His brother blinked blankly and shook his head.
Popovich sighed, knowing his little brother was more into the ways of the gun than politics, with not a trace of political acuity, just a big oaf through and through.
"Then that means, the United States also acknowledges Southern Mexico and us, the Central Institutional Party!"
"This… this, their help isn't exactly an acknowledgment, right? Besides, we hold Mexico City, we are the legitimate authority."
Popovich still had the patience to explain, "The Yanks would never publicly promote a plan to split Mexico, but one can discern their intentions from their expert use of language and behavior, negotiating peace with the Northern Army is just for show, politics is the art of compromise."
His brother, Aldous Wendell, suddenly seemed to understand, "I got it, they're afraid Victor will go mad and launch missiles at them, they dare not confront him openly, so they have to resort to deception!"
Popovich's face twitched and his chest felt instantly oppressed as he pointed outside, "Get out!"
This brother couldn't possibly be his own kin.
Otherwise, why would he have such a lack of political sense if he was so smart?
Aldous Wendell chuckled sheepishly, "Big brother, what should we do? If Victor manages to negotiate this peace process, his prestige will grow even more, and the consequences for us will be worse. Quite a few people in Mexico City have started to pull strings, my intelligence department caught a dozen or so young people around twenty years old, planning to blow up the National Palace and welcome Victor's ascent to power!"
"We need to build our own army, all politics are nothing against force!"
Popovich looked up, somewhat amazed that his little brother could make such remarks, and scowled, "There's not much money left in the treasury."
"Then we'll traffic drugs!"
"Victor has hit several drug trafficking groups, leaving a big slice of the European and South American markets wide open. Now the Southern Alliance, Colombians, even Southeast Asian players are scrabbling for market share."
Popovich's ethics were clearly questionable, as the family was involved in drug trafficking. Otherwise, where would all the funds needed to propel his political progress come from?
"If we go with traditional YS cultivation, we won't be able to profit amidst the press from big traffickers," he said with furrowed brows.
Aldous Wendell heard this and quickly lowered his voice, trembling for some reason.
"Big brother, I've got a new opportunity."
Popovich looked at him skeptically but motioned for him to continue.
"I met someone on my last trip to the United States, a man named Walter White. I saw him at a bar promoting a new type of synthetic drug!"
"I've tried it; the high is spot on!" Aldous Wendell licked his lips then, seeing his brother's disapproval, hastily added, "I only had a little."
Popovich darkly warned, "Don't dabble in drugs, not even a bit from now on, or I'll break your legs!"
He paused, then took a deep breath and continued to ask, "Is this reliable?"
Aldous Wendell nodded eagerly, "I subtly inquired about him. Walter White is a high school chemistry teacher. He's diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, his wife is over forty and pregnant, and his eldest son is cerebral palsy. He's trying to make some money."
"But he doesn't know any drug traffickers, so he had to sell it himself, and I stumbled upon him. It's a goldmine!"
"No need for long-term cultivation, just synthesis from a bit of raw material, which is even cheaper. Trust me, brother, it's going to be a hit!"
"What's the raw material?" asked Popovich.
"He wouldn't say, but I know one thing—ephedrine. It's tough to get, especially since Victor took over the North and started hitting hard; many domestic pharmaceutical companies have been forcibly bought, and it's harder to get."
As a medical prodigy himself, Popovich knew this substance. He pondered his brother's words silently before speaking, "Then let's find other pharmaceutical reps. I remember one who wanted to set up a factory here; I still have his card. I'll look for it."
He said this and pulled open a drawer, rifling through a pile of business cards.
Popovich handed over the card.
"He's a pharmaceutical rep, looking to make deals everywhere. Contact him."
Aldous Wendell took the card and read the name.
Meanwhile, in a "middle-class" residential area of Mexico City, a weary Asian man returned to his house, key in hand. He tried to open the door but failed. The landlord next door, a fat woman eating corn, emerged.
"Your stuff is downstairs. You can go now."
Truth Ye was stunned, asking in Spanish, "Why?"
"When's the last time you paid your rent?" the fat woman scoffed.
His bravado instantly deflated, "I... I'm working on it, alright?"
"Then think it over on the street. Get out, or I'll call the police."
Head bowed, Truth Ye traipsed down to find his clothes and bedding tossed carelessly beneath the stairs. He sat down with a heavy sigh, lighting a cigarette for himself.
He graduated from ZF University, a time when college graduates were valuable, but he didn't become a lawyer or politician, instead joining a pharmaceutical company. Fluent in Spanish, he was sent to Mexico.