Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 126 CPAC
Benjamin was the last to arrive at the funeral.

He was wearing a black suit, and his shirt collar was askew.

The assistant waited at the church entrance for forty minutes.

Finally, they waited until Benjamin got out of the SUV, drunk and wearing sunglasses.

He dressed as if he were attending the wedding of a friend in the fashion world—not to bury his father.

The building's interior is incredibly tall.

When he found his seat, the clergy had already begun reading the eulogy.

The front row was filled with middle-aged men in suits and ties, their faces bearing the same template of sadness.

Member of parliament, foundation board member, and former staff member.

He sat down in the middle row, tilting his head, not listening to a single word.

His cousin was sitting on his left.

If you wear too much perfume, it will smell like a nightclub toilet mixed with cheap champagne.

On the right is a secretary whose name I've never remembered; she's clearly daydreaming.

Benjamin closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and tried to clear his mind.

But it ultimately failed.

The memories from last night before I blacked out kept replaying.

There were ice cubes floating in the bathtub, and he had just taken two puffs of ** when he lay down in it.

I lit it too quickly and a spark accidentally burned my knuckle.

The talk show on TV froze.

The host opened his mouth, stopping right at the punchline.

Unfortunately, instead of laughing, he started vomiting, vomiting everywhere.

"How did he die?"

The question suddenly flashed through Benjamin's mind, and he choked on his own phlegm.

It's not that nobody's talking about it.

The report stated it was "sudden cardiac death".

It's very common; people in their sixties, under a lot of pressure, haven't had a break in a long time, and suddenly collapse.

It conforms to the statistically standard method of death.

The medical examiner arrived, and the federal medical response team got involved—after all, it was a congressman who had died.

The process involves filing a report with the local coroner, judicial confirmation, and ultimately a statement issued by the Congressional Office.

Is it reasonable?
Very reasonable.

Everyone accepted this explanation.

except him.

Benjamin really didn't think that was the case.

"What if it was that person who did it?"

"That...that madman he met in the house?"

Of course, he didn't tell anyone about this idea.

Because nobody will believe it.

There were no surveillance cameras, no witnesses, except for the black man who had seen him once.

Moreover, even that person seemed to have left, and wasn't answering his calls at all.

The man walked in, did nothing but talk.

The kind of tone that makes you never know when he might suddenly reach out and strangle you.

The hymns began to play.

The choir's voices were excessively clear.

Someone began to give a speech.

He was a colleague in the Republican Party.

“The life of Congressman Mike Castelli is the best testament to the belief in public service.”

"He is one of the few who still dares to defend fundamental principles."

“In an era where policies can fluctuate with polls and stances can change with the wind, he has always believed in limited government, individual responsibility, and freedom that cannot be diluted.”

“I remember once, in the Appropriations Committee, when faced with a deficit spending bill, he only said one sentence: ‘If the government starts taking responsibility for everything, then who will take responsibility for themselves?’”

Benjamin almost laughed.

His father did say that.

But not at a hearing, nor during closed-door deliberations.

Instead, he was muttering to the cleaning lady in the kitchen.

They were criticizing the woman's son for applying for food stamps; he's thirty years old and still lives at home.

The man on the podium continued to deliver his speech, as if he had traveled to the CPAC conference.[1]

"Constitutional responsibility" and "firm fiscal conservatism"

"Serve the voters, not the wind."

"."

Benjamin started to feel sleepy.

It's probably because the two *** this morning were too intense.

He took the sunglasses out of his pocket, but didn't wear them; he just held them in his hand.

The person on stage was still speaking, but it was no longer audible.

The cathedral is a typical example of southern Gothic architecture.

With its white facade and towering stone pillars, it resembles an ancient theater scorched by the sunlight.

Zhou Yi sat in an open-air restaurant not far away.

The man opposite him was wearing a floral shirt and flip-flops, with his elbows resting on the edge of the table.

At that moment, he was stuffing a fried chicken sandwich, which had become soggy from being soaked in sweat, into his mouth.

Zhou Yi took out a cigarette, lit it, took two deep drags, and then asked, "Did you do this?"

The man opposite was still chewing something.

Hearing this, he swallowed his food and said, "It's not just me; Lucas has put together a small team."

"A lot of effort was put into preparing for the outcome of 'accidental death'."

The man paused, looked up at Zhou Yi, and his eyes held a hint of teasing:
"So, it's very different from your style."

"What style could I possibly have?" Zhou Yi said noncommittally.

"Wasn't your style distinctive enough before?" the man grinned.

"Put on night vision goggles, kick the door open, first hit the knee, then pin him to the ground and ask him questions, and finally shoot him in the head."

"That method is loud and bloody; even a dog will remember you were here."

Upon hearing this, Zhou Yi laughed: "That was before."

“Well, things are different now,” the man said, pulling a toothpick out of his mouth and leaning back in his chair. “You’re now a semi-compliant contractor, while I am.”

Just then, the ceremony in the church finally came to an end.

People started to come out one after another.

Zhou Yi gestured for the man to stop chatting and glanced at the church entrance.

Benjamin appeared.

"His walking posture is off; he probably took drugs again last night."

The man, chewing on a toothpick, lazily commented.

Then, he suddenly became serious.

"In short, Lucas's message was very clear—'Don't make a big fuss.'"

"Can you do it?"

Zhou Yi nodded. "Of course."

"Oh?" The man raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You've changed careers?"

“Something’s happened recently,” Zhou Yi replied truthfully. “If you have any work and the price is right, I’ll take it.”

"Those anonymous online platforms rely entirely on cryptocurrency transactions."

He sighed and stubbed out his cigarette.

"To be honest, I'm fucking fed up with all this stuff lately."

"I threw in 800,000 yuan, and in less than two months, I only had a little over 200,000 yuan left."

The man was somewhat surprised: "You've had your account wiped out?"

"Pretty much, anyway, that's all." Zhou Yi shrugged.

Upon hearing this, the man's expression became somewhat strange, as if he were expressing a sense of感慨 (gǎnkǎi, a feeling of deep emotion or regret), yet also as if he were mocking him.
"I didn't realize you could get ripped off like that."

"However, I do have a few tasks here that I think will suit your taste."

"I'll send you the details once this is over."

After saying this, without waiting for Zhou Yi's reply, he brought the topic back:

“The target had a withdrawal record at a private clinic in Miami last year.”

"Benzodiazepines, codeine, alcohol dependence, opioids, all sorts of things."

"What a perfect excuse."

"When will we do it?"

"Tonight will do."

"Imagine a guy who just buried his father and then overdoses in his apartment."

"A reasonable tragedy."

　[1] CPAC, Conservative Political Action Conference
　　
　
(End of this chapter)