Working as a police officer in Mexico

Casare kicked the other man's face in frustration. He was a cop, a front-line cop. Just because he was more second-line recently didn't mean he had gone rusty.

Could someone become a jail guard in Mexico without a few tricks up their sleeve?

Dragging the man by the neck, he pulled him in front of the Mexican flag, yelling, "Pick it up! I told you to pick it up! Pick up the flag!"

The Spaniard's nose was askew, dazed, like a dead dog.

With a backhand slap from Casare, the Spaniard, who was already staggering, lost a few teeth.

"What are you doing! What is this!"

Two men dressed in Spanish military uniforms pushed their way through the crowd and ran over. Seeing the plight of their comrade on the ground, they pointed at Casare and shouted.

Fat Casare let go, the Spaniard collapsed to the ground, and he laughed before delivering a kick to the man's head.

Undoing the buttons on his suit jacket, he walked up to the two soldiers, squinting, "Hitting someone, can't you see?"

"You're provoking Spain, Casare," said one who obviously recognized him, shouting loudly.

"Then let's go to war! Do you Spaniards have the guts? Do you!?"

Casare shouted, his formidable presence silencing them, "Do you dare?"

"Don't go too far, this isn't friendly," someone chimed in from the side.

"Too far?"

Casare just laughed, turning his head to look at the person trying to mediate, "I'll tell you what's too far, sir. You should really experience it, but I'm kind-hearted, and this is still the United States. If this were Mexico, I'd burn you all to death with a flamethrower!"

He shouted, his facial muscles trembling, "Too far!? Who do you think you're talking to? Casare Gonzalez!"

"I've been on the battlefield, did you know that? I've seen many, many over-the-top drug traffickers, bastards like Spain, meddlers and idiots like you. But do you know what I did?"

"We ripped off those people's arms and legs, twisted their heads off, and then stuff them into the toilets!"

"Spain?"

"Your era is dead! Your colonial arrogance should have been torn down, you..."

Casare looked at them, staring intently, "should be judged!"

The two Spanish soldiers felt a chill looking into his eyes. One of them swallowed nervously.

"Pick it up, go pick it up!" Casare, standing sideways, pointed to the Mexican flag on the ground, "Otherwise, I won't let you leave Detroit alive."

"Not even Jesus could change it, I, Casare Gonzalez, say so!"

His voice was powerful.

This was a survivor from an old era speaking to those who had once bullied, dominated, humiliated, and even tried to kill it.

Many nations nearby had been colonized by Spain.

They felt a surge of catharsis.

When I was a jail guard in Mexico, I was cursed and mocked by drug traffickers. Now that I'm the boss, we have elite warriors, I'm the second in command of this gang.

If I'm still cursed by you?

What was all my effort for?

Why did I even come out? I might as well have died in Plateau Prison.

My smiling face, Casare, doesn't mean I'm easy to talk to.

Vic the boss, me the second-in-command, and Jesus in third place!

"Pick it up!" someone raised their hand and shouted. The cry spread as others slowly joined in, growing louder and louder.

"Pick it up!"

"Pick it up!"

The faces of the Spaniards turned green. They had done it on purpose, intending to humiliate Mexico once they knew who was next to them. After all, it was just a small country.

They were once the mighty Spanish Empire!

Moreover, the propaganda back in Spain against Vic was negative, portraying him as a cannibalistic tyrant, and many Spaniards had suffered under his rule, with much wealth taken away.

They felt it was time to teach them a lesson.

But who knew, Casare was so tough.

Ready to fight at the slightest disagreement.

These two simpletons couldn't even beat one fat man.

Even though the Spanish soldiers thought this, they didn't dare to act, fearing a beating from the crowd.

They looked at each other and finally went, with great reluctance, to pick up the flag.

Casare snatched it away, grabbed one man's face, and rubbed the dirt from the shoe print on his face forcefully against it.

The man struggled violently.

After rubbing for a while, Casare held up the flag with both hands, shouting loudly, "All imperialists are paper tigers!"

"They don't have the right to bark at us now!"

"The world will ultimately belong to peace!"

"Long live peace!!"

Casare almost blurted out Vic's name as he roared.

Other nations that had once been oppressed also raised their hands and cheered.

World peace was the belief of the boss!

...