Working as a police officer in Mexico

Ultimately, it was the organizers who came out to mediate.

They pulled the two sides apart, put one in each corner, and sent the injured to the hospital.

"Damn it, find their hotel," Casare was obviously still enraged.

"Sir, do you really want to kill them?" a colleague asked in a hushed, shocked tone.

"Let our 'club members' take care of them, no one can get away with just an apology after pissing me off," he replied.

What's the point of violence then?

Isn't violence just a way to blow off steam when you're pissed?

Casare was already quite fat, what if he got mastitis from all the anger?

This is North America!

My hometown is right next door, I could make a call and have hundreds of people over in minutes to chop you down.

Spain?

Just a speck of snot.

Casare greatly revered Mozi, founder of 'Legalism' in Europe, especially his principle of 'Universal Love and Non-Aggression.'

Adjoining the Sea of Love, attacking Africa.

But sometimes I wonder...

Victor, stirring up emotions, delivered a speech that moved people, anyone would go to battle for him, isn't that like Bavarian boys?

Casare and the founder of the Mo Family in Predappio differed in one aspect—the latter was quite lecherous.

He was fired from two teaching positions because of affairs.

It's said that when he was in politics, he wrote love letters to every woman he met, totaling thirty thousand in his lifetime.

Just then, one of the Spanish soldiers turned his head and looked over, and Casare made a throat-slitting gesture, startling the man into quickly averting his gaze in panic.

Little guy, you know fear now.

"Focus on the task at hand first, once we're done with that, then we can deal with them!"

A group of people started bustling about.

Around 9:10 in the morning.

Out front of the military retirement center, about twenty coach buses pulled up, disgorging swarms of U.S. soldiers in uniform.

This place, Detroit, is not simple.

When you think of Detroit, you might think of automobiles, brands like Ford, Chevrolet, Cadillac.

But during the smoky years of WWII, Detroit wasn't just the motor city, it was the 'arsenal of democracy' for the Allies, the backbone supporting the entire European battlefield.

Over 90% of U.S. Army helmets were stamped out in Detroit.

The Chrysler Detroit Tank Plant in Warren produced half of the U.S.-made tanks, and the Ford Willow Run Factory could assemble a B-24 bomber every hour.

Even the U.S. Military's Abrams tanks had a factory there.

And these technicians were favored by the tycoons in Zone A.

But around these munitions plants were also small military bases whose handling of weapons made them a preferred choice for small companies and countries.

A bunch of 'soldier drifters' roamed Zone A, all aspiring to work in the big factories.

Big factories had high benefits, high pay, and also high rates of suicide.

Work at small factories was easy, slacking prevalent, and job-hopping frequent at the slightest disagreement.

Each had its own advantages, I guess.

The crowd flowed from Zone B into Zone C gradually.

Casare was about to yawn.

I should have brought two women to dance, the best way to attract men is sex appeal.

Sexy croupiers, dealing online.

"Hello!" Just as he was getting sleepy, a U.S. soldier sat down, looking a bit uncomfortable yet quite tall and well-built.

At least 6'3", all muscle.

He sat up straight, but his face bore an intense sorrow that seemed impossible to dispel.

"Here's my resume."

Casare took it, glanced at it,

"Damien Jarvis?"

"31 years old..."

Startled, he looked up abruptly.

"You graduated in psychology from Michigan State University?"

"Yes."

The resume was indeed impressive, stating he was the chief military doctor of the 551st Special Tactics Squadron of the Selvridge Air Force in Michigan State.

He had participated in numerous frontline battles and helped around 600 soldiers with psychological issues, soothing their post-war trauma.

Rank: Major!

Wow, he's an officer.

Not a low rank either.

Do people think everyone is a general as they say online?

Driving Ferraris, earning tens of thousands a month?

"With your qualifications, you should have plenty of options, why go to Mexico?" Casare asked curiously.

The other man was silent for a moment, looking straight at him before countering, "Does the Mexican Foreign Legion belong to Mr. Victor?"

"Of course, it's written right here," Casare stood up and pointed to the advertisement on the booth, under the Governorship of Northern Mexico.

All-expenses-paid, competitive salary, comprehensive benefits.

Damien Jarvis's eyes flashed with pain, "I want revenge!"

"My wife was a good woman, but on the way to the mall, she got caught in a local drug trafficker's deal..."

"I was on the phone, heard the shots myself, my wife pleading, but..."

"By the time I called the cops and they found her, she had been stuffed into a barrel. She was afraid of pain, but those traffickers shot her 27 times, gouged out her eyeballs."

As Damien Jarvis relived his wounds, clutching his hair, he said, "I'm a psychologist, but I can't save myself. Waking up every day, seeing the same surroundings— it's torture. I tried trusting the police, but those traffickers were caught and released three days later. Do you know what they said?"

His head snapped up.

"The U.S. Government can't help me! They said there's no legal evidence they were the murderers, to hell with the law!"

Damien Jarvis suddenly stood up and yelled furiously.