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1.6% Working as a police officer in Mexico / Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Urinate Anywhere, and Your Tools Will Be Confiscated!

Capítulo 10: Chapter 10: Urinate Anywhere, and Your Tools Will Be Confiscated!

Dragan nearly choked on his own spit.

"What? Eight hundred US dollars? Are you robbing me?"

The spittle almost sprayed onto Casare's face.

His head dodged back subconsciously; not only did the guy's breath stink, but he also had the nerve to negotiate price while robbing him. He could've just put a bullet in his forehead.

But then again, who doesn't start with a high price in business?

You think this is charity work?

"What, too pricey for you? The cost to manufacture an AK47 is around 200 US dollars. I'm just charging you a bit over for shipping it from the Soviet Union to Mexico. Dragan, have I ever tricked you since we were kids?" Casare took the rifle and removed the magazine, "Standard 30 rounds. When you go out at night for a shootout with others, they fumble with a pistol and go limp, but you, my cousin, can let them know who's the real boss of the street with this."

"Most organizations in Mexico use American guns. If you're the first to use Soviet weapons, you'll be cool. Didn't you always say you wanted to stand out since you were a kid? American rifles would cost you more than 800 US dollars, not to mention, among similar firearms, AKs have proven themselves in real combat."

Terrorists step out with AKs; those who've used them swear by them.

Every word of Casare embedded itself deep into Dragan's heart. He glanced at the driver and the two sturdy men in the back seat, lifting his chin slightly, "What do you guys think?"

"I think it's good, boss. If we had this thing, would the Whale Brotherhood dare to vie with us for those two KTVs? Just wipe them out," said the driver bluntly.

The two burly men in the back seat also nodded their heads.

Their organization wasn't big, just over twenty people holding down two streets, collecting protection money from shops, especially KTVs and brothels, those were their big earners, with yearly revenues around 500 thousand US dollars!

The ordinary minions got paid about a thousand Pesos a month, but as the "security backbone" responsible for assaults, Dragan could take home a thousand US dollars monthly, which was an absolutely high salary.

Earning money was great, but of course, he wanted more!

The boss said he'd double the salary if they took over the neighboring street.

Don't think ordinary Mexican gangs are all that impressive. They still use machetes, and there's a shortage of firearms. Military weapons smuggled from the United States were all pre-ordered by the big drug traffickers, and the remnants that made it across the border were quickly distributed by the big organizations with many informants.

A small outfit like Dragan's found it hard to grow.

"Fine, eight hundred it is. Write me a receipt, I need to get reimbursed." Dragan took out greenbacks from his wallet, Franklin's bald head looked damn handsome to Casare.

"Right, make it nine hundred US dollars."

The guy was even skimming off the top!

Scribble, scribble, scribble, Casare wrote the receipt and handed it over, taking the US dollars with both hands and tossing the backpack, "It has 100 bullets inside. This is my gift to you, nobody else gets it. But that's the extent of my authority. Next time you want bullets, you'll have to pay."

Dragan's eyes lit up. He opened the backpack, and sure enough, there were two boxes of ammunition inside. He looked at Casare with even more warmth.

Money in hand, Casare was ready to leave. As he pushed open the door and his foot barely touched the ground, he seemed to remember something, "Oh, and we also provide rocket launchers, landmines, grenades. If you need anything, just get in touch, I can assure you a special price."

Can't forget the sales pitch.

It's a matter of professionalism.

After saying that, he got out of the car, closed the door, waved to Dragan in the passenger seat, and walked away with hands in his pockets, carefree.

"Boss, that cousin of yours couldn't possibly be an arms dealer, could he?" the driver asked curiously as he watched his retreating figure in the rearview mirror.

"Arms dealer? How could that be? He hasn't even left Mexico."

Dragan frowned, "Maybe he's working for some big shot."

"Forget about it; let's go, tell the boss first. If it really works well, I'll ask the boss to fund us. Then, with a dozen AKs, we can expand and strengthen!"

...

It was Casare's first time engaging in "illegal activities," and he found it somewhat thrilling. This was different from just taking a bribe; that was charity, but this was a genuine business of his own.

He ran to the market opposite the prison. Although it was bustling at night, it did business by day too. Half-awake prostitutes leaned against tents, cigarettes hanging from their lips, yawning, looking emaciated, almost like junkies.

With Casare's experienced eye, he could tell this one stank worse than a scallop – one bite, and you'd turn into a biohazard mother.

Just as he was about to enter, he saw an ice cream truck. He licked his lips and walked over, "Gimme one."

After taking a couple of licks of the ice cream in his hand, his eyes lit up.

He loved ice cream as a kid, but his family was poor. His mother struggled to support four kids on her own. He was the eldest and the most sensible, so he never indulged in ice cream, even though it cost just two Pesos, because that money could feed the family instead.

Once grown up and working, the wages of a cop were worse than a dog's – at least army dogs got a ten Peso meal ration. Casare saved his salary for his parents; his siblings needed to go to school, and he hoped his mother could toil a bit less.

But now...

He had a "fortune" of eight hundred US dollars in his pocket; he could finally indulge in ice cream without reservations.

"Psst,"

A whistle interrupted Casare's thoughts. Under an umbrella at the roadside, Victor, dressed in black, was sitting with a glass of juice in front of him.

"Been here long?" Casare jogged over and asked.

"Not even half an hour. How did it go?"

Casare took the money out of his pocket, placed it directly on the table, and pushed it forward, "That's a total of 800 US dollars."

Victor looked at the greenbacks on the table, quite satisfied, picked up two bills, and pushed the rest back to him, "We agreed, I only want 200 US dollars, the surplus is yours."

As Casare stared at the US dollars on the table, his Adam's apple bobbed, he thought Victor was just talking, who knew he was serious?

With a sheepish laugh, he took out a US dollar bill, "I'll just take one, I didn't really do anything, and the goods were provided by you."

He knew his place, understood where he stood, and recognized who was the main leader in this business. If he took too much and Victor wasn't happy, would he still make money?

Don't be so naive to think that when a leader says, "It's fine, you can raise concerns about me personally."

And then you take it seriously and point out his flaws.

The next day, you're fired for stepping in with your left foot first.

Don't believe in that kind of scoring system at school either. It seems random, but didn't you notice that everyone is arranged in neat rows and columns?

If you really receive a bad grade, just wait for it.

The world is full of tricks; you have to learn to discern them.

Casare thought Victor's previous statement about only wanting 200 US dollars was just a casual remark.

Seeing Casare being so "understanding," Victor clearly very pleased, pushed the money to him, "I'm a man of my word, nobody can touch my money, and I won't touch what's yours. Take it, we're going to make big money together in the future."

In the "grey business," you have to let your underlings make money too. You can't just give them empty promises, or one day they'll turn on you.

What you hold in your hand is what's real.

No amount of talk is as appealing as a clinking coin.

Realizing Victor was serious, Casare looked up at him, and Victor smiled at him, pointing to the money, "Hide it well. Leave it on the table, and it will be snatched away in a moment."

After saying this, he finished his juice, leaned back on the chair, and stood up, "Let's go, we're heading into the city to find Best."

Upon hearing this, Casare grabbed the money from the table, stuffed it into the inner pocket of his clothes, and looked around, only to see a woman not far off staring intently at him. Casare bared his teeth like a dog guarding its food.

Whoever dared to touch his things, he would bite them to death!

Try not to take taxis in Mexico because you never know where they might take you, or if the drivers are drug traffickers moonlighting. If they see you're good-looking, oh snap, you're the star of the night show tomorrow.

So, take the officially sanctioned buses whenever possible.

But even these buses can be dangerous.

In 1985, when Tang Neito, the third-man in the Guadalajara Cartel, was arrested, his subordinates launched a riot to confront the government. Armed drug traffickers stormed the streets and killed anyone they saw.

A school bus passing through the city center was stopped, and those heartless and vicious scoundrels opened fire, leading to 24 students and teachers killed inside, with an average age of 7 years old.

There was also a bus carrying laborers who had finished a day's work and were on their way home. It was stopped as well, and six men were beheaded, their heads thrown at the city hall.

This country has decayed to the core!

You can't expect anyone to save it. Even if Jesus came, he'd have to learn to smoke weed to fit in.

Fortunately, Victor and his companion didn't encounter such misfortune. After reaching their stop, they found a diesel three-wheeler and headed straight to Chimalhuacán.

Chimalhuacán is actually a large slum in Mexico City with about one million inhabitants, which constitutes one-fifth of the entire Mexico City population.

It's much larger than Tiantongyuan.

Victor knew the exact address, showing it to the retching driver, who gave an OK gesture, twisted the throttle, and weaved through the streets and alleys.

The driver was a reckless one. Passing through a narrow street, he shouted as if he were a horn, not yielding to people sitting at their doorsteps, just charging ahead, angering a woman who was nearly hit and cursed at him from behind.

Bold and brazen kids chased after the vehicle, and if they'd seen foreigners, they might have already tipped over the car and started robbing.

As soon as they entered Chimalhuacán, Victor's face turned stern, and he handed a Colt M1911 to Casare, "Take this, just in case."

"What about you?"

Victor glanced at him, opened his jacket, revealing an Uzi submachine gun, "When stepping out, you always need to carry something for self-defense; otherwise, I don't feel at ease."

Casare's eyes bulged out, at a loss for words, but he nodded and took the handgun, tucking it into his waistband.

The three-wheeler was swift, and in just over half an hour, they arrived at their destination. But Best's door was kicked in and lay on the ground, with sounds of smashing and cursing coming from inside.

"It seems we've come at an inopportune time," said Victor.

Victor entered the house, and Casare followed after paying, only to see four teenagers surrounding a man lying on the ground.

One of the youngsters was urinating on the man.

When they heard the noise at the door, all four turned their heads and saw a man with a submachine gun aimed at them.

"Gentlemen, urinating in public could cost you your equipment!"


Capítulo 11: Chapter 11: The Middleman! (Revised)

Guns!

The young man peeing was so scared that he hurriedly tucked his "tool" back into his pants.

The four of them looked at each other, one of them, who looked slightly more mature, was about to speak.

Victor pulled out his police badge, flicked off the safety on the back of the grip, and started shooting.

Ratatat...

Casare jumped with fright, his shoulders shrank, his eyes widened, and he watched the bodies on the ground, his scalp tingling with numbness.

Could you at least wait for them to say something before spraying them so decisively?

Hearing the gunshots, Best, crouching on the ground, hugged his body tighter.

After firing all 25 bullets and hearing the click of the empty chamber, Victor lowered his hand and glanced at Casare beside him, shrugging his shoulders, "These guys intended to assault a police officer, don't study well; sooner or later, they are just backup options for drug traffickers. Might as well take them out first."

In fact, these four people were also heavily sinful, having committed robbery, rape, and murder, providing Victor with 378 points.

Casare's facial muscles trembled as he listened, he gave a thumbs up, walked over to Best, and smelled urine, a bit pungent – obviously, the young man was a bit upset.

If you're that overheated, just finish it with a burst.

"Best?" He called out twice, not wanting to touch him, obviously a bit repulsed.

The other man, upon hearing his name called, cautiously revealed his eyes. Seeing the familiar face, his eyes filled with excitement, and his voice was hoarse, as if it were damaged by smoke from a fire, "Casare!"

"Victor!"

"Buddy, I haven't seen you for so long, and you've already become like this?" Victor frowned, and seeing that the other man wanted to speak, he waved his hand, "Let's go, let's get out of here, the smell of urine is strong."

Victor expertly changed the magazine in his hand and walked out the door, seeing the slum residents looking their way upon hearing the gunshots, but no one dared to gather.

"Look at your grandma, get your head back in!" He fired a burst at the wall, scaring them into silence.

Reckless!

Arrogant!

Standing behind, Nuriel Best was a bit stunned by this scene, it was nothing like the Victor he knew.

That Victor was a gentleman, even rarely raising his voice against others, and sometimes, when encountering a girl, he would even be a bit shy.

But this man in front of him...

If you said he was a bandit, people would believe it.

"People change, Best, don't they?" Casare said with a smile.

Best was taken aback, not sure whether to believe it or not.

The three walked toward the main road, hearing the noise of cars outside. Victor saw a red Beetle with the door open, and a lady with perky buttocks was buying something next to it.

"Get in the car!"

Victor slid into the driver's seat, and once Casare and the others were in, he twisted the ignition key. The lady buying something, wearing high heels, turned around at the noise, only to see a strange man starting her car.

Angry, she was about to run over, cursing as she did.

Victor raised his gun, and she instantly shrank back, shouting, "OMG!" and ran to the side holding her head.

"Buckle up, we're taking off!"

He stepped on the clutch, changed the gear; though he looked skilled, the car jolted forward and then hesitated, almost causing Casare and the others in the backseat to bump their heads on the front seats.

"Sorry, let's try that again."

Victor looked in the rearview mirror, smiled, and muttered to himself. He slowly started the car, the Beetle's engine wasn't great; it felt almost like a slow push.

"Who were those guys?" Now there was time, Victor asked.

"Members of a Chimalhuacán gang."

"How did you get mixed up with them?"

Best's left face twitched, half of his face was wrinkled like a burn scar, "They demanded protection money, 5 Pesos a week; I had no money, the bastards still made me pay taxes!"

"I'm just a facilitator, what taxes should I pay?"

"That was the fourth gang this month demanding protection fees; I paid the others."

Hearing this, Casare looked at him with a hint of pity.

The Mexico City slums are a huge box of chives; any gang can come to collect protection money. It isn't much, sometimes just 5 Pesos a week, but there are so many gangs; it's more brutal than taxing.

Many ordinary people just can't bear it, and the gang members force you to sell your children. If you have a son at home, he would be forced to join the gang to provide them with "fresh blood." This is one of the reasons why drug traffickers cannot be defeated.

They provide a never-ending supply of criminals.

The Brazilian gangs are the same; when the military and police enter the slums, everyone's a criminal. It's the people's quagmire warfare against organized crime.

The underlying structure determines the height of the superstructure.

Think about it, with over a million people in Chimalhuacán of Mexico City, how much profit can these people bring to the gangs?

Even from the poor, one can extract something. If there's no more juice to squeeze, there's always blood.

"A few bastards daring to call themselves a gang." Victor said disdainfully.

"You're looking for me ..." Best asked.

"Don't rush, take a bath first, soak well and then we'll talk," Victor interrupted his inquiry, primarily because the smell of urine on him was too strong.

Best nodded, glanced at the Uzi submachine gun on the passenger seat, and thought: The police force is equipped with these things now?

Had Mexico's government gotten rich over the past few years?

The car stopped at the entrance of a bathhouse, which had "Northeast Old Soak" written on it in Chinese and Spanish.

The owner of this place was Chinese, who emigrated in the 70s. He opened six branches in Mexico City, was very wealthy and, it was said, had good relations with both the local gangs and the government, having a foot in both camps.

Getting out of the car, he threw the keys to the parking attendant, who looked at the crowded Beetle car then back at the three burly men walking in, thinking, 'This man has some pretty saucy tastes.'

"I want a private room with a hot spring."

"And go buy me a set of clothes, the rest is your tip," Victor said generously, handing over 200 pesos. The receptionist looked at Best strangely—why did he smell so strong?

Was this some kind of performance art?

They took the money with a smile, agreed, and had someone lead them to a very private room on the third floor.

"Take a wash, you smell," Victor said as he took off his clothes and was about to put the Uzi in the locker but then thought better of it and, keeping it ready, said to the bare-assed Casare, "Keep the gun with you."

In Mexico, it's not unheard of for people to get killed in a bathhouse.

Seeing Casare with a Colt, Best asked, "Where did these weapons come from? Uzi? That's some quality stuff."

"How can you dare to stir up trouble without some capital?"

Victor looked at Casare and said with a smile, "I have ways to get arms. They traffic drugs; we sell arms. I provide them with military support. It's business. You do what others don't, that's called having an eye. You follow when others do, that's called eating farts behind their backs."

Lying back in the hot spring, he couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief.

"Go wash over there, don't make this place all pissy."

Feeling a bit embarrassed, Best hurried to the shower to rinse off, drying himself with a towel before slipping into the warm bath.

"I know you're reluctant, you want revenge, but right now you have no money, no people, and no power. What are you going to use for your revenge?"

"Everything in this world has a price tag, including human youth, ideals, conscience, justice. We're all busy every day for money. Why were you a cop before? Wasn't it for money or was it for justice? Money is what drives our lives. If you had money, if you put a 200,000-peso bounty on your enemy's head, would no one respond? If not, then offer 500,000. Still no takers? Then 1 million!"

"See if he won't end up dead then."

Victor spread his arms wide, resting them on the sides, "Follow me, and I will help you get your revenge."

What's a drug trafficker anyway?

When my position climbs higher and higher, won't it just be a matter of a simple word from me?

Scared of having a backer? I am someone else's backer!

Actually, Best had thought about seeking protection from other gangs in the slums too. Being a go-between wasn't easy, but... he was a cripple. The fire had left him alive but also inflicted serious damage—a burned half-face, a removed meniscal, and a slight limp when he walked.

He looked miserable.

He only thought for a moment before nodding, "I agree."

He had no choice. The gangsters who died in his house had a powerful backing, which would surely seek revenge against him. If he went back, it meant death.

"Casare, there's a stack of money in my bag, go get it."

The fat man acknowledged and climbed out of the spring, still shivering, open Victor's locker, and handed him the money.

"Here's 20,000 pesos. Get yourself some new clothes, rent a decent place to live. You won't always have to look so wretched hanging with me."

That's almost 10,000 US dollars, just given like that?

"The benefits for you two are the same, no monthly salary but a 5% commission on sales. How does that sound?"

Casare did the math. 5%. For something like the AK47 they had earlier, at 800 US dollars, he'd get 40 US dollars! It might not seem like much, but they were playing a numbers game. If he sold 50 a month, that's 2,000 US dollars.

"I agree!" He was quick to accept.

Seeing Casare agree made it clear to Best that this 5% commission was substantial. He nodded, and as Victor got up to leave for a shower and massage, he said, "You guys chat first."

When he was far enough away, Casare twisted his neck.

It felt so good.

"By the way, Casare, do you know Fremont Holder?"

The name sounded familiar to him, and Casare furrowed his brow.

"Is he that former Deputy Warden of Plateau Prison who robbed the gangs?"

"That's the one!"

Best's eyes gleamed, "He's made a fortune recently."

...


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