Chapter 2027 - 840: It’s a Complete Mess!

CNN Television, United States.

The live broadcast camera switched to the audience.

An elderly woman with white hair stood up, holding a handwritten sign, the letters crooked but each clearly visible:

"Expel the Mexican thieves, restore peace!"

Security immediately moved to escort her out. But more people stood up, holding signs.

"Down with Mexican imperialism!"

"Don't become the United States' gravediggers!"

"We have been sold out by Washington!"

In the corridors of Capitol Hill, those holding signs began to sing.

It wasn't the national anthem, but a very old song, a frontier ballad with lyrics that meant "Remember the Alamo, remember those who died fighting for freedom."

Reporters rushed forward, cameras held high, flashbulbs bursting in rapid succession.

The President sat in the Oval Office, watching these scenes unfold on television.

Outside the square in front of Capitol Hill, at least twenty thousand people gathered. Holding signs, chanting slogans, some faces flickered in the light of torches, like a crowd of angry ghosts.

"Expel the Mexican thieves!"

"Restore peace!"

"Mexican imperialism!"

The sound carried over several streets, a dull roar like distant thunder.

The President rubbed his eyes.

He hadn't slept for two days.

The impeachment vote in the House of Representatives would take place today, and his legal team said the odds were not in his favor. The Republicans were determined to remove him from office. But those people outside, those holding signs reading "Expel the Mexican thieves," weren't cursing him, and yet each word felt like a slap to his face.

The Chief of Staff entered, holding a document.

"Mr. President, the latest poll from Texas."

The President took it, glanced at it.

Texans supporting secession, independence, or joining Mexico — 31%.

Texans believing the federal government sold out their interests — 67%.

Texans who think the President should be responsible for losing Texas — 72%.

He tossed the document on the desk.

"Those people outside," he began, his voice hoarse, "how many of them truly hate Mexicans?"

The Chief of Staff was momentarily stunned.

"I mean,"

The President looked up, "how many are genuinely concerned about Texas and California? How many are worried about the economy? How many feel abandoned? And how many just need a scapegoat?"

The Chief of Staff didn't answer.

The President stood up, moved to the window.

Outside, the lawn of the White House was softly lit. But beyond, the light of the torches pierced the night sky, like a swarm of fireflies, or a crowd of angry eyes.

"After the impeachment vote is over," he said, "win or lose, I will deliver a national address."

The Chief of Staff awaited further words.

"Tell them, we will not abandon Texas. We will not abandon California. We will not abandon any state taken by Mexicans."

He turned around.

"Tell them, the Americas belong to Americans. Not Mexicans."

Mexico City.

Victor stood in the control room on the top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple," watching the large screen.

The screen was split into several scenes: the impeachment debates on Capitol Hill, the torch parade outside the White House, anti-Mexican protests on the streets of Los Angeles, people burning the Mexican flag in the outskirts of Houston...

Casare stood beside him, chewing an unlit cigar.

"It's lively over in America," he said.

Victor didn't reply.

Bramo came in, holding a freshly translated intelligence report.

"Internal report from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Over the past seventy-two hours, at least two hundred violent incidents against Mexicans occurred across the U.S. Three arson cases in Los Angeles, two shootings in Houston, and someone threw a Molotov cocktail into a Mexican restaurant in Chicago. Seven people died, more than forty were injured."

Victor took the report, glanced over it.

"What's the U.S. Government's response?"

"Local police are making arrests, but the federal government — can't handle it. The impeachment has consumed all of Washington's attention."

Victor put down the report.

Outside the window, the sky over Mexico City was blue, the sun gleaming on Paseo de la Reforma, where traffic moved slowly but orderly.

"Inform our consulates in Los Angeles and Houston," he said, "to hold emergency meetings and compile a list of all the victims. Then send a formal diplomatic note to Washington."

Bramo nodded, began taking notes.

"Don't make the tone too harsh," Victor added, "just say 'The Mexican Government expresses serious concern for the safety of Mexican citizens in the U.S.', 'Urges the U.S. Government to fulfill its obligation to protect foreign nationals', 'Reserves the right to take further action'."

He watched the footage of the Mexican flag burning, his eyes cold.

"Things with Texas and California, we managed too smoothly."

He said, "So smoothly that some people have forgotten — there are over two hundred million people in the United States, and they won't stand idly by while their country is dismembered, even if they are now a pile of shit!"

He paused.

"Those people holding signs saying 'Expel the Mexican thieves', they're not hating Mexicans. They're hating their own weakness, hating that they can do nothing but hate a visible target."

Afternoon, outskirts of Houston.

The Mexican restaurant was still smoking.

The fire trucks had arrived, but the fire was so intense that it took two hours to extinguish.

The restaurant's sign was charred black, barely showing the words "El Paso."

Ramirez stood outside the caution tape, watching the firefighters carry something out of the wreckage.

He was the owner of the restaurant, having been in America for twenty-three years, rising from a dishwasher to an owner, marrying a Mexican wife, and fathering two children born in the United States.