NOVPUB793: Chapter 434: Era?
Whose Era!
793 -434: Era?
Whose Era!
Victor didn’t need the other party to speak to know who it was.
It was nothing more than some capital headed by the Rothschild family.
Didn’t we talk about why the Yankees were being coerced by capitalists before?
Because among the $3 trillion national debt, part of it belongs to the Jewish Restoration Capital led by them, funded by 36 Wall Street tycoons, who bought the national bonds and became the nation’s creditors.
To a certain extent, they represent the will of Zionism.
The institutions you can name are almost all in bed with them.
The Pentagon treats them like they’re grandfathers to be revered—so why now do they want to send them to “meet their great-grandmother”?
And the Angsa Consortium?
Actually, there are Jews in there too, but they advocate dissimilation, which complements Zionism to a certain extent—they help each other, yet there are certain areas that are strictly off-limits to each other, like the military leadership.
It’s all very complicated.
The United States isn’t a pure White man’s world anymore.
The White people are wandering, the Black people are robbing, and the Indians are obsessively chasing scalps.
The “skin-changing strategy” planted its seeds in the early days of America.
Victor became intrigued, sitting upright.
“Mr.
Donald, what did they do to provoke you?”
The old man paused for a moment, vaguely avoiding the question.
“That’s not your concern.
I just want to ask—can you make it happen?!”
The Emperor narrowed his eyes and lightly tapped his finger on the chair.
“We’re setting up an overseas drug-free zone in Sri Lanka.”
Donald raised an eyebrow.
Asia strategy has always been a Pentagon affair, and with that one sentence, the meaning couldn’t have been clearer.
Informing you, hoping you cooperate and don’t cause trouble for me.
“Do we really need overseas troops for drug control?”
“The Golden Triangle hides sin everywhere, sir.
Right now, I’m the director of the United Nations Drug Control Agency—from both an official and private standpoint, I have a duty to help those who need help!”
“The fight against drugs doesn’t just belong to Mexico.”
“It belongs to all mankind!”
Damn, that escalated quickly.
Donald, the professional global troublemaker, suddenly felt a hint of tremble in his heart.
Not to mention Casare nearby, who very tactfully gave a thumbs-up to his boss.
Even Victor was momentarily moved by his own words, almost believing he was some kind of saint.
“You almost made me emotional with that speech.”
The old Defense Minister murmured faintly, “If we disagree, you’re still going to station troops in Sri Lanka, aren’t you?”
“Your disagreement…
well, it’s irrelevant.
This is an equal notification, not a request for permission.”
“Sometimes it’s just unnecessary to be so forceful, Victor.
You’re hostile to everyone.” The other party furrowed their brows and said.
“Apologies, my personality tends to be direct.
I’m simply stating facts, yet some people get upset.
Mr. 𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒑𝒖𝒃.𝙘𝒐𝒎
Donald, rest assured, our interests align.
If I succeed, you’ll succeed too.
Anyone who crosses you also crosses me.
Aren’t those Jews giving you a headache lately?”
“Fine, as long as you nod, you can prepare their coffin later.”
This level of decisiveness left the old man slightly torn.
He muttered some vague comments before hanging up without saying much more.
“Damn it, trying to play me now.” Victor snorted coldly, handing his phone back to his secretary.
“Boss, why do you say that?
Donald indeed sounded really angry during the call—it’s possible someone truly provoked him.
Maybe it’s an actual problem he’s facing.” Casare leaned closer and said.
“He’s an American.
Why would matters involving the system, the nation’s foundation, be conveyed to me?
Just because of some so-called verbal collaboration between us?”
Victor furrowed his brows, searched his pocket, and naturally, Fat Casare was perceptive enough to pull out a pack of Camels from his right side pocket, passing them over and helping him light a cigarette.
He always carried two packs of cigarettes—one for himself, the other for the boss.
What’s this called?
Preparedness for a rainy day.
“He wants us to take out the Rothschild-led Jewish capital.
Then we’ll be in his grasp.
When the time comes, he can turn on us.
Even if those people don’t destroy us, they’ll disgust us enough.”
Casare seemed to half-understand, nodding.
“But we could also expose him, couldn’t we?”
“Are you certain whether he belongs to Angsa or Jewish?”
This question suddenly rendered him silent.
Their internal conflicts, wanting to use me as a scapegoat?
Cooperation is fine, but if you expect me to take the fall, that’s not happening.
Victor saw through it all clearly.
His principle was simple: mutual exploitation, fair trade, shared risks and benefits.
But helping him eliminate the Rothschilds offers no personal gain—so why would he bother?
He glanced down at that interrogation conference…
The floor was already littered with severed limbs.
Vilupile Prabaka’s family didn’t seem to suffer too much during their deaths.
It was just one quick pull…
Tsk-tsk-tsk…
Oh right, some of the loops were smaller, given the wheelchair got overturned, and there was still a disabled individual inside—Vilupile’s cousin.
Logically speaking, disabled individuals are supposed to receive favors.
But the General signed the order, ensuring he wouldn’t live in lonely isolation—traveling together made for good company.
The cripple had one fewer leg.
When the Humvee dismembered him, one car was spared, saving costs.
“Let’s go…”
Victor stood up, with the group of high-level officials quickly falling in step behind him.
Casare couldn’t help but glance back before leaving, catching sight of the blood-stained filth, and uttering a symbolic “Amitabha.”
Mexico does not allow belief in God!
This interrogation conference was broadcasted live…
And without any censorship—no mosaics, no “Under 18, please leave” warnings—leading countless viewers seated before their televisions to witness everything.
