If this went off without a hitch,
it would be like telling the surrounding United States, Canada, Central America, and some South American countries,
"Don't mess with me, I already have a mature air coordination bombing system in place.
The moment you piss me off...
you won't have anywhere to cry."
When hunting, if a monkey bares its teeth and sneers at you, you have to keep your eyes on them, then pull out a weapon and aim it at them; if the beast still doesn't get it, then you kill the pheasant next to it.
To kill the chicken to scare the monkey.
The entire atmosphere was pervaded with the tension of an impending war.
This den, dubbed "Satan on Earth," exuded an air of heat and restlessness.
Under the cover of night, Rio de Janeiro's Savior on top of Corcovado Mountain overlooked the mortal world, gazing down at all living beings. Perhaps to him, all the joys and sorrows, the separations, and reunions of life amounted to nothing significant, but... after all, mortals dwell in the earthly realm.
In the heart of Rio de Janeiro, there was a Red-Light District called "Villa Mimosa," where the women on the streets were dressing in lighter and lighter attire, standing at the corners of the alleyways, waving at passing tourists with big waves.
Some backpackers couldn't contain their urges and ran up to start inquiring about prices.
Most women who solicited here had some sort of background, either belonging to local gangs or high-end property fancied by some drug traffickers.
Over 150 small shops, restaurants, and launderettes had been established in the vicinity, creating 1000 direct jobs and generating at least 1 million Brazilian reais (about US$500,000) in revenue a month.
Additionally, military police and police cars patrolled the neighborhood all night to maintain order, which had made Villa Mimosa stand out in the Red-Light District for many years. Without any reported cases of AIDS for 14 years in a row, it had earned the title of "model Red Light District."
This had all become a pillar industry.
They received a large number of clients every day, with only 15 minutes allotted for each service, charging US$12.
It's not even worth masturbating.
In a small shop with a "traffic light" sign hung by the roadside, a dozen women sat inside, smoking and heavily made up.
As soon as the doorbell rang, the Maneki-neko (Lucky Cat) called out, "Welcome!"
All the women lifted their heads to look outside.
Business was tough these days.
Then, a plainly dressed "cripple" walked in. He was using a crutch, was bald, and had a fierce look in his eyes; he didn't seem like much of a good catch.
Many of the women looked away.
This client... definitely has some special kinks, written all over his face in big letters: A devoted BDSM enthusiast!
"Boss, what kind of service do you need?"
A man stood up and asked with a smile—this was the Chicken Head. Remember, if you ever go out looking for special services, never trust these types.
But don't show your weakness either.
Who says you can't negotiate the price for sex?
Nobody's money is easy to earn.
The man's gaze was fixed on Chicken Head, the whites of his eyes were intense, placing immense pressure on him, as if... he was a psychopathic murderer.
Just when Chicken Head thought he was there to cause trouble and was about to call for backup,
the man finally spoke, "Is Sofina here?"
"Ah? Oh, yes, she's here!"
Chicken Head looked around, didn't see her, and frowned as he asked the other women, "Where's Sofina?"
"She went to the bathroom."
Chicken Head cursed under his breath, gave the man an apologetic smile, and looked, see, this is the kind of service consciousness required in the service industry.
He shouted toward the bathroom a couple of times.
A woman ran out swearing, "Calling and calling! Are you calling your mom? What's the rush? Are you eager to eat shit?"
Chicken Head's expression stiffened, his face twitched, but he dared not offend anyone, as a local drug dealer had taken a liking to her lately; she was bold, and those running the Red-Light District feared confrontations with such desperate criminals the most.
"Someone's requesting you."
The woman, holding her cigarette, looked... like a fiery ghost, she sized up the other party from top to bottom, "A cripple? I don't take them!"
Chicken Head was nearly driven to spout obscenities.
You're out here selling!
Do you think you're choosing a Queen?
The cripple wasted no time in argument, pulling out his wallet from his pocket, opening it up, and a pile of colorful reais peeked out.
What thing in this world is most attractive?
The seated women's eyes sparkled with desire, and their eyes glowed.
"I'll give this to whoever stays with me overnight," the man's voice was somewhat hoarse.
"Me! Me! Me! Boss, pick me, I've got big tits, I can give you a good push."
"Boss, choose me, I've had a private surgery, just like a little girl, pick me."
The women stood up, shoving each other, shouting loudly, almost coming to blows.
"Get lost, a bunch of sluts, this customer is mine!" Sofina could hardly move at the sight of the money, rudely pushing away the almost clinging prostitutes, clawing like an animal guarding its food.
"Alright, let's go then."
Finally, the man spoke, interrupting the impending fight, and said to Sofina, "Come with me."
"Sir, there's an extra charge for leaving the premises..." Chicken Head hesitated and then said.
"Take your time leaving, Boss, watch your step, Sofina, put some extra effort in today, make the boss comfortable."
As soon as money was mentioned, Chicken Head's expression immediately turned into one of joy.
As long as there's money, everyone's happy.
Leaving the "snack bar," Sofina followed behind. She noticed the cripple walked quite fast.
Not a word from him made her feel uneasy all over.
"Sir, what should I call you?"
The cripple paused, "Hannibal."
The two walked to a nearby "three-star hotel," which somewhat eased the worries Sofina had originally harbored.