Working as a police officer in Mexico

"Why bother eating? If I'm not careful, I'm going to eat a bullet." George Smiley was a bit upset.

Goebbels nodded, "I'll take care of it."

"Thanks, as long as I'm not dead by the end of the year, I'll buy you guys a drink."

After saying that, he bid farewell to Casare, President Cuauhtémoc, and the others, and rushed to the Internal Affairs Bureau.

"He's got it tough too."

"Who has it easy now? Mexico is just a fat piece of meat, the United Kingdom, the United States, Italy, Canada... they all want us dead."

Cuauhtémoc listed a dozen or so names, and by the end, he himself gasped.

Actually, it has to do with Victor's policies; he never practiced non-alignment, otherwise Ren Lian wouldn't have happened.

Especially on the Middle East issues, he was completely against Israel.

What does Israel produce?

Terrorists!

Extremists!

Do you think they would treat you well?

So after the "Grande Massacre," people on the internet told Victor to think more deeply.

"Why do others bomb you, not them!"

"You need to reflect on yourself!"

Victor directly responded below, "Reflect on your mom!"

"Just kill them all!" Kennedy muttered beside him, his gaze fierce, "The families of the perpetrators behind the last bombing are still mostly alive."

"Kill them all!"

"Fight violence with violence!"

Casare rubbed his head in frustration after hearing this—these rude men, quite charming.

One has to admit, brains aren't better than artillery, words aren't better than caliber.

"Let's go, the documents on my office desk are piled up high." Cuauhtémoc took a deep breath and indicated.

"Let's go, let's go, work, work!"

...

Nighttime.

Almost every city in Mexico is bustling.

Perhaps it's because people are indulging in nightlife after finally having a strong government, and spending is continually rising.

At the entrance of the Almshouse in Guadalajara.

Previously, you could see quite a few alcoholics and drug traffickers here, but now...

A uniform line of small vendors selling food.

Bernard Montgomery was carrying a snakeskin bag, rummaging through bottles in the trash can, with a foul smell and snot hanging from his nose. When he saw those food trucks, his stomach growled twice.

Unable to resist, he walked forward two steps.

"Mom, he smells bad!"

Suddenly, he saw a Little Boy pointing at him and shouting loudly. He stopped abruptly, his eyes timid, and instinctively moved back.

"Shut up! Georgi, haven't I taught you manners? If you keep this up, I'll beat you!" The Soviet-looking man beside him glared and slapped the back of his son's head, knocking him to the ground.

Bernard Montgomery's eyelid twitched.

Who knew the Little Boy didn't cry and got up right away, glanced at his own mother, who also looked at him unkindly.

"Apologize!"

Little George had no choice, walked over, and said sullenly, "Sorry."

"No... no problem, no problem." Bernard Montgomery's eyes avoided, he glanced at the bottle on the other's table, hesitated, and pointed at it, "Can I have that?"

The other looked back, "Of course, no problem."

He said and then ran back, picked up the can from the table, but there was still some beer inside, and then... he drank it, gulped it down, wiped his mouth and walked over to hand it to him.

"Th-thank you!"

"Why do you need this stuff?"

Bernard Montgomery lowered his head, "Can sell it. My grandfather is sick."

"What about your parents?"

"Dead, killed by drug traffickers when I was very young."

Little George glanced at the shorter Little Boy who looked like he was about to cry, suddenly acting helpless and looked to his parents for help.

They were both... digging into their meals.

"Come over, I'll find cans for you." He said to him, then quickly ran to his father and opened all the beers on the ground.

"Hey, Georgi, what are you doing, are you asking for a beating?" The man glared.

"Dad, drink quickly, once you finish these, he can sell them, you won't die from drinking too much anyway, and his grandfather isn't going to make it."

?????

Definitely his own kid!

The man turned to look, his gaze made Bernard Montgomery a bit afraid and shrink back a step, "Didn't the government provide subsidies for you? Don't you study?"

"I do... I do study! But more money is needed, the government gives us money every month, but I know, with my hands and feet, sometimes I have to work hard."

Upon hearing this, the Soviet man nods appreciatively, gave a disapproving glare to his own son, then picked up the canned beer and started gulping it down, his wife too, it was rare for Soviets not to drink.

In no time, a dozen cans were empty, he burped contentedly, handed them over.

"Thanks!" Bernard Montgomery hurriedly opened the bag and stuffed them inside, continuously expressing thanks.

When he had just finished packing, the man paid and was about to leave.

"Dad, why don't you just give him money?"

"For a man, giving money is charity, understand, Georgi." The mother patted his head and said.

Little George nodded, looked at Bernard Montgomery who was busying himself, and said to his parents, "Wait for me a moment."

Then he quickly ran over and helped to flatten the cans.

"You should rest early today. Come to Ottoman Street 111 tomorrow, I'll give you all the scrap from my house."