Seriously, Tijuana, the king of all Mexico?
This behavior, deemed as "stupid" by many, has a big market in Mexico, especially in the north.
Were there even a Mexico during the Olmec civilization?
You know, it's wild everywhere, people hooking up in the open, just like the Japanese. Born wherever, that's what they're called, like Jingkou, meaning born by a well.
Though to many intellectuals, this proverb seems entirely aimless.
Yet some sniffed something extraordinary here.
"Is Victor going to declare himself emperor?"
In a coffee shop under an umbrella on the streets of Tijuana,
four or five people sat... with Southeast Asian faces.
A burly man with scars on his face squinted, watched the passing crowd, furrowed his brow, spoke fluent Thai with a Buddha amulet around his neck, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
As soon as he spoke, a man standing at the coffee shop's door sipping coffee glanced over, perking his ears.
"Emperor? No way, what era is this? Who still plays that game?" a companion exclaimed in shock.
"That man has huge ambitions. He wants to strike at drug traffickers worldwide, using this act to win hearts—those Stone Beach People or even incarnate divine beings, don't you all think it's just packaging?"
Hearing his companion, the scar-faced brute burst laughing, the cigarette choked him, "Victor's just swaggering around here. The Yanks are just paper tigers! If it were in the Golden Triangle, General Khun Sa would show him what real war is!"
The man listening beside them suddenly narrowed his eyes, rushed back into the cafe, pointed at the Thai men to the barista who was busy making coffee.
Those people were still roaring with laughter when they suddenly saw three cafe staff running out with guns pointed at them.
"It's them, they were talking about Khun Sa, talking about trafficking!" The man pointed at them and said, "I understand Thai. I've done business in Thailand. No mistake, they are underlings of Khun Sa from the Golden Triangle!"
"Mexican Drug Enforcement Agency, get down!" The man labeled as the manager yelled, holding an MP5 submachine gun.
A group of Thais: ?!?!?!
The Drug Enforcement Agency runs a cafe?
A Thai grabbed a coffee and threw it at them, coffee splashing everywhere; seizing the moment, he bolted.
But can you outrun bullets?
An MP5 sprayed bullets, entering from the back, exiting through the chest, the Thai man stumbled forward two steps and fell face-first.
He lay twitching on the ground, blood spewing from his mouth, motionless after a while.
The scar-faced "big brother" seeing the decisiveness of the other side, quickly dropped to his knees.
He's no stranger to Thai prisons.
But he still lifted his head, tough-faced, "Not the face!"
The manager lifted the gun and smashed it into the man's face!
The National Palace, representing the highest seat of power.
Popovich, the 39-year-old leader of the Institutional Party, sat in that coveted position!
When he took office again, an election was symbolically held.
With nearly all his rivals in the party swept away by Casare, he won by an astounding 97% of the votes; of course, it wouldn't be quite right to say he didn't resort to any means.
His family was a well-known clan in Mexico, with parents as high-ranking officials; even his grandfather was the Governor of Sinaloa State and had once run for president.
He was deeply entangled with the local gangs and drug traffickers.
There was another person running, but, well... that person disappeared suddenly the next day, the police couldn't find him, his entire family gone. Maybe, abducted by aliens.
Naturally, Popovich won.
But now Popovich couldn't feel happy at all, sitting on the chair, dazed, the cigarette burning down to his fingers before he recoiled in pain, flicked his hand, wrinkled his brow, cursed as he dropped the cigarette into the teacup—it went cold.
"Big brother! Big brother!"
Just then, a man looking much like Popovich but younger ran in flustered.
"How many times have I said, at the National Palace, address by the position!" Popovich slapped the table angrily, already irritable, seeing his own brother so panicked made his mood even worse.
The man swallowed, shrank a little, handed over the newspaper, pointing at a headline.
"The United States will hold talks about a peace process with Northern Mexico."
The report added Donald Rumsfeld would lead a delegation to discuss relationships.
"The United States is willing to negotiate with the Northern Army... that puts us in an awkward position, doesn't it? This isn't good for us."
"If the peace talks really proceed, wouldn't we then have to listen to Victor, without the Yanks' help, we won't be able to withstand the Northerners' army."
The man promptly shut his mouth.
Popovich furrowed his brow, feeling the man was talking too much; taking the newspaper, he went through it quickly, finally glanced at the paper's source—Washington Post.
His eyebrows relaxed slightly, and he suddenly smiled.
"Big brother, at a time , you can still smile?" his brother Aldous Wendell said urgently.
"Sometimes you need to understand the essence of things, not just the surface. This 'Washington Post' is a semi-government publication. What do you think calling Tijuana Northern Mexico signifies?"