Working as a police officer in Mexico

"Take care, boss."

Victor personally saw Alejandro to his car and even took the initiative to open the door for him.

He was that kind of "good guy"; as long as everyone showed each other respect, he was easy to talk to.

When Alejandro got into the car, he lowered his voice and said, "You've been in the spotlight too much lately. You should keep a low profile; those drug traffickers are always watching you."

Victor looked at him and smiled, "The future relies on one's own efforts, not on others' charity. I have only one rule: If you're not the hunter, you're the prey, and barely surviving is no different from being dead!"

"We must take control of our destinies, sir. Drug traffickers will never be legitimate. Power is needed everywhere, much like real estate. Location is paramount; the closer you are to the center, the more valuable your wealth and status. You shouldn't be content with where you are; you should climb higher."

Victor was very direct and candid, "I think we can be good political partners. What you need is accomplishments, and what better way to earn the Americans' appreciation than by killing drug traffickers?"

In Mexico, if you lick the Americans' ass enough, they can get you the position you want.

Too far from heaven, too close to the United States.

"If you need money, I can give it to you. Three years – within three years, I'll help you rise to the position of head of security," Victor gestured, speaking confidently.

Alejandro was very tempted.

"What do you want?"

I'm so eager to advance, boss. My dream is actually very simple: when I offer my opinion, everyone should stand and applaud."

The game of politics isn't just about having bullets.

Victor surely can't be like Pablo and take a tank to sweep government buildings, can he?

Why did Los Zetas fall so quickly afterward?

Sure, you can fight, but what good does that do?

When you're in the underworld, it's about backing. Mexico relies on the United States, and let's speak frankly, which country on this planet could overcome it?

In front of it, can you match its violence?

"I hope you will bring me only good news," Alejandro said.

Victor extended his hand to shake his, "All you have to do is go home, close your eyes, and then wait for me to lift you into the Senate."

"God bless." Alejandro nodded, patted the driver on the shoulder, and signaled him to drive.

Watching the departing sedan, Victor put his hands in his pockets as the clouds overhead were pierced by sunlight, and he said to himself, "God can't liberate Mexico."

...

Three days later, Plateau Prison.

The cafeteria, which originally could accommodate over a thousand people for meals, had been turned into a workshop!

More than two hundred inmates sat in front of sewing machines, learning to make clothes from a female inmate.

On the side, about twenty armed Jail Guards stood.

This was Victor's idea.

Inmates should be put to work. What's the point of lying around all day?

Transforming three cafeterias into factories, thousands of inmates worked around the clock making clothes for an export garment factory, earning fifty cents per garment.

Of course, this money went to the prison (Victor).

But the big shots of The Third Prison had it slightly easier; after all, they had money. Just pay a little more each month, and Victor was very open-minded – with money, everything was negotiable.

"FxxK! Son of a bitch raised by a bitch, making me operate a sewing machine. I really want to punch that guy's head in," a muscular man who looked fierce muttered incessantly.

Sitting next to him was a middle-aged man with a parrot tattooed on his shoulder; the other man sewed swiftly and looked at the fabric the noisy man was making, "Winter, I think you better calm down. Remember, you're now owing an additional twenty-dollar fine."

That's right...

If inmates spoiled the fabric, they had to pay for it.

Ah!

One of these days, Victor is going to be hanging from a street lamp.

The inmate named Winter, anxiously scratching his head with his eyes darting around, saw a portly figure enter through the door.

He quickly nudged his neighbor, "Hey, Fatty Tiger is here."

The middle-aged inmate clearly wasn't happy to be disturbed, but at that mention, he looked up and saw Casare standing on a table.

Fatty Tiger was the nickname the inmates had given him.

A very fat tiger with a smiling face.

"Everyone stop." Casare shouted, and all the inmates ceased their work, finally able to rest for a moment.

"As of today, new prison regulations are being enacted! There are ten of them; listen up."

"First, respect the Jail Guards."

"Second, no feeding poop to fellow cellmates!"

"Third, prohibition on spraying pee on cellmates' clothes."

"Fourth, no stuffing uneaten leftovers inside one's own XX."

"Fifth, standing naked behind one's cellmate is not allowed."

...

"Tenth: Whatever Warden Victor says is correct!"

Casare finished reading the sheet of paper in his hand, tucked it into his pocket, and let out a smile, the fat on his face quivering, "I'm delighted to inform you all."

"We've just received a big order, so we've decided to cancel the current break time. Everybody will work overtime. Thank you, I've said my part."

Overtime!

Fuck!

Even the prisoners couldn't accept this.

"FXXK! We're here to do time, not work, you asshole." One of the prisoners couldn't help standing up, trying to rally those around him. "Brothers, this is simply undignified. It's oppression, an insult to human rights!"

Casare looked at him, then at the restless prisoners below, suddenly pulled out a gun, and bang, bang, bang!

He killed him on the spot.

The prisoner lay on the ground, eyes wide open and body limp.

The powerless prisoners could only remain silent.

In the face of firearms, even if you've killed countless before, you dare not utter another word.

"Does anyone else disagree with working overtime?" Casare asked with a smile.

After waiting a few seconds with no opposition, he nodded in satisfaction and signaled the guards to drag the dead man away.

As for how he died?

Does it matter?

With money paving the way, Victor had smoothly secured the position of Highland Prison Warden. He was much more stringent than Webster had been.

Basically, if you wanted to get by in Plateau Prison, you either obeyed or paid up.

For the wealthy inmates, the tolerance could be slightly higher.

After Casare left, those with a temper finally began to speak in hushed tones.

"I just can't stand it here anymore, I have to get out!" Winter said, looking at the dragged-away corpse, feeling terribly uncomfortable.

"You'll be shot to pieces."

"I have connections. The Michoacán Family has already reached out to people on the outside; they'll coordinate a rescue!"

The middle-aged man sitting next to him raised an eyebrow, "Really? How so?"

"Start a riot!"

Winter gritted his teeth. "The Michoacán Family and a few other gangs will launch attacks on the outside, forcing the Mexican Government to either replace Victor or release us. Which do you think the government will choose?"

Is there even a need to think about it?

Given Mexico's government's track record, they're very likely to replace Victor. If a "normal" official came in, life would definitely improve for the likes of us.

No way they'd let us go.

The United States Drug Enforcement Administration wouldn't agree to that either.

"How do you know?" the middle-aged man asked curiously.

Winter's eyes twitched as if recalling some unpleasant memory, subconsciously reaching for his buttocks. The middle-aged man saw the whole motion and instantly understood.

Ah, life in prison is hard.

He consciously skirted the topic. "The Michoacán Family is willing to stick their neck out for this?"

Winter took a deep breath. "Victor killed Osir Cardenas's own nephew; he can't swallow that pride. I heard that the Gulf Group will also be part of this uprising."

The middle-aged man's eyes lit up, looking around. "What do we need to do?"

"We start a riot inside the prison too!"

"As long as it's chaotic enough, the Mexican Government will have to compromise!"

"Only a few people are aware of this."

If God can't save Mexico, what chance does a jail guard have of turning things around?

Eat shit!

...

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