Working as a police officer in Mexico

August 15th.

Clear skies.

Fucking Japanese surrendered, the 45th anniversary.

Sinaloa, "Topolobampo" town.

A National Guard convoy of about 30, fully armed, patrolled the town. Their mission was to maintain local order after the ground police forces had swept up the drug traffickers.

In this small town, about 100 National Guard officers were called in from the rear.

John Rambo stood on a Humvee, wearing a PASGT helmet, pinching an M249 machine gun, mounted at the front of the vehicle.

Despite the muscles on his body, he was visibly tense, being a rookie on his first "cross-border mission for stability operations."

John Rambo looked around; the civilians sitting by the side of the street watched them with horror, with women holding their children tightly and bowing their heads.

He looked up and saw the hanged body of a drug trafficker on a suspension bridge in the middle of the road.

His body was a bloody mess, a rope straight around his head, eyes wide open, but very hollow, as if staring down everyone.

"Fuck! Those brutes of the Land Police do such coarse work," cursed a comrade sitting in the back, pulling open his bulletproof vest to take out a cookie and pass it over, "Try this, Rambo, an authentic Tijuana cookie."

"Hey! Reynaldo, put your fucking vest down!" yelled the officer in the passenger seat leading the team, "If I see you lift that bulletproof vest again, I'll shove your head up your anus!"

Reynaldo, munching on a cookie, hurriedly chuckled.

He winked at John Rambo.

"Szzz~"

The radio in the Humvee flickered, "Car 3, do you read, please respond."

"Car 3 here!" the supervising officer in the passenger seat pulled the intercom to reply, "Go ahead."

"Serious public order incident at Armst Street, proceed to deal with it."

"Understood!"

The captain adjusted his posture, turned to his team, and said, "Sound the siren!"

Reynaldo took an alarm from the side and attached it to the side of the Humvee.

That bell...

Even wilder than a woman's fucking screams.

The four Humvee military vehicles headed towards their destination, from afar they could see many people looting and smashing around the shops, and even a man on top of a woman, forcefully tearing at her clothes.

One reason war is not good for civilians is that...

War breeds riots!

It releases the most savage scenes in people's hearts, bullying those who are beneath them without any bottom line.

Just look at the United States...

The protests always end up in riots, and the "Korean on the roof" afterward became quite famous, didn't it?

Mostly they were local unemployed vagrants and some riffraff.

Mexico, as one of the "Three North American Giants," also has a significant black population because of its proximity to the United States, although they make up less than 2% of the population, it's still over a million people.

Fucking hell, these expendables sure can breed.

But in Victor's mind, agricultural tools aren't fucking people, are they?

While there was no overt discrimination, the guys below him all knew that, when encountered, you just kill them.

"Police are coming! Police are coming!"

A black guy yelled loudly, but gibberish with an accent while his companions in the store carried some loot and ran out.

What, beer? Sodas? Even sanitary napkins?

What for?

Plan to use them as masks?

"Rambo, fire a warning shot!"

The captain patted the roof, pushed open the door, and stepped out with an M16.

John Rambo pulled back the bolt, angled the muzzle, and pulled the trigger, rat-tat-tat, rat-tat-tat!

"Put your heads down and hands up, let me see your hands!"

The captain yelled loudly, thoughtfully adding English, but the looters looked at each other and then took off running!

"Open fire!" the captain barked, shooting a black man in the back. The man grunted and fell to the ground.

John Rambo swung the gun around, the squad machine gun sweeping over.

Grazing the head of a woman lying on the ground, terrifying her into curling up, bullets slammed against the wall. Those bullet holes, big enough to fit a bird through.

Shell casings dropped from the vehicle, and John Rambo wrestled the recoil of the machine gun as if it was barely as challenging as pinning down a chicken. Your next read awaits at empire

Seeing real gunfire, the thugs trembled and lay down, hands raised, shouting, "Rendición (Surrender!)"

The captain approached with his team, ready to have the officers handcuff the prostrate rioters, when a black man suddenly scrambled up with a small dagger in hand, lunging straight at them.

"Rat-a-tat-tat!"

Gunshots rang in his ears, and as the black man's face was contorted with rage, John Rambo's machine gun blew off half his head, the kind that needed pixelation.

Human tissue and brain matter sprayed all over the captain's face.

He turned green instantly...

But his good training allowed him to spit out what was in his mouth and stay calm, "Provide aid to civilians, handle the criminals according to wartime protocols."

The officers worked methodically, the vigilant maintained watch, and those dealing with the rioters used nylon ropes to bind them together in a cluster. Reynaldo, helping the wounded and chewing gum, approached a woman.

Her family held her, still in shock.

Her clothes were torn to shreds.

And next to them, a little girl nervously watched Reynaldo, who, seeing her, grinned and pulled out a packet of rainbow candy from his pocket, passing it over, "Want some?"

The little girl reached out, but the woman held her tight, pleadingly looking at Reynaldo, "Sir, please spare my child, she doesn't understand."