Working as a police officer in Mexico

```

"So, if one day all the drugs in the world were eradicated by you, what would your dream be?" Belsaria asked curiously as she nibbled on a hamburger.

Obviously, it would be to become the father of Americans!

He wanted to erect his own statue on the site of the Statue of Liberty and call it the Liberator God, how about that?

He wanted the White House to become the Black House.

He wanted Silicon Valley to be his own money bag.

He desired...

To stand high above, looking down upon the world.

Ambition, how could that ever be extinguished?

For someone like Victor, to not advance was to die—of course, it meant being killed by someone. In a world full of chaos, it's caliber that solves problems.

I aim to be the Emperor Emeritus of the world!

However, these words, of course, could not be spoken aloud. If others said them, they'd be labeled madmen, but if Victor were to say them... he'd be ash by tomorrow.

The most important thing was to maintain a persona.

He feigned a light laugh, his eyes filled with longing, "If that day really comes, maybe, I'll lay down all my duties, take my wife and children, and live the life I want. To travel, watch the sunrise, see the aurora, witness the world burst into bloom, see the beautiful side of this world."

"Of course, I'd have to still be alive, maybe I'd already be dead on the battlefield of the struggle by then?"

As Belsaria listened to his words, she looked at him in astonishment, seeing the aspiration for "life" in Victor's profound gaze.

Men must pretend!

How else can you attract... oops, interest girls?

Victor spoke with the calmest voice about the grandest of things, coupled with what he did to the drug traffickers regularly—it was like his righteousness persona was maxed out.

"Wipe your mouth, there's ketchup on it, hahaha." Victor suddenly took a napkin and gently wiped the corner of her mouth.

Belsaria's eyes flickered as she lowered her head in a fluster.

Unlike most men from the Latin American region who have machismo, Victor... was really the dream boyfriend.

Very gentle.

Casare, sitting at another table, bit into his burger and thought to himself that the boss was quite the charmer! The girl's face was all flushed from his flirting.

"Big guy, do you have a wife?" Casare looked at the man opposite him—George Foreman—and scanned him.

Ugh... ugly, and that huge beard, definitely single.

"Yeah, my wife is a Colombian beauty pageant winner, hehehe, we also have three kids, and she's my true love," said George Foreman with a contented smile. He turned the question back, "What about you? Married yet?"

!!!!!!

Casare suddenly found his burger less appetizing—like running someone over then stabbing them a few times for good measure. He bit fiercely into the burger to vent his frustration.

George Foreman was utterly confused.
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Just then, a Special Service employee suddenly ran in, whispered something into his ear, and the big guy's brows furrowed as he stood up and rushed to Victor's table. "Sir, we need to leave. A group protesting against you is on their way here, numbering over three hundred," he said.

F***, these pieces of shit!

Why isn't New York yet the dominion of Duke Victor?

If it were, I'd dispatch my troops and suppress them right now.

Protest?

You protest against me—did you get my approval?

```

"Sorry, Belsaria," Victor said with an apologetic face.

She smiled and shook her head, "It's okay, I've already eaten."

"Then let's go."

Victor conveniently picked up her bag and then dragged her out.

"Hey! Victor! You're leaving?" the fat supporter shouted loudly.

He glanced at his table...

Well... four hamburger buns, then he looked at his girlfriend, brother, you can't eat anymore, if you do, your earthworm will be gone.

"Yes, buddy, have fun," he said.

"OK! Go for it, Victor, kill those junkies, brothers, a toast to Victor!" he lifted his cola and said.

The big guys around him responded to him.

"What's your name? Buddy?"

"Glen Davis, nickname: New York Wild Boar!"

Duke Victor laughed and gave him a thumbs-up.

"Sir, we should go," George Foreman urged again.

Victor thanked them again before leaving with his group.

Under the watchful gaze of the big guys in the burger joint, they got into the car.

Glen Davis frowned in concern at how hurried they were and turned to ask his girlfriend, "Is there something wrong with my store? Why did they leave after just a few minutes?"

"Victor! Mobster Victor! Satan Victor!"

"He should repent, repent to human rights and democracy!"

"Victor, Victor, you are a piece of shit, a big devil in human skin."( This was still sung.)

When Glen Davis heard the curses coming from outside the shop and saw the junkies holding protest signs, he instantly understood.

"F***! I knew it, Mr. Victor likes burgers, it must be these bastards that scared away my customer, damn it!" he cursed angrily.

He grabbed the Remington M870 shotgun hanging on the wall and walked out, followed by the big guys eating burgers.

With a smile, Glen Davis racked the shotgun and stood in front of the protesters.

"Bastards!"

"This is Hell's Angels territory, you guys, want to eat lead?"

He blasted a nearby BMW, shattering its glass and leaving the car a complete wreck.

The mouths of the protesters immediately shut tight.

"Fat pig! Get out of the way, where's Victor? Let him come out!" a skinny guy yelled, his ribs visible.

"Right, let the tyrant come out."

Glen Davis hated being called a fat pig more than anything; he was the New York Wild Boar!

"Kill them!"

His underlings picked up baseball bats and charged into the crowd of protesters.

One by one, they were struck silent.

These addicts, how could they possibly resist?

They were hammered to the ground.

Glen Davis set his foot on the skinny guy who had cursed him, ambushing him with a kick that sent him to the ground, with one foot holding down his head.

"My idol, also someone you can protest against?!"

...

Of course, Victor didn't know any of this, as he offered to take Belsaria home.

Her hand was being held, and upon hearing this, she lifted her head and hurriedly shook it, "No, no need, uh, I still have to go to the New York Television Station."

Victor didn't insist, he smiled, nodded, and directed the motorcade toward the television station.

Just as Belsaria got out of the car, he suddenly pulled out a hamburger and handed it to her, "You haven't eaten enough, have you? This is what I saved from earlier. Remember, eat more, don't starve yourself. Your figure is already perfect."

Looking at the hamburger in her hand, the woman was stunned, and as she looked at Victor, the latter shook his hand, "See you tomorrow, Belsaria."

"To…tomorrow."

When making a date with a woman, you can't say next time: when is next time? The eighth day of the week? The 32nd of the month? You need to give a woman an exact time, like tomorrow.

If she agrees, then there's a chance. If she declines, decisively move on to the next one; the next one will be better.

Belsaria had no idea what was planned for tomorrow, but if he said it, he must have his reasons.

Inside the car, Victor closed the window. His expression slowly became more serious and his eyes sharpened and calmed.

What bullshit love!

It was all an act.

All love at first sight is nothing more than lustful impulses. All love is just a long-term scheme after weighing gains and losses.

Belsaria Ramsfeld could bring Victor more benefits and opportunities.

It's not hard to guess that she obviously has German blood.

It's said that Donald Henry Rumsfeld has a granddaughter. This is what Mexican intelligence found out—not something you can just look up on Wikipedia, especially since there's no Wikipedia yet.

But what that granddaughter's name is, what she looks like, or even her age and where she went to school are unknown.

The information is kept under tight wraps, obtained by Mexico's journalism department through some "illegal channels."

Anyone with a knowledge of American history knows what Donald Henry Rumsfeld represents.

An American hawkish figure, a representative of military interests, a "broker changing world directions," he was the youngest Defense Secretary in history. During his tenure, Rumsfeld also implemented major reforms, extending his reach into every aspect of the military. Everything from the soldiers' basic necessities to their weapons was under his control.

An American elite with a Cold War mindset!

If that isn't direct enough, put it this way: he launched the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, causing over a decade of war for the United States and resulting in millions of casualties in the Middle East.

Even God's list would hesitate to include his name.

If Belsaria truly is his granddaughter, Victor could make this old man a great-grandfather ahead of time!

No matter what, he had to win her over.

By doing so, Victor and Mexico would at least have a stable two decades, considering the guy was still the Defense Secretary under Little Bush at the age of 70.

Victor never believed in any bullshit love.

Anything that brings him benefits can be exchanged.

Marriage?

It's just one more person in the bed.

Victor is a true strategist, a predator in the game.

A man of great ambition must look the part.

"Casare."

"Boss!" Fatty Tiger promptly looked at him, waiting for his instructions.

"Have you ever been in love?"

!!!!

Does it have to be such a heart-stabbing question?

"I have!"

Victor turned his head in surprise, looking at him.

"She thought I was no good, thought I was poor, ran off with a drug trafficker."

Look down on Casare as no good?

Now he is the real deal, the second-in-command of the Anti-Drug Force, a hot commodity in Mexico with tens of thousands of dollars in daily revenue—no good?

How ironic!

"A drug trafficker? Next time you catch him, I'll let you chop him into pieces!"

Casare smiled bitterly, "That might be a bit difficult. That guy traffics drugs in Europe."

"Then we'll hit Europe!"

"Wherever there are drugs, there must be our Anti-Drug Force!"

"Italy? We'll go there."

Let those old drug traffickers who survived for decades see what the new era of "Mo" tactics are like. Instill fear in them.

...

American Time, August 9th, 19:00 P.M.

A sheep from Sonora State wandered into neighboring Chihuahua State and got eaten by some people.

While eating, they found a tag attached to it.

"Anti-Drug Police Force, 3rd Battalion, 2nd Company Mess Hall, Head Chef!"

This baffled everyone involved.

The Anti-Drug Force was furious, Damn it, you dare to eat my head chef?

They bombarded the border city of Madella between Sonora and Chihuahua.

Whoosh whoosh whoosh...

The ground police force's "Heavy Firepower Battalion" assembled 20 Katyushas, 30 M114A1 155mm howitzers, and 10 vintage M1918 155mm howitzers, and bombarded the target relentlessly!

They were determined to avenge the chef.

Vasili, the battalion commander of one of the four Anti-Drug Force battalions, even told the accompanying journalists.

"Ah Fu's status in Mexico is like that of Voytek in the Polish army. To us, he is our comrade. Drug traffickers from Chihuahua State have attacked our personnel without any sense of honor, and we must retaliate!"

"Today, we push into Chihuahua State!"

This is later known in history as: "Battle of the Head Chef."

It's not as if something like this has never happened before. El Salvador and Honduras even fought a war over a soccer match disagreement in 1969.

Was that just any ordinary sheep?

That was my comrade, my brother.

Damn it...

If I don't scatter your remains today, you pack of damn drug traffickers, you'll think our Anti-Drug Force is just a bunch of sick cats.

But...

Head Chef, you were so delicious, your scent still lingers in the air.

Tears are streaming from the corners of my mouth.

...