Chapter 2028 - 840: Everything’s a Mess! (Part 2)

Now, there's nothing left.

"Sir," a police officer approached, "may I ask you a few questions?"

Ramirez looked at him.

"What questions?"

"Last night, did you have any disputes with anyone? Have you received any threatening letters?"

Ramirez laughed, a bitter laugh.

"Officer, every Mexican on this street has received threatening letters. In the past three days, someone threw stones at my window, someone painted skulls on my door, and someone called saying 'Go back to Mexico.' I reported it three times, your people came, looked, said 'We'll investigate,' and then there was no more news."

The officer said nothing.

Ramirez turned around and looked at the still-smoking ruins.

"I haven't been back to Mexico in twenty-three years," he said, "My children were born in the United States, they only speak English, they like McDonald's, they like the NBA, they don't even understand Spanish. They are Americans. But now someone tells them, you're not Americans, you're Mexicans, go back."

He pointed to the pile of ruins.

"Where do I go back to? Mexico? I haven't been back in twenty-three years, would people there recognize me?"

The officer was silent for a few seconds.

"Sir, we will do our best to investigate."

Ramirez looked at him.

"I know."

The demonstration in Los Angeles extended from downtown to East Los Angeles.

People holding signs, chanting slogans, singing, swearing. Some had been drinking, faces red and necks bulging, throwing empty bottles at the police lines.

"Expel the Mexicans!"

"Restore peace!"

"Mexican Imperialism!"

Those few words repeated like a curse, rolling over the night sky again and again.

In the crowd, a young man held a sign that was different.

It read: "Texas is ours! California is ours! The United States is ours!"

The person next to him patted his shoulder.

"Dude, the sign is wrong. California belongs to Mexico now."

The young man turned, eyes bloodshot.

"I know."

"Then what's the point of writing this?"

The young man looked at him.

"Writing it means telling them, we don't accept it."

Across the street, several young Mexican-Americans stood in front of a convenience store, watching the demonstration.

They didn't speak or hold signs. They just watched.

One of them pointed to the words printed on his T-shirt.

The T-shirt had the emblem of the Texas Republic, with a line of small print next to it: "1836-1845, we will return."

Washington D.C.

The impeachment vote was over.

The President barely retained his position, but at a heavy cost—twenty-three Democratic Party members defected and voted in favor. Although it wasn't two-thirds, it was enough to turn his second term into a joke.

The torch parade outside the White House continued.

There were more people than yesterday.

Someone brought a sound system, playing country music, and another set up a barbecue on the square, eating while chanting slogans. The air mixed with the aroma of barbecue, sweat, and anger, like a picnic, yet like a funeral.

The President gave a national address from the Oval Office.

The camera focused on his face, and the makeup artist had dusted powder on him, but couldn't cover the dark circles under his eyes.

"My fellow Americans,"

he began, his voice low, "I know you are angry. Texas is lost, California is lost, our country has been dismembered, and Washington—this damn Washington—can do nothing but argue."

He paused.

"I understand your anger. Because I am also an American, I am also angry."

He looked at the camera, with light in his eyes.

"But, anger cannot solve problems. Hatred cannot solve problems. Burning Mexican restaurants, beating Mexican-Americans—this only makes us more like the people they accuse us of being."

He took a deep breath.

"Mexico is not our enemy. Mexicans are our neighbors. For the past two hundred years, we have lived on this continent together, worked together, traded together, endured countless crises together. Now, someone wants us to believe that Mexico is our enemy. They want us to hate each other, attack each other, until in the end, no one can stand."

"I will not let that happen."

He stood up and walked closer to the camera.

"I will not give up on Texas and California. I will use all means—diplomatic, economic, legal—to bring them back to the United States."

"The Americas are for Americans. That statement is correct. But American does not mean only white-skinned, English-speaking people. American means all who live on this continent, who believe in freedom and democracy."

"Including Mexicans."

"Including all Latinos."

"Including all—willing to join us, to defend this continent."

The television broadcast signal was cut off.

Switching back to the studio, the host's face was a bit awkward.

"Uh... the President's speech just now... was interrupted due to technical reasons... we will replay it for you later..."

Outside the White House, the people holding the signs remained silent for a dozen seconds.

Then someone shouted: "Liar!"

More people followed suit.

"Liar!"

"Traitor!"

"Get out of the White House!"

The barbecue grill was still smoking, the music still playing, but the atmosphere changed.

Someone started throwing empty bottles in the direction of the White House.

Riot police advanced a step, shields up, forming a silver-gray wall.

Mexico City.

Victor looked at the speech transcript sent from Washington.