Chapter 1626: Chapter 745: I’m So Wronged! (Part 2)
Little Bush looked up, gazing at Rove, his eyes no longer filled with anger or fear, but with an almost absurd disappointnt and deep resentnt.
“Organization… incite…” he repeated these two words softly, as if talking to himself, “My father dedicated his life to serving the country, and in the end…”
His voice was a little choked, but he forcibly suppressed it.
“I am just trying to hold this country together. Why? Why in their eyes have I beco a sinner that must be purged?”
He suddenly stood up from his chair, his emotions visibly spiraling out of control for the first ti. He walked to the window, turning his back to Rove, his shoulders slightly trembling.
“Every day I wake up facing a bankrupt treasury, rebellious states, invading armies, and a Congress that stabs in the back! I am doing my utmost to stabilize this sinking ship! But them?! What are they doing? Inciting hatred! Planning assassinations! Do they think killing would solve everything? Huh?!”
He suddenly turned around, his eyes bloodshot, his voice hoarse with desperation: “Carl! Tell ! What are we holding on for? For these ‘compatriots’ who wish for my death? For this worn-out ss, rotting from the inside?!”
He panted heavily, his chest heaving violently as if trying to pour out all the accumulated resentnt and pain. A few seconds later, as if drained of strength, his voice suddenly fell, carrying an unprecedented weakness and confusion:
“Sotis I fucking really think I might as well just surrender, to Victor, to Bramo, to everyone! Hand over this damned ss to them! See what kind of solutions they have! I’m tired… I’m really… too tired…”
These words did not sound like sothing a president should say, more like the desperate cry of an exhausted ordinary person.
Carl Rove looked at Little Bush in shock, having never seen him show such fragility and despair.
He wanted to offer comfort, to emphasize responsibility and mission, but seeing Little Bush’s bloodshot eyes and the deep exhaustion etched between his brows, all the dignified words got stuck in his throat.
He knew, this ti, the President was truly hurt.
Seeing Little Bush’s almost collapsed state yet forcibly restraining himself, Rove’s worry intensified. Hesitating for a mont, he softly suggested: “George, maybe we can arrange an informal talk with a psychologist? Just to talk, relieve so stress. You’re bearing too much.”
I fear you might jump off a building.
If that happens and you beco the first leader to jump to your death, it would truly disgrace the Beautiful Soft Empire.
Little Bush waved his hand sharply, “I don’t need it! I’m fine, just now… just pressure, needed to vent a bit.”
He took a deep breath, rubbed his face vigorously, trying to mask all vulnerability and return to being the “resolute” President. “Let’s talk business. Money! We need to get money. Where from? You ntioned ‘non-traditional lenders’ before, what’s the situation?”
Seeing he did not want to discuss personal matters anymore, Rove had to suppress his worry, opening the folder and pushing it in front of Little Bush: “We’ve contacted several overseas funds and private consortia, willing to provide short-term high-interest loans, but the collateral requirents are very harsh, not only including projected future tax revenue but even requiring so national assets like port concessions, strategic reserve oil, as implicit guarantees. The terms are harsh and the interest rates are staggeringly high.”
“What else?” Little Bush didn’t even look at the docunts, directly asked. He knew he no longer had the luxury of being picky.
“Additionally, so capital from the Far East with complex backgrounds have shown interest, but they demand more, and want certain political assurances.” Rove’s voice was lowered further.
Little Bush was silent for a mont, his eyes flickering indecisively, finally turning into a sigh of helplessness: “Talk with them, finalize the first tranche as soon as possible, deal with the overdue military pay and frontline supplies first. We’ll talk about the rest later.”
“I understand.” Rove closed the folder, feeling heavy-hearted.
He knew this was a case of drinking poison to quench thirst, but at this mont, they didn’t even have the choice between dying of thirst and poison.
Looking at Little Bush forcing a semblance of composure but unable to hide his pale complexion, the thought of whether the President was depressed erged again, yet couldn’t be voiced.
…
anwhile, inside the compartnt of a special train.
Victor was puffing on a cigar, opposite him sat a young man with a hint of nervousness in his expression but a touch of flattery and anticipation in his eyes, the nephew of Canada’s opposition Leader Patrick O’Malley, Little Patrick Jas O’Malley.
“Please convey my greetings to your uncle, Mr. Jas,” Victor exhaled a smoke ring, his tone calm, “His performance in Ottawa is impressive. A true politician with the courage to choose a more beneficial path for the country at critical monts.”
Little O’Malley slightly bowed: “Mr. Victor, my uncle greatly admires you as well. He entrusted to express his sincerest regards and hopes that our cooperation can be deeper and more specific. He believes there are widespread common interests between Canada and xico that can completely transcend the current minor frictions.”
Victor smiled, did not directly respond, simply inquired casually about so of Canada’s customs and political atmosphere, avoiding or giving ambiguous promises regarding Little O’Malley’s several implicit requests for military cooperation or economic aid.
I give it that easily.
Don’t you think I’m a bitch?
I agreed to cooperate with you, but didn’t agree I absolutely have to give you.
Techniques for reeling in rich n are useful at the negotiating table too, it must be learned.
The conversation lasted about half an hour, the atmosphere seemingly cordial but without any substantive progress.
Victor politely indicated the end of the eting, letting Casare take this “special envoy” to rest.
As the compartnt door closed, leaving only Victor and Casare, Victor took a deep puff on the cigar, sneered at Casare: “See? All the crap about patriotism, all the humiliation of warship being sunk, under sufficient political interest and personal ambition, are negotiable chips! This Mr. O’Malley, and his comrades fighting in Parliant are no different, as long as you paint a big enough pie for him, he will actively find reasons to forget hatred.”
Casare nodded: “Boss, what’s our next step?”
Victor pressed out the cigar in the ashtray, squinted his eyes, “Since he ca to the door himself and treats us as his stepping stone to rise, then we won’t be polite, ask sky-high prices!”
He paused, revealing a fierce smile: “If needed, allow our ‘volunteers’ to use Canada’s corridor, or provide so ‘unofficial’ logistical support, find a way to drag Canada into this, even if not directly, at least destroying any pitiful mutual trust between the United States and Canada completely!”
“Alright, boss, I’ll start drafting the negotiation baseline and plan imdiately.” Casare grasped the idea.
Victor looked out the train window and said: “Dealing with these politicians, use their own logic, we don’t want Canada’s friendship, but rather to pull it completely to our side, or at least beco a thorn in Arica’s side!”
“Between countries, there are never any real interests at stake.”
This remark is indeed true.
Because Patrick is not the first to co to , and won’t be the last.
Beautiful Soft…
What a delightful scent!
…
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