Chapter 10: Urinate Anywhere, and Your Tools Will Be Confiscated!

Dragan nearly choked on his own spit.

"What? Eight hundred US dollars? Are you robbing me?"

The spittle almost sprayed onto Casare's face.

His head dodged back subconsciously; not only did the guy's breath stink, but he also had the nerve to negotiate price while robbing him. He could've just put a bullet in his forehead.

But then again, who doesn't start with a high price in business?

You think this is charity work?

"What, too pricey for you? The cost to manufacture an AK47 is around 200 US dollars. I'm just charging you a bit over for shipping it from the Soviet Union to Mexico. Dragan, have I ever tricked you since we were kids?" Casare took the rifle and removed the magazine, "Standard 30 rounds. When you go out at night for a shootout with others, they fumble with a pistol and go limp, but you, my cousin, can let them know who's the real boss of the street with this."

"Most organizations in Mexico use American guns. If you're the first to use Soviet weapons, you'll be cool. Didn't you always say you wanted to stand out since you were a kid? American rifles would cost you more than 800 US dollars, not to mention, among similar firearms, AKs have proven themselves in real combat."

Terrorists step out with AKs; those who've used them swear by them.

Every word of Casare embedded itself deep into Dragan's heart. He glanced at the driver and the two sturdy men in the back seat, lifting his chin slightly, "What do you guys think?"

"I think it's good, boss. If we had this thing, would the Whale Brotherhood dare to vie with us for those two KTVs? Just wipe them out," said the driver bluntly.

The two burly men in the back seat also nodded their heads.

Their organization wasn't big, just over twenty people holding down two streets, collecting protection money from shops, especially KTVs and brothels, those were their big earners, with yearly revenues around 500 thousand US dollars!

The ordinary minions got paid about a thousand Pesos a month, but as the "security backbone" responsible for assaults, Dragan could take home a thousand US dollars monthly, which was an absolutely high salary.

Earning money was great, but of course, he wanted more!

The boss said he'd double the salary if they took over the neighboring street.

Don't think ordinary Mexican gangs are all that impressive. They still use machetes, and there's a shortage of firearms. Military weapons smuggled from the United States were all pre-ordered by the big drug traffickers, and the remnants that made it across the border were quickly distributed by the big organizations with many informants.

A small outfit like Dragan's found it hard to grow.

"Fine, eight hundred it is. Write me a receipt, I need to get reimbursed." Dragan took out greenbacks from his wallet, Franklin's bald head looked damn handsome to Casare.

"Right, make it nine hundred US dollars."

The guy was even skimming off the top!

Scribble, scribble, scribble, Casare wrote the receipt and handed it over, taking the US dollars with both hands and tossing the backpack, "It has 100 bullets inside. This is my gift to you, nobody else gets it. But that's the extent of my authority. Next time you want bullets, you'll have to pay."

Dragan's eyes lit up. He opened the backpack, and sure enough, there were two boxes of ammunition inside. He looked at Casare with even more warmth.

Money in hand, Casare was ready to leave. As he pushed open the door and his foot barely touched the ground, he seemed to remember something, "Oh, and we also provide rocket launchers, landmines, grenades. If you need anything, just get in touch, I can assure you a special price."

Can't forget the sales pitch.

It's a matter of professionalism.

After saying that, he got out of the car, closed the door, waved to Dragan in the passenger seat, and walked away with hands in his pockets, carefree.

"Boss, that cousin of yours couldn't possibly be an arms dealer, could he?" the driver asked curiously as he watched his retreating figure in the rearview mirror.

"Arms dealer? How could that be? He hasn't even left Mexico."

Dragan frowned, "Maybe he's working for some big shot."

"Forget about it; let's go, tell the boss first. If it really works well, I'll ask the boss to fund us. Then, with a dozen AKs, we can expand and strengthen!"

...

It was Casare's first time engaging in "illegal activities," and he found it somewhat thrilling. This was different from just taking a bribe; that was charity, but this was a genuine business of his own.

He ran to the market opposite the prison. Although it was bustling at night, it did business by day too. Half-awake prostitutes leaned against tents, cigarettes hanging from their lips, yawning, looking emaciated, almost like junkies.

With Casare's experienced eye, he could tell this one stank worse than a scallop – one bite, and you'd turn into a biohazard mother.

Just as he was about to enter, he saw an ice cream truck. He licked his lips and walked over, "Gimme one."

After taking a couple of licks of the ice cream in his hand, his eyes lit up.

He loved ice cream as a kid, but his family was poor. His mother struggled to support four kids on her own. He was the eldest and the most sensible, so he never indulged in ice cream, even though it cost just two Pesos, because that money could feed the family instead.

Once grown up and working, the wages of a cop were worse than a dog's – at least army dogs got a ten Peso meal ration. Casare saved his salary for his parents; his siblings needed to go to school, and he hoped his mother could toil a bit less.

But now...

He had a "fortune" of eight hundred US dollars in his pocket; he could finally indulge in ice cream without reservations.

"Psst,"

A whistle interrupted Casare's thoughts. Under an umbrella at the roadside, Victor, dressed in black, was sitting with a glass of juice in front of him.

"Been here long?" Casare jogged over and asked.

"Not even half an hour. How did it go?"

Casare took the money out of his pocket, placed it directly on the table, and pushed it forward, "That's a total of 800 US dollars."

Victor looked at the greenbacks on the table, quite satisfied, picked up two bills, and pushed the rest back to him, "We agreed, I only want 200 US dollars, the surplus is yours."

As Casare stared at the US dollars on the table, his Adam's apple bobbed, he thought Victor was just talking, who knew he was serious?

With a sheepish laugh, he took out a US dollar bill, "I'll just take one, I didn't really do anything, and the goods were provided by you."

He knew his place, understood where he stood, and recognized who was the main leader in this business. If he took too much and Victor wasn't happy, would he still make money?

Don't be so naive to think that when a leader says, "It's fine, you can raise concerns about me personally."

And then you take it seriously and point out his flaws.

The next day, you're fired for stepping in with your left foot first.

Don't believe in that kind of scoring system at school either. It seems random, but didn't you notice that everyone is arranged in neat rows and columns?

If you really receive a bad grade, just wait for it.

The world is full of tricks; you have to learn to discern them.

Casare thought Victor's previous statement about only wanting 200 US dollars was just a casual remark.

Seeing Casare being so "understanding," Victor clearly very pleased, pushed the money to him, "I'm a man of my word, nobody can touch my money, and I won't touch what's yours. Take it, we're going to make big money together in the future."

In the "grey business," you have to let your underlings make money too. You can't just give them empty promises, or one day they'll turn on you.

What you hold in your hand is what's real.

No amount of talk is as appealing as a clinking coin.

Realizing Victor was serious, Casare looked up at him, and Victor smiled at him, pointing to the money, "Hide it well. Leave it on the table, and it will be snatched away in a moment."

After saying this, he finished his juice, leaned back on the chair, and stood up, "Let's go, we're heading into the city to find Best."

Upon hearing this, Casare grabbed the money from the table, stuffed it into the inner pocket of his clothes, and looked around, only to see a woman not far off staring intently at him. Casare bared his teeth like a dog guarding its food.

Whoever dared to touch his things, he would bite them to death!

Try not to take taxis in Mexico because you never know where they might take you, or if the drivers are drug traffickers moonlighting. If they see you're good-looking, oh snap, you're the star of the night show tomorrow.

So, take the officially sanctioned buses whenever possible.

But even these buses can be dangerous.

In 1985, when Tang Neito, the third-man in the Guadalajara Cartel, was arrested, his subordinates launched a riot to confront the government. Armed drug traffickers stormed the streets and killed anyone they saw.

A school bus passing through the city center was stopped, and those heartless and vicious scoundrels opened fire, leading to 24 students and teachers killed inside, with an average age of 7 years old.

There was also a bus carrying laborers who had finished a day's work and were on their way home. It was stopped as well, and six men were beheaded, their heads thrown at the city hall.

This country has decayed to the core!

You can't expect anyone to save it. Even if Jesus came, he'd have to learn to smoke weed to fit in.

Fortunately, Victor and his companion didn't encounter such misfortune. After reaching their stop, they found a diesel three-wheeler and headed straight to Chimalhuacán.

Chimalhuacán is actually a large slum in Mexico City with about one million inhabitants, which constitutes one-fifth of the entire Mexico City population.

It's much larger than Tiantongyuan.

Victor knew the exact address, showing it to the retching driver, who gave an OK gesture, twisted the throttle, and weaved through the streets and alleys.

The driver was a reckless one. Passing through a narrow street, he shouted as if he were a horn, not yielding to people sitting at their doorsteps, just charging ahead, angering a woman who was nearly hit and cursed at him from behind.

Bold and brazen kids chased after the vehicle, and if they'd seen foreigners, they might have already tipped over the car and started robbing.

As soon as they entered Chimalhuacán, Victor's face turned stern, and he handed a Colt M1911 to Casare, "Take this, just in case."

"What about you?"

Victor glanced at him, opened his jacket, revealing an Uzi submachine gun, "When stepping out, you always need to carry something for self-defense; otherwise, I don't feel at ease."

Casare's eyes bulged out, at a loss for words, but he nodded and took the handgun, tucking it into his waistband.

The three-wheeler was swift, and in just over half an hour, they arrived at their destination. But Best's door was kicked in and lay on the ground, with sounds of smashing and cursing coming from inside.

"It seems we've come at an inopportune time," said Victor.

Victor entered the house, and Casare followed after paying, only to see four teenagers surrounding a man lying on the ground.

One of the youngsters was urinating on the man.

When they heard the noise at the door, all four turned their heads and saw a man with a submachine gun aimed at them.

"Gentlemen, urinating in public could cost you your equipment!"

…