Capítulo 1424: Chapter 681: Just Cause for War! (Part 3)
“I know, I know, you don’t need to worry about the other things.”
Whenever advice is given, Paul Constantine Stuart becos impatient.
Lawrence can only sigh helplessly.
He really doesn’t want to say it, but his big brother is sowhat…
He’s lost his reason.
Does he really think he’s an emperor?
…
A border city in xico, Reynosa.
In the morning, wrapped in thick fog.
In the “Don Quixote” diner, the cast-iron skillet sizzles, the rich aroma of butter mixed with the bitter scent of black coffee fills the small space to the brim.
The truck driver in a plaid shirt slurps bean soup, and the waitress in an apron shuttles between tables, teasing regulars in a mix of Spanish and English, the radio in the corner intermittently broadcasting xican folk songs. Everything is as usual, soaked in the unique laziness of the border.
Old Alvarez wipes the mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth with a napkin and stuffs the last half of a tortilla into his mouth.
He is sixty-seven this year, having spent his life running small businesses between Reynosa and Brownsville in Texas, witnessing too many storms on the border.
Living to this age through the era of drug traffickers, then the era of Victor’s reckoning—that’s no easy feat.
He just about to get up to pay at the counter when he glimpses the old television hanging on the ceiling suddenly light up.
This TV usually either plays soap operas or local advertisents, but today the screen displayed the logo of the xican National Television Station, the anchor dressed in a dark blue suit with a serious expression, the backdrop being the white columns of the Presidential Palace in xico City.
“Yesterday morning at nine o’clock, President Anatoly Lunacharsky officially received the representatives of the Indigenous tribes from Texas at the National Palace, where they discussed ‘historical indigenous rights’ and ‘border cultural preservation’.”
As soon as the anchor finished speaking, the cara cut to the reception room of the Presidential Palace.
Anatoly Lunacharsky is seated on a dark sofa, opposite a man dressed in a navy blue deerskin vest, his hair grey, braided into two thick long braids hanging over his shoulders, wearing a necklace strung with eagle claws and turquoise, holding a wooden box carved with a sun pattern in his hands. When the two shook hands, the man’s side profile faced the cara.
Old Alvarez’s hand is still on the chair back, he froze for a good half minute, then suddenly turned his head to look at the neighboring table. There sat a young man in a denim jacket, taking pictures of the television screen with his phone, his fingers flying across the screen.
“Kid.”
Old Alvarez’s voice carried a bit of hoarse disbelief, “Did you see it clearly just now? Is that Texas’s Indigenous representatives?”
The young man tucked his phone into his pocket, raised his eyebrows: “What else? Can the Presidential Palace’s news be fake? That old man is a representative of the Comanche Tribe, heard he’s lived on the reservation in western Texas all his life.”
“Reservation?”
Old Alvarez seed to have heard a fairytale, he leaned forward and chuckled as he spoke up, “Are you kidding ? There are still Indians now?”
Once this was said, people from several nearby tables looked over. The truck driver in the plaid shirt scoffed: “Old man, how long has it been since you’ve been to Texas? I delivered goods to El Paso last year and even saw them selling handcrafted arrowheads by the highway, their skin as dark as tar, speaking with a peculiar accent.”
“That’s not what I an,” Old Alvarez waved his hand, his tone growing more hurried, “Weren’t the purebred ones already turned into leather boots?”
As soon as the word “boots” ca out, the air in the diner instantly chilled.
No one replied, only the sizzle of the skillet was heard, sounding particularly jarring.
Old Alvarez realized he had misspoken, he coughed awkwardly but couldn’t help asking, “I an… wasn’t the United States supposed to have handled the Indians a long ti ago? How co there’s suddenly an indigenous representative now? And able to et the President of xico?”
This can’t be delved into deeply.
Thinking about it, it really seems to be the case!
The anchor on the TV is still reading the press release, every word enveloped in official solemnity:
“President Lunacharsky clearly stated during the talks that the xican Governnt always respects the historical heritage of all ethnic groups, acknowledges the native status of Indigenous people in the North Arica continent, for historical injustices they have suffered, xico is willing to provide necessary humanitarian assistance and cultural protection support within the frawork of international law, including but not limited to establishing cultural exchange centers, providing dical resources and basic education aid…”
In the reception room, the representative of the Comanche Tribe holds the wooden box with both hands, bowing and presenting it to Lunacharsky.
The mont the box was opened, the cara gave a close-up. Inside, lined with dark red deerskin, were three polished stone axes, the engravings on the axe shafts shimring with an antiquated luster under the light.
Lunacharsky rose to take the box, deliberately saying “thank you for your trust” in Indian language, the translation sounded through the TV speakers.
Old Alvarez stared at the screen, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the table edge.
He thought about when he returned from Brownsville three days ago, the scene he saw at the border, the booth usually manned by only two soldiers was that day equipped with a heavy machine gun, and there was an armored vehicle with “xican Army” printed on its body parked opposite the wire fence, its camouflage barely visible in the fog.
At the ti, he had asked the soldier in the booth what was happening, the soldier only impatiently waved his hand: “Don’t ask too much, just pass quickly.”
“It’s not looking for an excuse, it’s looking for legal grounds.”
Old Alvarez suddenly spoke, his voice pressed low as if afraid of being overheard.
He glanced toward the television, the anchor was still discussing the establishnt of a special working group to connect with the needs of Indigenous tribes, yet the light in his eyes grew cold, “Do you really think the governnt cares about the historical status of the Indians? Back when General Victor was eradicating the drug traffickers, even civilians in the border towns were checked multiple tis, and now suddenly being so courteous to ‘Indigenous people,’ isn’t it because there’s unrest in Texas?”
The truck driver in the plaid shirt put down his soup bowl, wiped his mouth: “Old man, what do you an by that? Can xico manage Texas’s affairs?”
“Can it or not, depends on if there’s a reason.”
Old Alvarez picked up the salt shaker on the table, drew a crooked line on the tablecloth, “This line is the Red River, on this side is Texas, on that side is Louisiana, now both sides are fighting tooth and nail, President Paul’s territory is almost defenseless, at this ti xico steps in, claiming to help the Indians in Texas, is there a need to connect?”
The young man suddenly slapped the table, the coffee cup shaking: “Are you saying… xico wants to use the Indian issue to intervene in Texas?!”
“Whether this Indian is real or not is uncertain.” Soone’s eyes lit up, murmuring.
When this was said, the diner was thoroughly silent.
Old Alvarez returned the salt shaker to its original position, pointed to the still-present Presidential Palace image on the TV screen: “Didn’t you hear the anchor say? Providing humanitarian assistance, as long as the Comanches say they’re being bullied, xico’s troops could cross the border in the na of protecting civilians?”
“What xico wants isn’t just simple help.”
He walked to the door, pushed open the glass door, a gust of damp cold wind blew in.
From the diner behind, the young man was on the phone with a friend, his voice full of urgency: “Quickly clear Texas’s goods! I feel sothing big is going to happen…”
Those with keen senses can discover huge business opportunities and problems from re words!
Just like when the Soviet Union collapsed, many didn’t realize canned goods could be traded for airplanes.
Seeing the news, they felt completely lost.
Soviet dissolution?
Whoa, amazing!
This is perception.
…
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