormed their headquarters, carrying out an inhumane slaughter inside!

Just a dozen drug traffickers armed with assault rifles and wearing masks rushed in, opening fire on anyone they saw, even a female presenter in the broadcast room, whose looks gained her a large audience.

She was shot in the head by the intruding drug trafficker.

That blood...

Splattered on the camera lens!

The audience outside the TV thought it was just "show effects," but when the drug traffickers emptied a whole magazine into the corpse, suddenly it was not alright!

Call after call flooded the police station.

What courage did the police have to go?

They were so scared they even unplugged the phone line.

This act also completely enraged the general public, especially college students, who took to the streets to loudly protest, carrying banners: Shame on drug traffickers! Get out of Colombia!

The crowd grew and grew, even reaching more than 2000 people.

They stood outside the city government building protesting.

And funnily enough, just down the same street, 200 meters opposite, was the North American Drug Syndicate building selected by Pablo!

Drug traffickers and the government on the same street, face to face.

Who's embarrassed?

The loser is embarrassed!

That building was even four stories taller than the government building, firmly overpowering it. In the spacious top floor, the high-ranking members of the North American Drug Syndicate were having a meeting.

Holding a cigarette, Pablo stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the group of ordinary people protesting below and laughed, "These people, not busy making money, protesting all day long, earning a few thousand bucks a month, no money, do they have the right to be patriotic?"

"They don't even know that this bottle of red wine could cost them their lives!"

"A bunch of worthless scumbags."

Pablo took a puff of his cigar, his eyes menacing, and shouted to Ochoa, "Show them what's to be done in Colombia, the only thing is to keep their mouths shut. Their opinions don't matter, but their noise will bother the people sitting in the office!"

Ochoa nodded fiercely and went out to arrange it.

"In 1970, when me and my brothers started trafficking drugs, I met an Eastern Pastor who told me that my fate was cursed by Jesus, advising me to become a vegetarian to ensure many blessings and children,"

"Pshaw!" Pablo chuckled, then turned his head to the Cali Cartel's Three Godfathers, Mexico's Guzman, and others, "I pulled out a gun and asked him to guess whether I would kill him."

"He said I would!"

"I shot him on the spot, then told his corpse that he guessed right, but I don't believe in fate. On my turf, Pablo Escobar, even if the Vatican wants to preach, they'd have to share half their faith with me."

The room was filled with the voices of kingpins.

He looked at everyone, finally fixing his gaze on Guzman, the two exchanging glances; the understated Shorty lowered his head, and Pablo's mouth curled up in satisfaction, enjoying the feeling of dominating a peer.

"Gilbert, how's the Statue of Liberty in New York City doing? Is her skirt lifted yet? I can't help but want to fuck her!"

Ever since his brother Miguel's death, the head of the Cali Cartel had become increasingly languid, his once gentlemanly countenance turning into a curry face, looking very haggard. At Pablo's query, he simply lifted his head, squinting his eyes.

"I've made contact with ETA in Spain, they've developed a new explosive device, and my people have entered New York in batches. Just waiting for the order, boom! The Statue of Liberty? I want to turn her into ruins!"

Gilbert spoke decisively.

The Cali Cartel, to some extent, received sponsorship from the Americans, to counter the Pablo-led group subsidized by the Soviet Union, but... when it came to the Americans, Gilbert didn't quite trust them, so he sent people to bug the U.S. Embassy in Colombia and even bribed some janitors inside to plant bugs and trackers under the desks.

He heard more than once the Americans worrying that the growth of the Cali Cartel might affect them, but the ambassador arrogantly told Washington, "Gilbert is just a gentlemanly-looking bastard, Miguel is a raging bull, Chepe Santacruz is a lecherous-looking idiot, and the fourth, Herrera, is nothing but a farmer good for tending fields. The Four Godfathers of Cali?

I see them as a bunch of mongrels."

This conversation deeply stuck with Gilbert. He realized that a piss pot is still a piss pot; no matter how much the Americans sponsored him, they would kick him aside when they were done with him. If Pablo died, the next one would definitely be himself.

Plus, Miguel had just been riddled with bullets by DEA agents.

He was filled with hate, compounded by rage!
Your adventure continues at empire

You have no humanity, so I'll be damned if I care about your life or death.

He originally planned to blow up the embassy, but felt it wasn't explosive or impactful enough, so he decided to target the Statue of Liberty instead.

Let that bitch collapse in ruins!

A drug trafficker is a creature of great audacity; if they dare to traffick drugs, what wouldn't they dare to do?

Americans?

Think you're so fucking great?

Gilbert had harbored a bellyful of resentment ever since he'd experienced the "United Fruit Company" seizing his land, forcing him to work for them without being treated like a human being. Even though it was 1990 now and they had changed their name to "Chiquita," the hatred was still etched deep in Gilbert's heart.

He was settling new scores and old grievances alike!

Fuck you, Americans.

"Very nice!" Pablo was satisfied with the Cali Cartel's efficiency. His cigar had just burned out, so he tossed it into the ashtray, "Perhaps, we should add a righteous label to this operation."

"For instance, how about a 'Revenge Operation?' To oppose the Americans' century-long control over Central and South America and also as payback for the United Fruit Company's actions over the past few decades. They've overthrown more than 30 governments, repressed over 5,000 labor protests. They are bloody, and so we must make them understand, resistance has always been present."

Upon hearing these words, Guzman and the others exchanged looks. This excuse... was quite something!

At that moment, panic and screams suddenly emanated from downstairs. Looking out of the window, they saw a dozen pickup trucks charging violently into the crowd of protestors!

Without hesitation, they just plowed through!

The trucks pushed ahead, running over people and crushing heads beneath them without a second thought.

Whoever stood in their way would die!

And right next to them was a government building!

Even a sentry inside, upon hearing the commotion outside, first glanced out and then... slammed the door shut!

Thousands of protestors ran about in panic.

Pablo watched the scene unfold with satisfaction, "Protest is a protest of the powerful if successful, not a concession of the powerful, but rather... due to finding it bothersome. But I prefer a more physical solution to deal with them."

"Alright, gentlemen, don't bother with those wretches anymore, let's discuss the righteous operation we shall carry out in the United States!"

"We need to make those people understand that the lives of ordinary people in Central and South America are lives too, and they should be paid back."

Guzman glanced down at the protestors being crushed under the vehicles, blood everywhere and screams erupting constantly, yet gradually dying down, while the drug traffickers violently pursued their prey.

This was truly a darkly comedic Latin American satire.

Killing ordinary people while claiming to demand debts from the United States on their behalf.

Wait... this is utterly fucked up.

No wonder he could lead the Medellin Cartel to its greatest heights. With such thick skin, Guzman had much to learn.

"Guzman!" A voice called out. Aguilar from Juarez tugged at Shorty, who, startled, came to his senses just in time to see Pablo frowning at him, "You're zoning out."

"Sorry," said Guzman in a grave voice.

"I will send my troops on an expedition to Mexico! I'll dispatch an expeditionary force of over 6,000, plus 20 Mi-8 armed helicopters, 25 BMP-1 infantry fighting vehicles, and 10 T55 tanks, which will arrive in Mexico by sea."

"Apart from us, General Uvico Castaneda of the Guatemalan warlords has also made it clear that he will cooperate with the Trout Gang and send about 3,000 troops from the south into Mexico to fight Victor!"

"The drug trafficking organizations from Honduras and Ecuador have also expressed clear support for you and have provided 20 million US dollars in financial aid."

"These are the first batch of reinforcements from the Syndicate, the second batch will follow soon, our goal is to crush Victor!"

"He's been too much of a nuisance."

"I do not like that."

Pablo expressed coolly, "These men will be under your command, don't fail the Syndicate. I've also put together a staff team of ten for you; most of them are retired U.S. military officers."

"Just pay them; they don't like to have debts."

Fucking hell?

Mobilizing an expeditionary force?

Almost ten thousand men and so much firepower?

Guzman wondered if he was a drug trafficker or a warlord now?

Still, he couldn't deny the feeling of having backing was indeed pleasant. Could Victor handle him, let alone face a "United Army"?

If planes and cannons were to come raining down, they'd be dead for sure.

Yet the brooding Guzman thought that perhaps there was another approach – starting with Victor's inner circle.

He liked to play dirty tricks, and it wasn't possible that everyone was satisfied with Victor, right?

Stir up internal chaos!

And then have the large army descend from the outside.

Perfect.

…