For some reason, this part of South America seemed cursed to produce eccentric warlords and dictators—each one stranger than the last.
Take Avdala Bukalam, for example. To revive his country's collapsing economy, the man bizarrely decided to debut as a pop idol, releasing a music album titled "Crazve (Crazy in Love)". It wasn't just sold locally; he even brought copies to the Ilia America Summit in Chile, attempting to promote it to other heads of state.
Then there was Rafael Trujillo, the President of the Dominican Republic. After bestowing the honorary titles of writer and philosopher on his blind wife, he began openly campaigning for the Nobel Peace Prize—as if political terror and peace awards belonged in the same sentence.
And who could forget François Duvalier, Haiti's infamous leader? Convinced that one of his rivals had transformed into a black dog, Duvalier ordered the slaughter of every black dog in Haiti. He even claimed credit for JFK's assassination, boasting that his curses on the Kennedy family had finally borne fruit.
Compared to these lunatics, General Lionel, president of San Pedro Sula, almost seemed normal. He wore a faded green military uniform, his rugged face hidden behind a dense beard and oversized mirrored sunglasses. A Cuban cigar, clamped perpetually between his teeth, completed the look.
"Not long ago, you announced a complete ban on coca cultivation," Lois Lane said, her tone elegant yet sharp as the cameras rolled. "What led you to make such a bold decision?"
Adam and his crew were nowhere near the scene. The last thing they wanted was another awkward run-in with Superman. Instead, they stayed holed up in their hotel room, watching Lois's live interview on the TV.
Lois, as always, was flawless—confident, fearless, and so effortlessly captivating that even warlords who had ordered massacres melted under her gaze.
General Lionel chuckled, his voice surprisingly calm. "It's an honor to meet Lois Lane of Metropolis. Even here, your reports are highly regarded." He paused to puff his cigar, exhaling a lazy swirl of smoke. "Coca, in the time of our ancestors, was never a poison. It was simply a plant used to refresh the mind. But the West—your so-called scientists—isolated the harmful 'devil' within coca, turned it into something destructive, and made billions over the past century. Meanwhile, we became poorer and poorer." ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ɴovᴇl(F)ɪre.ɴet
"This trade has brought nothing but harm to our people and government. It's time for change. We refuse to be treated as the villains while the rest of the world profits."
"By the way…" Jason's voice cut through the room, muffled by the crunch of chips. "If this coca stuff makes so much money, why are these countries still so poor?"
Adam, who had been furiously jotting notes, glanced up from his papers. He almost smirked—leave it to Jason to ask the hard questions.
It was true. The regions most notorious for coca—whether Afghanistan's valleys or Southeast Asia's Golden Triangle—were often synonymous with poverty and chaos.
Before Adam could respond, Deadshot spoke up, checking the chamber of a pistol as he talked. "Because the money doesn't go to the farmers. The middlemen and cartels make all the profit. The farmers get crumbs."
Jason tilted his head, unsatisfied. "If it's such a bad deal, why don't they just grow something else? Like… wheat? Or bananas? Wouldn't that be safer?"
Deadshot froze. He was a soldier, not an economist.
"Uh… good question, kid. That's… uh… a teacher question."
He quickly pointed to Adam.
Adam sighed, setting his pen aside and said, "Look, Jason… the issue isn't that simple. Growing staple crops like rice or corn is safer, but it's far less profitable, at least in the short term. Farmers who grow coca often also consume it. The money they make just cycles back into the trade, leaving them trapped in poverty. On the other hand, traditional crops may not bring in much cash, but they provide security. Even if you don't sell them for a high price, they can feed families and protect against famine. That's something coca can never do."
Jason's snack paused halfway to his mouth. His big, curious eyes were locked on Adam, absorbing every word.
Adam leaned back, his gaze shifting to Lois's face on the TV as he continued, "The real danger of coca cultivation is that it eats up land that could be used for food. When staple crops are pushed aside, the entire nation becomes vulnerable to famine. All it takes is one bad harvest, and millions can starve."
"The cycle," Adam murmured, "was always the same. Farmers starved while the cartels and corrupt officials got rich."
Jason, for once, was silent. Even the bag of snacks lay forgotten beside him.