Capítulo 1376: Chapter 663: Let the Bullets Fly for a While, Right Over Your Skull! (Part 2)
The whistle marking the end of the match beca the starting gun for the riot.
Hundreds of fans draped in the Spanish flag rushed out of the stands, pouncing like hungry wolves at the Latino fans gathered outside the stadium.
A teenager wearing a Guardiola jersey hadn’t reacted yet before his hair was grabbed, pressing him to the ground, fists and heels rained down on his back like a storm. Several Colombian exchange students tried to shield their companion but were struck hard on the waist with a flagpole, leaving them curled up on the ground in pain. More people rushed into a nearby snack stand, overturning the cart of an old xican man, spilling hot tortillas and chili sauce all over the old man’s body, exchanged for shouts of “Get out of Spain.”
The sound of police sirens approached from afar, but the arriving officers seed to have received so covert signal.
They swung their batons as they charged into the crowd but exerted more force in aiding one side over the other. Facing the attacking Spanish fans, they only pushed symbolically a couple of tis; as for those Latinos attempting to fight back or flee, the batons landed relentlessly on their heads and backs.
An Ecuadorian youth, bleeding profusely from his nose, raised his hands shouting, “I didn’t fight.”
Only to be pinned against the wall by two officers, hands twisted behind his back, the rough handcuffs clicked shut on his wrists as he heard one of the officers mutter under his breath, “It’s trash like you that make the stadium a ss.”
Eventually, ambulances took away seven injured Latinos with bloodied heads, while police cars took away fifteen Latino fans “suspected of causing trouble.” So of them had rely been attempting to help up fallen companions during the conflict.
When the streetlights outside Bernabéu Stadium lit up, torn flags of Latin Arican countries were still scattered on the ground, mixed with trampled tortillas and broken flagpoles.
A few xicans who hadn’t been taken away squatted by the roadside, wiping the blood and tears from their faces with their sleeves, watching the police and those arrogant fans shoulder to shoulder leaving, as if their throats were blocked with a hot stone, unable to shout a word.
anwhile, in the Madrid Pri Minister’s Mansion, Gonzalez raised a glass, watching the censored riot footage on the news, sneering into the phone to the Minister of Internal Affairs: “See that? This is the lesson for them, let Victor see, on Spanish turf, his people aren’t even worthy of crying out loud.”
Spain is very xenophobic!
In the Oval Office of the xico Presidential Palace.
Victor sat on a dark leather sofa, a cigar unlit between his fingers, a thick stack of diplomatic notes piled up on the mahogany coffee table in front of him, with almost all the foreign ministries from Latin Arican countries—Argentina, Colombia, Peru, Chile—using the harshest language to condemn Spain’s racial discrimination. The Peruvian ambassador even attached an X-ray in the notes showing a Peruvian student’s ribs broken during the Bernabéu Stadium riot.
“Mr. Victor, our compatriots in Barcelona have been doused with sulfuric acid.”
The Colombian ambassador clenched his fists, “The Spanish police claim to be investigating, yet they haven’t even caught a glimpse of a suspect! Protests have already begun at ho, demanding the expulsion of all Spanish nationals, you must lead the way, we can’t just take this lying down!”
The Argentine diplomat imdiately agreed, “Exactly! The Madrid newspapers are actually blaming the riot on the ‘inherent flaws’ of Latin Arican immigrants, it’s an insult to all of Latin Arica! We’ve already contacted the Latin Arican Cultural Association in xico City, planning to organize a transnational protest next week, needing xico to provide support for the venue.”
Victor gestured for them to calm down, picking up a chilled Coca-Cola from the coffee table, slowly unscrewing the cap, the bubbles in the glass bottle fizzed as if responding to the ambassadors’ suppressed anger.
Right now, he’s like a leading boss!
We are all with you, don’t you dare disregard us.
“Do you all rember the Banana War ten years ago?”
He suddenly spoke, his voice as calm as a deep pool, “Back then, Honduras’s banana plantations were seized by Arican companies, and all of Central Arica was clamoring for retaliation. And what happened? Our united protest lasted only three days before the other side divided us with an agricultural subsidy, Guatemala secretly signed an agreent, Salvador imdiately withdrew its diplomatic note, leaving only Honduras holding the fort alone.”
The Colombian ambassador opened his mouth to say sothing, but was silenced by Victor’s gaze.
“The banner at Bernabéu wasn’t aid at any one person,” Victor gently placed the Coke can back on the coffee table, making a soft “dang” sound, “It was aid at all of Latin Arica. They want us in chaos, to trip over ourselves like ten years ago, so they can deal with each of us individually.”
He stood up, walked to the Latin Arica map hanging on the wall, tapping on the border between Argentina and Chile with his finger: “Spain’s far-right party is hosting a European civilization defender rally in Madrid next week, they’ve invited remnants of Italy’s fascists and Hungary’s xenophobes, and you think if we charge out now shouting and fighting, is it helping ourselves or helping them?”
The Peruvian ambassador’s expression softened a bit: “You an…”
“Let’s let the bullet fly for a while.”
Victor turned around, his gaze swept over everyone present, “The higher they jump, the more they expose their ugliness. The entire world is watching now, watching how Spain wraps the dirty thing of racism with the cloak of civilization, watching how their police smile at the assaulters while swinging batons at the victims.”
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