Chapter 253 Victor: Yes, I hurt the dwarf!

Chapter 253 Victor: Yes, I hurt the dwarf!

Finally, the organizer came out to coordinate.

The two parties were separated, each in a corner, and the injured were sent to the hospital.

"Fuck, find their hotel." Casare was obviously still angry.

"Sir, are you really going to kill them?" A colleague asked in a low voice.

"Let our group of "society members" kill them. No one can make me unhappy and say sorry and end it."

Then why do we need violence?

Isn't violence just to make you feel better when you are angry?

Casare is already fat. What if he gets breast hyperplasia?

This is North America!

My hometown is next door. I can call hundreds of people to kill you in a minute with just one phone call.

Spain?

A place with big boogers.

Casare admires the "universal love and non-aggression" of Mozi, the founder of the European "Legalists".

Annex the Aegean Sea and attack Africa.

But sometimes I think about it...

Victor is stirring up emotions and making speeches that inspire people. Anyone can go to the battlefield for him. Does he look like a Bavarian boy?

There is one difference between Casare and the founder of Mohism in the small town of Predappio, that is, the other is very lustful.

He served as an educator twice, but was fired for having an affair.

It is said that when he was in politics, he wrote love letters to every woman he met, and wrote 30,000 letters in his lifetime.

Just then, one of the Spanish soldiers turned his head and looked over. Casare made a throat-cutting gesture towards him, and the other party was so frightened that he hurriedly withdrew his gaze.

Little thing, I know I'm scared.

"Do the business first, and when you're done, go and trouble them!"

A group of people started to get busy.

Around 9:10 in the morning.

I saw about 20 buses driving outside the Veterans Retirement Center, and American soldiers in military uniforms got off them.

Detroit is not a simple place.

Speaking of Detroit, you may think of cars, and think of well-known brands such as Ford, Chevrolet, and Cadillac.

But during the smoke-filled years of World War II, Detroit was not only the capital of automobiles, it was also the "rear base" of the Allied forces and the "arsenal of democracy" that supported the entire European battlefield.

More than 90% of the US Army helmets were stamped and formed in Detroit.

The Chrysler Detroit Tank Factory in Warren produced half of the tanks made in the United States, and Ford's Willow Run Factory, where they could assemble a B-24 bomber every hour.

Even the US military's Abrams tanks have factories here.

And these technicians are the favorites of the tycoons in Area A.

But there are also some small military bases around these arsenals, and these people who wield swords and guns are the first choice for some small companies and small countries.

A group of "soldiers" are strolling in Area A, all wanting to enter large factories.

Large factories have high welfare, high treatment, and high rates of job-hopping.

Small factories have easy work, a lot of slacking, and job-hopping at the slightest disagreement.

Each has its own advantages.

The flow of people follows Area B and slowly enters Area C.

Casare was about to yawn.

If I had known that I would bring two women to dance, the best way to attract men is to be sexy.

Sexy dealer, dealing cards online.

"Hello!" Just when he was sleepy, an American soldier sat down, a little restrained, but tall.

At least 1.9 meters tall, with tendons all over his body.

He sat upright, but his face was filled with deep and unresolved sorrow.

"Here is my resume."

Casare took it and took a look.

"Damien Jarvis?"

"31 years old..."

He suddenly raised his head in surprise.

"You graduated from Michigan State University in psychology?"

"Yes."

This introduction is very well written. He is the chief military doctor of the 551st Special Operations Squadron of the Selfridge Air Force in Michigan.

He has participated in many front-line battles and has solved psychological problems for about 600 soldiers and comforted their post-war trauma.

The rank of major!

Oh, he is still an officer.

Colonel is not low.

Do you think everyone is at the level of generals as described on the Internet?

Ferrari per capita, monthly salary of hundreds of thousands?

"You should have more choices with your conditions, why go to Mexico?" Casare asked curiously.

The other party was quiet for a while, looked at him straight, and asked, "Does the Mexican Foreign Legion belong to Mr. Victor?"

"Of course, it says on it." Casare stood up and pointed to the advertisement on the stall, which was affiliated with the Governor's Office of the North of Mexico.

Food and accommodation are provided, the treatment is excellent, and five insurances and one housing fund are provided.

Damien Jarvis' eyes flashed with pain, "I want revenge!"

"My wife is a good woman, but on the way to the mall, she was involved in a deal with a local drug dealer..."

"I held the microphone and heard the other party shooting with my own ears. My wife begged, but..."

"When I called the police, they found her, she had been stuffed into a wooden barrel. She was afraid of pain, but the drug dealers shot her 27 times and her eyeballs were dug out."

Damien Jarvis's scars were revealed again, and he pulled his hair, "I am a psychologist, but I can't save myself. It's a torment for me to get up every day and look at the familiar environment. I tried to believe the police, but the drug dealers were arrested for three days and then released. Do you know what they say?"

He raised his head suddenly.

"The U.S. government can't help me! They say there is no legal evidence to prove they are the murderers. Fuck the law!"

Damien Jarvis stood up immediately and shouted loudly.

The people next to me risked their heads to look over.

The bodyguard standing next to him also wanted to come up, but Casare stretched out his hand to signal that he should not use it. He took out a cigarette from his arms and handed it over.

"I'm sorry" Damien Jarvis raised his hand to apologize, took the cigarette, and held it in his mouth tremblingly.

"I know about Mr. Victor's deeds from TV. I know clearly that if anyone can help me, he is the only one. I am desperate."

Casare stood up and lit a fire for him, "No need to apologize, you want to take revenge on them?"

"But there's no... no evidence!"

"We never need any bullshit evidence to do things. When it comes to drug dealers, we always prefer to kill them by mistake. Do you know which gang they belong to?"

"The Luckeyse Crime Family of New York!"

“They forced me to retire from the army!”

The abilities of American gangs are not small. The "National Gang Intelligence Center" under the FBI published a report on "Gang Threat Assessment and New Trend Analysis" stating that there are 33,000 confirmed gang organizations in the United States with about 1.4 million members, which is close to the size of the regular army. Controls 48% of urban crime in the United States.

In the eyes of some gangsters who are ready to take the international and chain route, the military is always the best springboard. As underworld activities become more and more covert and pervasive, there are at least 53 underworld organizations that have entered the US military.

It can also be said that the US soldiers fighting in hot spots are actually street gangsters. What good discipline do you want them to have?

Gangsters = US military = bandits, this equation is not wrong at all.

This paper tiger must be destroyed by him!

Yankees will turn into dragons sooner or later.

"Oh? American Mafia." Casare raised his eyebrows and nodded, not caring at all.

"No problem. Your resume meets our requirements very well. What salary do you need?"

Damien Jarvis looked at him, "You... aren't you worried?"

"What are you worried about? Are you worried that these stinky rats will go to Mexico to assassinate Mr. Victor? Or are you worried that they will use nuclear weapons to wipe out Mexico?" Casare sneered.

"Perhaps, I think you should be worried, Mr. Casare."

Just after Fatty Ka finished speaking, a voice came. He raised his head and saw a white man in a suit and red tie walking over with his trouser pockets inserted. He looked condescendingly at the two of them, and then glanced at Dami. Well, Jarvis, the sarcasm in his eyes couldn't be hidden.

"His life is at stake in our Luckese family. I hope we can give him some face." The young man knocked on the stall.

Casare hates men who are more flashy than himself.

"You're such a shameless person!"

"What kind of face do you have?"

“Is your father Jesus, or is your mother Mary?”

Casare said to Damien Jarvis, "Don't worry, after signing the employment contract, you are ours. If you die here today, tomorrow, let the head of the American Mafia leader be placed in your grave." Before, we had no ability.”

"I just know how to hold grudges and take revenge."

"What cats and dogs are coming here to ask me to save face? Get out." Casare narrowed his eyes.

This decommissioning center really lets everyone in.

It’s not good to open up to the outside world.

The other party pointed at Casare, his mouth turned white, and he kicked the stall, "Damn fat man!"

"Oh, you hit me!" Fatty Ka pointed at Damien Jarvis and asked, "Did he hit me?"

The American soldiers were confused by the question and nodded subconsciously.

Casare jumped up and threw the chair over, "Hit me, hit him!"

They rushed forward with their bodyguards. There were five or six people on their side, punching and kicking one person. Damien Jarvis hesitated for a moment, then rushed forward and kicked the opponent in the face.

Let out the anger that has been suppressed for a long time.

"It's fighting again, it's fighting again." The "onlookers" nearby jumped out again.

"Broken legs! Broken legs!"

Casare shouted.

A bodyguard next to him raised a stool and smashed it down on the opponent's knee.

The sound of bones breaking was clearly audible.

"Ouch!" The other party hugged his legs and screamed as he rolled over.

"Stop! Stop!" A group of American soldiers maintaining order ran over, their mouths were filled with anger, "Casare! Why are you fighting again? You have seriously disrupted the order of the scene!"

"He hit me first. This is a witness. He's just his own pick. He can't beat us."

"I must report this matter to the superiors. You have no respect for our order at all." said the American captain who led the team.

Casare asked the bodyguard, took the phone, and dialed a number, "Here, this belongs to my boss. You can complain to him."

It's like calling your parents after a fight.

"Hello" Victor's voice sounded from the other side.

"Boss, a member of the Lucchese family of the American Mafia threatened me and beat me..." Casare had a naturally aggrieved expression, as if... he was complaining.

"How are you? Are you injured anywhere?" Victor asked nervously.

"No, but a few of us beat him down. Some American soldiers said that I deliberately disrupted order."

"Okay, I got it. I'll call the FBI and have them contact the Pentagon. Be careful. I've never heard of the Lucchese family. Tell them that criminals should act like criminals and be more cautious."

He hung up.

Casare smiled, "Captain, your boss will contact you. Now please carry this piece of shit out."

He kicked the other person and smiled at Damien Jarvis, "How much salary do you want, sir?"

…

Tijuana Gatel Hospital.

The best hospital in northern Mexico, bar none.

It covers an area of ​​21,210 square meters and can accommodate about 2,000 beds.

You can see many Americans here.

American medical care is not as awesome as it is said to be. Is it free for all?

Did your head get kicked by "Yilin"?

Can those capitalists let go of this piece of cake?

Many people go bankrupt every year because of medical care, but if you are sick, you can't just go without treatment, so many Americans have to go to Mexico next door.

This hospital sees about 300,000 Americans every year.

Medical care is very saturated.

At this time, the inpatient department was guarded by three layers of security.

"Who is here? What's going on?" In the ward on the second floor, a group of people gathered around the window and asked each other.

"I don't know, but it must be a big shot."

"Big shots come to the hospital? Aren't they all private doctors?"

Under the eager eyes of the "audience", a black nanny car stopped at the hospital, and the dean and several administrators trotted over.

"It's Governor Victor!" There were people watching at the windows on each floor, and no one knew who shouted, "Mr. Governor!"

The whole hospital was cheering.

Victor smiled and waved his hand, followed the dean to shake hands, "Excuse me."

"No, no, it's an honor for the hospital to have you here." The dean said with a smile, "The person is on the top floor of the inpatient department, and I asked the best nurse to accompany him."

The group took the elevator and went straight to the ward.

But when he entered, he paused, glanced at the accompanying reporter next to him, and when he saw the machine was on, he changed his face to a sad look and walked in.

This ward is really nice.

There is a TV, a sofa, and even a bay window. The two female UN officials stayed inside. Seeing a group of strangers coming in, they were obviously confused.

"I'm very sorry, I'm late!"

"Excuse me, who are you..." The female official was stunned.

"This is our Governor of the North of Mexico, Mr. Victor." The dean said hurriedly beside him.

Victor held one of them by the hand, "We are concerned about your experience, and please rest assured that the Governor's Office of the North will make the drug dealers pay for this action!"

"Any trampling on life will pay a price."

"After hearing that you were attacked, we have sent people to bombard the area controlled by drug dealers, killing several leaders, and sent Guzman to the hospital."

"Please believe us."

Jason Bourne glanced at the reporter next to him. The boss really said that he was sent to the hospital, but he didn't say that he was bombed into the hospital.

This directly turned a joke about the other party's brain hemorrhage into a political propaganda.

Ordinary people really can't say this.

Can you point to the suicide mustache and say that you killed it?

However, Guzman seems to have no way to prove it himself.

This is a dead end.

This "achievement" will definitely be on the evening news.

Victor looked at them, "Excuse me, when will the leaders of the United Nations come?"

...