Working as a police officer in Mexico Chapter 1927: 818: Are You Here to Be Funny?

Chapter 1927: Chapter 818: Are You Here to Be Funny?

July 28, 1997, Delhi National Stadium, Night

The lights were a ghastly white, like the illumination in a morgue.

The stench of cow dung and vomit, mixed with the sickly sweet scent of cheap spices, along with the sll of sweat, dust, and a deeper, despair-like tallic odor, fernted in the sweltering air of the stadium.

On the track, over twenty “Divine Bulls” were finally herded to a corner of the field by staff wielding bamboo sticks and lassos, along with a few hastily hired, nervous herdsn.

But their “blessings”—puddles of either fresh or semi-dry dark brown filth—decorated the patchwork red track like malicious abstract paintings.

The awarding ceremony was canceled.

Or rather, no one even rembered it.

Ugandan athlete Joseph ngo, the nominal champion of the ten thousand ters, was at this mont wrapped in a dirty towel, slumped at the edge of the shot-put area, his gaze vacant.

His gold dal was sowhere in an Indian official’s safe, or simply still a design sketch. Next to him on the ground was a bottle of “Holy Ganges Water” sponsored drink that he dared not open.

The other athletes who finished the race had long fled this nightmare of a venue.

Those who didn’t finish? Most were whisked back to the hotel in un-air-conditioned, rickety buses rented by their respective delegations amid the chaos of stolen ambulance tires and overflowing hospitals.

The sparse crowd in the stadium stands began to curse and leave. Soone threw down a fan printed with the mascot of the Gas and stomped on it twice.

A local vendor, pushing a cart of leftover “blessing wreaths” and “Divine Bull talismans,” looked blankly at it all, muttering incomprehensible curses.

The main press center was in the midst of its final mayhem.

Indian press officer Rajiv Sharma, complexion ashen, stood behind a shaky podium, trying to present his last attempt at “control” before the few remaining reporters, mostly from India and international tabloids.

“…This has been a Gas full of challenges, but it has also showcased the resilient spirit of the Indian people and… unique culture,” Sharma’s voice was parched, his eyes evasive, “The exaggerated reports by so Western dia are disrespectful to Indian traditions and the hardworking organizing committee…”

“Is the resilient spirit making athletes run among cow dung and poison gas?” A bespectacled, weary local Indian reporter couldn’t help but retort, “Is unique culture stealing ambulance tires and sexually harassing in hospitals? Minister, I’m from the Indian Express, not the BBC! Yet my inbox is drowning in readers’ spit! They’re asking if their taxes are spent on raising cattle and bribing international officials?”

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Sweat appeared on Sharma’s forehead: “These are… isolated incidents! These are inevitable blemishes in organizing work! We’re doing our utmost to improve…”

“Improve?”

Another reporter raised his cara, “I just captured your ‘reinforced’ boxing ring, where staff are using tape to patch up cracked boards! Is that your improvent? Using tape?”

“And the archery field!” a female reporter shrieked, “You said it had added barriers, but what I saw were just a few pieces of broken plywood! A gust of wind could blow them over! Do you think the lives of foreign athletes are as cheap as street dogs?”

Sharma opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. The other officials behind him lowered their heads, wishing they could disappear.

Outside the tent, there was a sudden rush of footsteps and excited shouts in English.

A few people wearing Australian team uniforms, ignoring the feeble obstruction of Indian security, barged in.

“Mr. Sharma!”

The Australian team leader, a flushed-faced middle-aged man, currently with a face redder than ever, resembling high blood pressure about to burst, said, “Our last athlete—triathlon survivor Kelly Johnson, was just confird in the hospital… acute kidney failure! Because she drank your ‘safe water source’! She needs imdiate dialysis, but your hospital doesn’t even have clean dialysis fluid!”

He slamd a crumpled dical report onto the podium, his voice hoarse: “Four lives! We lost four lives in your damn river! And over a dozen more are lying in the hospital, hovering between life and death! And now you’re still here talking about ‘resilient spirit’ and ‘unique culture’? Is your culture murder?!”

The tent was instantly silent. Only the faint electrical current of a working cara could be heard.

Sharma’s face turned from grey to white, then white to blue.

A gurgling noise ca from his throat, as if an invisible hand was strangling him. Behind him, a young official suddenly turned around, covering his mouth as he dry heaved.

“We demand,” the Australian team leader enunciated, “that the Indian governnt imdiately, publicly, and formally apologize and assu all dical and aftermath expenses! Furthermore, we demand that the International Olympic Committee and Commonwealth Gas Federation permanently revoke India’s qualification to host any international sporting events! Otherwise, we will join all victimized countries in suing you at the International Court! Suing you for… manslaughter! No, mass murder!”

Sue? International Court?

These words sounded like a final death knell in the ears of Sharma and the other Indian officials.

They weren’t afraid of dostic protests, opposition parties’ clamor, or even dia ridicule.

But this—they feared formal legal accountability and permanent international sanctions. That ant India would truly be isolated from the modern civilized world, becoming a global laughingstock and a plague zone to be avoided at all costs.