North American riot police: Start by arresting P. Diddy!

Chapter 196 Death Race
"Whoosh-!"

“Swish, swish, swish—!”

In the center of the prison square, heavily armed racing cars roared and sped along the track.

These steel monsters, welded with machine gun turrets and equipped with flamethrowers, are less like racing cars and more like mobile killing machines.

After having breakfast in the cafeteria, Rorschach and Director Griffin strolled around the designated activity area.

It's worth mentioning that the breakfast at this prison is very lavish, far surpassing the variety and nutrition of Fox River State Penitentiary, where Rorschach once stayed.

Besides simple oatmeal and toast, there are even meats like bacon and sausage, which is hard to imagine.

It should be noted that government funding for private prisons is mostly pocketed by corporations and rarely used to improve the lives of prisoners.

But the End Island is extremely abnormal.

Rorschach had just seen crates of steaks, plasma TVs, and karaoke equipment being transported into the prison at the dock. Even more outrageous, several prostitutes wearing fishnet stockings and fur shawls in the freezing cold were gracefully disembarking from the cargo ship.

Rorschach suddenly realized that if he had gone to this prison instead of Fox River, he probably wouldn't have been willing to escape so early.

Of course, given the way things are done in the Western world, the question that will inevitably follow is—so, what is the price to pay?

"Boom--!"

On the track, an armored race car was shot through the fuel tank by machine gun fire and instantly exploded into a fireball.

Amidst the churning wreckage, a burning piece of steel whistled towards Griffin's face.

At the critical moment, a large hand suddenly gripped his shoulder and pressed him down. A piece of steel grazed his hair and smashed into the concrete wall behind him, leaving spiderweb-like cracks.

"Shet."

Old Griffin patted Rorschach's large hand on his shoulder and said with lingering fear, "That bastard Hennessy. It's one thing to hold a death race in prison, but he didn't even have basic safety measures! The participating prisoners are in danger, and the onlookers are in even greater danger!"

"Since it's called 'Death Race,' how can we attract audiences without some bloodshed?"

Luo Xia coldly stared at the charred and twisted corpse in the ruins and said indifferently, "It seems that in this prison, prisoners are nothing more than expendable objects for the amusement of the powerful and wealthy. No wonder there isn't a single workshop; they've all gone to race cars and repair vehicles."

He looked around and noticed that almost all the prisoners watching the race were covered in engine oil, and many of them were carrying wrenches and other tools, clearly indicating that they were all support staff for the race.

This isolated island doesn't resemble a prison; rather, it's like a racing base specifically designed to train drivers to die.

Rorschach had only heard of Termination Island Prison before, but upon learning that the warden was to be imprisoned there, he specifically instructed Harold to investigate the prison thoroughly.

You wouldn't believe it until you investigate; what you discover is a secret that no one else knew about.

Death Race!
This is perhaps the bloodiest and most brutal death game show that Rorschach knows of.

The competition venue is a special track located inside the private prison "Terminator Island," which is filled with deadly traps such as landmines, machine gun turrets, cannons, and flamethrowers.

Without exception, all the participants were death row inmates from prison. They drove modified vehicles equipped with heavy weapons such as machine guns and flamethrowers, competing against other vehicles on the track.

For each opponent killed, a bonus and a reduced sentence are awarded, while the ultimate champion who wins eighteen consecutive matches will gain freedom!
Every racing race was packaged by female warden Hennessy as a reality show broadcast globally, with the audience invariably consisting of billionaires, high-ranking politicians, and even warlords from war-torn regions.

Because of the violent confrontations between these modified vehicles, the prisoners' crazy choices on the brink of life and death, and the extreme speed and thrill of killing, it has had a huge impact on elite circles around the world.

According to data obtained by Harold, Terminator Island profits hundreds of millions of dollars from betting on each official match!
This island is not just a prison, but a bloody arena!
The prisoners are using their blood to please the powerful and wealthy, hoping to earn a reduced sentence!
It now seems that the lavish meals in the canteen, the entertainment facilities in the prison, and those glamorous prostitutes were all prepared for these race car drivers.

At least in Warden Hennessy's eyes, these death row inmates, hated by outsiders, were geese that laid golden eggs, and giving them special treatment would only stimulate their stronger will to survive.

Ordinary prisoners like Rorschach were merely basking in the glory, eating the leftovers of these celebrity prisoners.

"Hennessy's actions are bound to cause big trouble sooner or later."

Director Griffin said dismissively, "This woman is too arrogant. She thinks that by hiring a few hundred mercenaries and equipping them with heavy weapons, she can use thousands of lawless prisoners as expendable fodder. It's only because she's on this isolated island that she's safe. If she were inland, there would probably be a riot every few days."

Rorschach shrugged noncommittally.

Unlike the order-conscious warden, he didn't think there was anything wrong with the warden's approach.

Since they're all death row inmates who deserve to die anyway, creating some entertainment value before they die is a way of making the most of their resources.

He never showed any sympathy for criminals.

Of course, if it's a wrongful conviction or a case of revenge, then that's a different story.

It may seem like he's applying double standards, but that's just his principle.

The exercise time for ordinary prisoners is naturally incomparable to that of star prisoners who are practicing racing.

The latter could stay outside the cell almost all day except at night, while Luo Xia and the director did not have this privilege.

After their two-hour morning exercise period, they have to obediently return to their cells and continue squatting.

After witnessing a car accident, the two took advantage of the remaining time to casually stroll around the surrounding area.

Compared to Fox River, perhaps due to its location on an isolated island and its relative isolation, Termination Island prison is much less guarded, and the area where prisoners can move around freely is also much larger.

At that moment, among the crowd around the racetrack, a dozen or so people watched Rorschach and Griffin's departing figures, exchanged knowing glances, and then secretly followed behind them.

After leaving the bustling racetrack, Luo Xia and the director found a relatively quiet corner and sat comfortably on a bench.

"Here"

Rorschach took out two cigars, lit them, and tossed one to the chief.

"This...this is a cigar?!"

Director Griffin stared at the cigar in front of him, which was thicker than his thumb, with the gold-plated Cohiba logo on the cigarette butt particularly eye-catching.

"What the hell?! Where did you hide something this thick and bring it in? Wait a minute!"

The old director suddenly realized something, his gaze involuntarily drifting to Luo Xia's buttocks. He said incredulously, "It can't be that bad, kid. I may have a thing for that, but I'm not so addicted that I need you to go to this lengths for me."

"Where are you looking? I just swiped this from the prison guard. Take it or leave it."

It was difficult to explain the matter of the "Tyrant Space" to the other party, so Luo Xia could only come up with a somewhat plausible excuse.

"Shit, this lousy place, even the prison guards smoke better cigarettes than I do."

Old Griffin shook his head unhappily, then squeezed the cigarette butt and took a deep drag.

He hasn't had a cigarette for several days since he was arrested in Florida.

For this heavy smoker who has spent most of his life smoking, this eloquence is truly a rebirth.

"call"

He tilted his head back and slowly exhaled a smoke ring, about to ask about Rorschach's recent situation in New York, when suddenly the sky above him darkened.

Before they knew it, they were surrounded by a group of prisoners with tattoos all over their arms.

"cigar?"

The burly black man leading the group snatched the Cohiba from the chief's fingers and shoved it into his thick lips, taking a deep breath.

"You two are living the high life." The black man glanced contemptuously at the two men on the bench and said in a deep voice, "A prison guard paid a carton of cigarettes for your life, old man. Although I don't know where you, a newbie, offended anyone, you're just unlucky!"

Surprisingly, old Griffin and Rorschach remained unfazed after hearing this, as if they didn't take him seriously at all.

Old Griffin, in particular, was furious when he saw his beloved cigar ruined by the black man's dirty, thick lips after only two puffs. His fists clenched in anger.

"If you behave yourself, then..."

"Go f*ck yourself!!!"

The old man suddenly sprang up and delivered a powerful uppercut to the other man's chin!
Taking advantage of the moment when the black man closed his eyes in pain, Griffin delivered another vicious headbutt to his nose, causing blood to splatter everywhere!

"Oh!"

Immediately afterwards, Griffin grabbed the black man by the back of the head and slammed his head hard against the metal bench—

One! Two! Three!
Only when the sound of skull shattering rang out did old Griffin release his grip, leaving the sunken-faced, dying man limp at his feet.

The prisoners who followed were all stunned.

The bloated, obese old man in front of me looks like a pampered tycoon, so why is he so ferocious when he starts fighting?
"Fuck! Kill this old man!"

After the initial shock, the prisoners were also aroused to their ferocity. Who among those imprisoned here hadn't stained their hands with blood? They wouldn't be easily intimidated.

However, faced with the attack, the old director not only did not retreat, but spat out the blood in his mouth and angrily went to meet them.

Luo Xia, who was originally prepared to help, was stunned.

Chief Griffin was like an African rhinoceros that had broken into a pack of hyenas, his thick hide withstanding attacks from all sides. He used grappling, takedowns, joint locks, and chokeholds with ruthless force, forcing the prisoners to retreat step by step.

The fists rained down on the prisoners' heads, making a loud thud!

Only at this moment did Luo Xia recall the self-aggrandizing catchphrase that the bureau chief often used.
"Could everything this old man is saying be true?"

But on second thought, a veteran who had participated in the Iraq War and worked his way up in the law enforcement system for many years would indeed find it easy to deal with a few rabble.

Before Rorschach could even take a few puffs of his cigar, the prisoners who had besieged the warden were all lying on the ground, writhing in agony.

The bureau chief disdainfully flicked the blood off his hands, bent down to pick up the cigar that had rolled to the ground, roughly tore off the part smeared with black saliva, and put it back in his mouth.

"What a damn bad luck!"

Luo Xia stared at the old man's slightly bloated yet upright back and couldn't help but click his tongue in amazement.

I realize I've been underestimating this old guy all along!

at the same time.

Inside the administration office, a prison guard staring at the surveillance footage cursed, "A bunch of useless trash! They can't even handle a sixty-year-old man, and they dare to ask me for a carton of cigarettes with such poor skills!"

His gaze shifted to the man repairing a modified car in the upper left corner of the surveillance footage. Just as he was about to pick up the microphone to call for help, the walkie-talkie on his waist suddenly rang.

The female warden, Hennessy, spoke in a cold, hard voice.

After hearing the instructions, the prison guard put down the microphone with a strange expression.

"Madam? Are you sure you want this old man to participate in the racing competition?"

"That's right, someone wants to see this former Chicago Police Commissioner die in a car race. So even if he's going to die, he has to die in the live broadcast the day after tomorrow."

"Understood, ma'am."

The prison guard stared at the old man on the surveillance screen, who was gesticulating wildly and boasting to his fellow inmates, and nodded thoughtfully.

It's no surprise that local Chicago gangs or drug cartels paid a hefty sum to witness the police chief's death live.

the day after tomorrow?

Let's let this old man live for two more nights.

But speaking of which, why does that prisoner who's been following this old man look so familiar?
----------

new York.

Manhattan, American Museum of Natural History.

Underwood sat on a bench, quietly admiring the Tyrannosaurus Rex skeleton unearthed in the last century.

As the museum's prized possession, the dinosaur fossil is indeed spectacular, but he was actually more interested in the grassland animal specimens upstairs.

Of course, he didn't come here today to visit the exhibition.

"Ta, Ta, Ta"

The sound of high heels hitting the ground came from far away.

Soon, a woman with long silver-gold hair and wearing sunglasses sat down next to him.

Underwood's gaze remained fixed on the exhibit, his body motionless, only his lips moving slightly as he whispered in a voice barely audible to the two of them:
"What, that kid Luo Xia doesn't have the guts to come see me in person? So he sent you, a mere messenger, instead?"

Anna replied coldly without turning her head: "His audacity far exceeds your imagination. I think Mr. Underwood should know this better than anyone else—otherwise, you probably wouldn't be in your current position as Speaker."

To Anna's surprise, Underwood did not get angry; instead, a smile appeared on his lips.

"You're right, I really should thank him. So, where is he now?"

"No comment."

Anna took a CD out of her handbag and gently placed it on the seat between the two of them.

She retrieved it overnight from a cemetery in Chicago, where, in addition to the CD, many other things were buried.

However, Underwood seemed to have no interest in the disc.

He replied expressionlessly, "Washington received backups of all the CDs in Dad's estate six months ago, provided by Rorschach. Both parties are using these materials to check and balance each other, so one more CD is meaningless. If Rorschach thinks he can use this to clear Griffin's name, he's probably overestimating the weight of these political scandals."

"No, the contents of this disc are unlike any other disc."

Anna smoothed the hem of her skirt and slowly stood up. "It's very meaningful, especially for you personally."

As she was leaving, she paused deliberately for a moment, turned her head and said softly, "Because what's recorded here is a video of our President."

Underwood's previously calm expression suddenly froze.

When he turned around abruptly, there was no one beside him.

Puff Daddy even has videos of the president's scandals in his cellar.
He stroked the CD in his hand, his gaze gradually becoming deep.

The batch of DVDs Jack brought back from Chicago six months ago didn't include any videos of the current president. He had initially assumed it was because the black president was morally upright, but now it seems...
"Rorschach."

Underwood muttered to himself, his expression shifting from shock to amusement.

How many more surprises can you possibly give me?

(End of this chapter)