Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 161 Stuffing it into the asshole
Somewhere in Texas.

The night was heavy, dark clouds loomed overhead, and the wind blew in from the woods to the north.

The villa was built on a gentle slope.

The front door is equipped with both password verification and infrared scanning systems.

Outside the manor, a team of private security guards, dressed in dark gray tactical vests and fully armed, were patrolling.

The house was brightly lit, and Seaville sat in the center of the main hall.

In front of him were stacks of documents, unfinished coffee, and three unopened small bottles of whiskey.

Severn didn't touch the alcohol; he just stared at the top of the poll summary, his face grim.

The woman next to him was tall and slender with short chestnut hair.

“North Carolina dropped two percentage points tonight,” she said bluntly.

“One point comes from sample fluctuations, but another is that voter sentiment is indeed shifting.”

"You mean it hasn't hit rock bottom yet?" Sevier's words were harsh, clearly angered by her bluntness.

"Not yet." The woman's expression was calm.

"Trust scores among independent voters continue to decline unless we can create a trend of shifting the issue."

Across the long table, a slightly overweight man was pasting a newly printed chart onto a whiteboard.

Before the woman finished expressing her opinion, he quickly added:
"Ohio is relatively stable, but I suggest pausing advertising on the conservative agenda."

As he spoke, he pointed to the blue circle above:

“We have seen a precipitous drop in net support among men aged 18 to 34, and women’s voter turnout is also cooling.”

“After Blair’s incident, any inflammatory material triggered a backlash—especially among suburban women.”

“It sounds like you’re criticizing our previous actions.” Severn didn’t lift his eyelids, but his voice dropped several octaves.

“It’s just the result of the model,” the man said seriously. “The high R-value of the regression analysis indicates that this round of response was not accidental.”

“A model?” Severn finally looked up and slowly stood up.

Do you know how CNN covered the Blair affair?

"'The hope of the Progressive League has fallen in the streets.'"

"That's a fucking amazing sentence."

He paused for a moment, then asked sarcastically:
"Then guess what they said about me?"

The man opened his mouth, somewhat at a loss for words.

Severn ignored him and became even more agitated.

“'An opportunist who incites hatred'.”

"You say this is a model, a regression, and data."

“I’ll tell you—”

He took a step forward, clenched his right fist, and waved it in the air as if threatening some unseen enemy.

"This is not a description at all."

"This is fucking slander!"

"Smear campaign!"

Silence fell over the room instantly.

The woman rolled her eyes inwardly and pretended to browse the tablet in her hand.

The man stood there awkwardly, not daring to move.

After a long pause, he swallowed hard and spoke cautiously, afraid of angering his boss again:

“We can fight back,” he said. “Interaction rates on social media are picking up, especially on TT and Reddit.”

“A short video driven by emotion can generate secondary dissemination within 24 hours.”

Sevier's expression remained gloomy, with a sarcastic smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"So, you're suggesting I rely on a few twenty-year-old brats?"

The man was speechless at the question, and it took him a long time to organize his thoughts again:

"It's not about relying on them, but about regaining the right to speak through algorithms."

"Discourse power"

Sylvie repeated the word, leaned back in her chair, and tapped her fingers on the table.

“You data scientists all like to talk about control and prediction.”

"Unfortunately, no one can completely control the media."

“We can guide the conversation,” the woman suddenly took over, as if she could no longer bear to see her colleague being tormented by the idiot. “Of course, you have to abandon the attack strategy and shift to a victim narrative.”

Severn glanced at her but didn't say anything, as if waiting for her to explain.

The woman sighed quietly:
“We have prepared a script that can start with CNN’s headlines about Blair and copy their language.”

As she spoke, she held up the tablet:
"'The hope of the Progressive League has fallen in the streets.'"

"Then you just need to add one line: 'They mourn for her, but they want me to shut up.'"

"This is not an explanation, it's a narrative reversal."

"You don't defend yourself, you just make them look hypocritical."

Severn didn't speak, his fingers were still tapping, but the frequency had noticeably slowed down.

At this moment, the man mustered his courage and added in a low voice:
“We can release two edited videos, using clips from the previous interviews.”

"Paired with the line 'Is this what they call fairness?', and used in conjunction with material from street protests."

"We'll test the waters on TT and FB, starting with young people, and then let the Fox series take off again."

Sevier finally stopped what she was doing and turned to look at the man: "When?"

"As early as tomorrow morning at seven o'clock."

"No, that's too slow."

"I want you to do it now."

"I need you to go now, understand?"

Zhou Yi squatted down next to the UPS truck and casually gave instructions to the drug dealer wearing a black vest.

The wind picked up, carrying with it the smells of diesel fuel and withered grass.

He looked down and examined the remote control in his hand.

A modified antenna was attached to the black plastic casing.

The lever has been pushed to the "ARMED" position, and the red light is flashing in the upper left corner.

The receiver on the vest is secured to the right shoulder with insulating tape.

The wires wrapped around the neck and extended into the filling material in front of the chest.

At this moment, the Mexican young man was about to cry.

His hands were bound by a thick rope, his breathing was rapid and shallow, and his forehead was covered in cold sweat.

“I really don’t want to go in.” His voice trembled.

“Of course.” Zhou Yi shrugged, as if discussing a business deal that was neither here nor there.

"However, I'll have to cut your head off, stuff it up your ass, and then hang it under the bridge to dry all night."

"The cement piles in Kuliakan are pretty good, don't you think?"

Upon hearing this, the Mexican man trembled, and tears streamed down his face.

"Please... I... I was just joking."

“I don’t like jokes.” Zhou Yi got up, opened the car door, and then kicked the young man’s knee.

So, I'll say it one last time—

"What you need to do is very simple."

"Just drive right in. Someone's trying to stop you? Don't slow down."

"Someone told you to stop? Don't look at him."

"If you hesitate for three seconds, I will press this button immediately."

As soon as he finished speaking, Zhou Yi picked up the remote control and shook it.

As he moved, the Mexican young man's heart almost stopped.

A few seconds later, he managed to squeeze out a whisper that sounded almost pleading:

"Where is this place? Who's inside?"

"It's not something you should know."

As Zhou Yi spoke, he lifted him up and shoved him straight into the driver's seat.

"If I had to describe it, there was a group of distinguished gentlemen in suits, speaking English, and accompanied by bodyguards."

"The good news is—these gentlemen won't kill you for trespassing."

He paused for a moment, then patted the young man's cheek reassuringly:

"The bad news is—if you don't do it, I will."

(End of this chapter)