Working as a police officer in Mexico

Kumkari City in New Mexico.

Located in the eastern part of New Mexico, it's an important stop on Route 66.

There are many retro motels and restaurants here, retaining a strong Route 66 cultural atmosphere. Its iconic Blue Swallow Motel is a must-visit spot for many tourists.

At this moment, inside the motel, there are about a dozen or twenty people sitting around. They each have their distinctive features, but none of them look like good people.

Have you ever seen a good person with an "eye" tattooed on their forehead?

A bunch of guys, strong and fierce, squinting their eyes… some even have rings hanging from their noses, what's the deal? Planning to plow the fields or something?

From the tattoos on these people, you can tell they're divided into several gangs.

The largest among them is the New Mexico Citizen Guard, a paramilitary organization reportedly with significant ties to ISIS - these are not just ordinary extremist groups.

A heavy blow is necessary!!!

In the motel, a sound system was playing, with a gentle female voice talking in a low tone, "North America is not lacking in dissenters. Since the end of the US-Mexico War in 1846, New Mexico has permanently left its beloved mother. How many capable and wise men have been running around, hoping to see its return in their lifetime."

"Let it be known, it's been a full 130 years since leaving Mexico!"

"The following song, 'Song of Ten Sons·New Mexico' with lyrics by Victor, profoundly expresses the longing, let us appreciate this song."

Many people in the motel twitch their eyelids, the hot-tempered ones almost want to stand up.

We're discussing resistance against Mexico, and you're playing this song...

Isn't this like playing "Only Dad is Good in the World" for black people?

But seeing others sitting quietly, the hot-tempered ones could only suppress their displeasure and sit back down.

The radio began playing a nursery rhyme...

"My backbone is carved by the crimson canyon of the Sierra River,

Spanish hooves shattered the Pueblo's pottery charms;

Silver mines devour the Apache's skulls,

Mother, can you see the fresh blood mist on the rock art?"

"They call me the 'Firstborn of the Atomic Age',

But the White Sands Desert bears the scorched bodies of native fetuses;

The Trinity nuclear light pierced the Navajo's starry sky,

The cactus grows stubbornly into elegies in the radioactive dust.

Rio Grande! My severed umbilical cord seeps venom,

The Sinaloa blade slices the dim yellow moon;

Mother, is the pulp crawling through the smuggling tunnels mine?

The same shriveled breast at both ends of the iron fence!

Santa Fe Church casts the colonizers' cross,

We dismantled the prison cart's steel, forged horses of war that tread the earth;

Let the chrome wheels crush Kit Carson's tombstone—

"Listen! The rumbling exhaust pipe is the earth's resurrected pulse!"

My name in textbooks is a colonizer's casual mark,

Ohan! Ohan! The ancestors' hoarse calls between rock crevices;

When the textbook's ink is soaked by the tear of pepper,

Please use the Tewa language to recast my soul: 'Ogháá'óo!'

Beneath volcanic ash lies not yet cooled pottery clay,

The tongue-pulled singers recompose notes with bone flutes;

Mother, if you touch my cracked skin,

Please recognize: each crack is a map home!"

…

This song actually holds no lethal power for most people in New Mexico; they are mostly white, and this song mainly conveys the Victor regime's notion of "since ancient times" to the native people.

Of the 1.9 million population, about 200,000 are native, while whites make up 50%!

So, someone in the motel sneers, "What nonsense they're singing!"

Some also felt a deep undercurrent, though spoken in English, the inherent bloodline cannot be changed.

Anselmo, sitting in the middle area, observed the expressions of everyone with a gloomy face. He's a staunch anti-Victorist... well, he was once the spokesperson for the Sinaloa Group in New Mexico...

Victor, that bastard, doesn't let the brothers make money, so of course, he should be opposed.

"I'll smash it!" a burly man in a black short-sleeve shirt swaggered over, grabbed the radio, and slammed it down, stomping it underfoot, "Haha, that 'Song of Ten Sons,' I say Victor's just a whore in a brothel, only knows how to moan."

Anselmo looked at him with satisfaction.

This made the burly man even more arrogant, raising his hand and pointing at a few non-white group leaders, "York, Sack, Moerbi, it's the white man's world now."

The three group leaders mentioned wore icy expressions.

"You son of a bitch, are you being racist? Bring your mother here, I'll give you a mixed-race child!" York, blunt as ever, stood up and cursed, the two next to him also glared.

These extremist groups wouldn't even be gathering if not for opposing Victor.

The burly man in the black short-sleeve shirt was also furiously pushing Sack, the two groups started butting heads, Anselmo slammed the table, "Enough, shut up!"

Does it want to rely on its "reputation"?

Don't be ridiculous!

"Roll your ass, are you trying to be biased, Anselmo? Your grandma's also Mexican," "Mexico Native Mutual Aid Association's" York pointed and swore.

"Watch your mouth!" People around Anselmo stood up, some even drew guns, both sides were at a standoff.

After a while, the three non-white group leaders backed off, but not without leaving a word, "You better think about it, the Mexican Army is now going to rescue Albuquerque, whoever attacks the rescue troops, the people will tear you apart."

"Suit yourself!"