You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

"Hey you, the one leading this, are you the new boss Patrick was talking about?" A construction foreman with tattoos all over his neck stood up, grabbing an empty wine can and pointing it at Leon.

"Listen up, we don't care how much money you bribed those three vampires. If you want our men to work for you, show us something real, don't try to fool us with those bullshit forms from the city hall!"

Harvey, startled, quickly took half a step forward, forcing himself to maintain the composure of a mayor, and said, "Gentlemen, watch your language! This gentleman is...."

"What's the point of sitting in this lousy place like City Hall and smelling the musty odor?" Leon interrupted Harvey.

Upon hearing this, Harvey and Eva were both stunned, staring blankly at Leon who had suddenly uttered such a shocking statement.

Lyon strode into the conference room, casually pulled over a chair, and placed one foot on it.

"You guys were pretty accurate in your insults about those three old geezers. I also think they're idiots," Leon said casually, glancing around the conference room.

"Since everyone dislikes them, things are simple."

He turned to look at the tattooed construction foreman.

"I know an Irish pub on 12th Street around here. It's big and the drinks are strong," Lyon said.

"Let's talk over there. Order as much as you can drink. If you have any conditions, you can tell me yourself at the table. I only care about who can do the work, not what the form says."

There was a two-second silence in the meeting room. The dockworker looked at the beer in his hand, then at Lyon. "You're treating?" he asked.

"I'll pay." Leon pointed to Harvey behind him. "The mayor is my guarantor; he's got plenty of money."

Harvey was stunned, his eyes wide, and he pointed to his own nose, about to retort.

"Damn it! What are we waiting for?!" The tattoo foreman threw the empty can in his hand into the trash can and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"Guys, someone's paying! Let's go!"

The atmosphere instantly ignited, and a dozen burly men cheered, pushed back their chairs, and surged toward the door in a grand procession.

They didn't care who Lyon was. In their eyes, a boss who could call the union leaders idiots and was willing to treat them to drinks was a million times better than those politicians who wore ties on TV.

"Wait... I still need to approve some documents..." Harvey shrank back.

But he had no chance to run away. Two construction workers covered in cement dust grabbed him from both sides and dragged him out by his arms.

"Relax, Mr. Mayor!" A worker patted Harvey on the back, almost making him vomit blood.

"Come grab a drink with us, stop looking so gloomy in the office all day!"

"Let me go! I have documents to approve! I have two meetings! Leon! Leon, save me!" Harvey was swept along the corridor by the crowd, turning to Leon and shouting desperately. "Calm down," Leon followed behind the crowd.

"You've been under too much pressure lately. Since you're just living in fear every day in the office anyway, why don't you have a drink and get a good night's sleep? Consider it a chance to get a feel for the people's lives."

Eva stood on the side of the corridor, completely dumbfounded as she watched the union leaders, who looked like zombies unleashed, escort the mayor toward the city hall entrance.

Lyon, a cold-blooded thug who went on a killing spree in the East End just two days ago and threw a member of parliament off a plane, is now acting like a gang leader, leading a group of workers to a bar for team building.

She had originally thought that Lyon would use some kind of superior negotiation skills, or directly resort to force to subdue these people.

As a result, with just a casual remark, he turned a potential riot into a drinking party.

She couldn't understand at all which political camp Lyon's shameless behavior belonged to.

"Stop daydreaming, keep up." Leon walked past her.

"Are you really going to buy these guys drinks?" Eva followed him and asked in a low voice.

"Things negotiated at the negotiating table are all business deals; what's made over drinks is brotherhood." Leon took out his phone and turned on the screen.

"What I want to do in Seattle, I can't bind these brothers with just profits."

As he walked, he rapidly typed on his phone, sending messages to MacArthur and Lane: "Take Walter, Old Welder, and the best drinkers from the outpost to the Irish pub on 12th Street. No weapons, civilian clothes. Today I'm introducing you to a new batch of brothers."

After sending the text message, Leon put his phone back in his pocket.

Today was an unexpected success. With just one drinking session, I was able to get these grassroots rednecks who control Seattle's construction, logistics, and service industries mixed up with the veterans in my own backyard.

He needs to continue recruiting more people to see who can infiltrate the organization faster—the deep state government or him—and infiltrate the United States.

……

More than half an hour later, at the Irish pub on 12th Street in the West End.

The tavern's wooden door was pushed open, and the cold wind outside, mixed with the dampness of the rainy day, rushed in, only to be instantly swallowed up by the tavern's strong smell of fermented malt, tobacco, and sweat.

Lyon had booked the entire venue. The few casual drinkers who were originally there to watch the game and kill time, after receiving double the amount of their drinks back from the bartender, wisely slipped out through the back door.

Now, this place has become a playground for these rough men.

When MacArthur walked in with Walter, Old Weld, and the most capable drinker and the biggest veteran from the dozen or so outposts, the atmosphere in the tavern immediately reached its peak.

"All of you, get your glasses up!" MacArthur was not shy at all and made no attempt to be uninhibited in this kind of situation where he needed to let loose. He strode to the bar, grabbed a full pitcher of stout, and slammed it down on the wooden bar, splashing beer all over the table.

"The boss has spoken! Once that woman Sterling officially takes the mayor's seat, all of Seattle's municipal projects will have to be reshuffled! At that time, all of you brothers who are doing the hard labor down there will get a fucking raise!" MacArthur pointed at the construction foremen covered in cement dust, his voice so loud that it drowned out the rock music coming from the jukebox.

"To hell with environmental audits! To hell with diversified audits! Whoever can lay bricks, whoever can drive a forklift, that's the only normal thing to do, get it?!"

"Damn! You're right!" The construction foreman, whose neck was covered in tattoos, kicked over a stool next to him and yelled back while holding a bottle of whiskey.

"Those idiots in suits keep spouting carbon emissions nonsense to us. I can barely pay next month's rent, what's with the emissions! Cheers to Sterling! Cheers to the new boss!"

"Respect to the new boss!"

A dozen or so dockworkers and service industry foremen joined the veterans in raising their glasses, the glasses clinking together with a deafening clatter.

The veterans and these blue-collar workers were originally from the same social class. Many veterans would go to construction sites to carry bricks or to the docks to carry goods after they retired. After a few drinks, a few curses about politicians in Washington, and a few curses about union leaders who cut wages, the two groups would instantly become as close as brothers who had fought side by side in the same trench.

In a corner booth of the pub, the Trash Can Philosopher was huddled on the sofa.

He washed his face today, which was unusual for him, but his neurotic behavior remained unchanged. He also didn't seem to be a heavy drinker. I wonder who brought him here.

A mechanic in a greasy jacket squeezed next to him, shoved a glass of murky tequila in front of him, and, with a slurred speech, put his arm around his shoulder and shouted, "Brother, drink up! You're as skinny as a stick, you need to drink more to have the energy to work!"

The trash can philosopher stared at the glass of wine, his eyes narrowing rapidly.

He was a regular at hanging around street trash cans; the mechanic's gesture of wiping his thumb along the rim of the glass when he handed him the drink didn't escape his notice.

This guy definitely drugged me.

The trash can philosopher sneered inwardly.

Trying to scam me? When I was eating spoiled canned food on the street, you were still wearing open-crotch pants.

"Cheers, my friend!" The trash can philosopher feigned gratitude, raising his glass to clink with the other's.

Just as the mechanic tilted his head back to drink, his view blocked, the trash can philosopher, with dazzling speed, swiftly swapped his glass with the other man's spare tequila on the table.

He picked up the bottle of wine that had been given to him, drank it down in one gulp with a smug look on his face, and smacked his lips, intending to see how the mechanic would convulse on the ground later.

Five minutes later.

The dumpster philosopher suddenly felt his heart start pounding, and his blood rushing to his head as if it were on fire.

He suddenly stood up, slammed one foot on the coffee table, and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"The world is a giant garbage can! You bunch of scum exploited by capital! We're all fermenting! We're all rotting! Do you know what resistance is, what revolution is?!" He waved his arms, his eyes wide open, so excited he seemed ready to lift the ceiling off the building.

The mechanic, watching him go crazy, slapped his thigh and laughed maniacally, tears streaming down his face. "What the hell are you laughing at!" the trash can philosopher glared at him, his tongue practically tied in knots. "I clearly... I clearly switched the drinks!"

"Hahaha! I know you changed it!" The mechanic laughed so hard he slapped the table.

"I spiked both of those drinks! And the one you switched was originally meant for me, but I added double the stimulant! Hahahaha!"

"Fuck your grandpa..." the trash can philosopher cursed, then turned and rushed into the dance floor, joining a group of burly dockworkers in a frenzied dance.

At the other end of the bar, Acting Mayor Harvey was sandwiched between Old Han and Walter, one on each side.

"Mayor, drink! Nobody's leaving this room until they throw up!" Old Han poured a whole bottle of undiluted vodka directly into Harvey's glass.

Harvey was trembling with fear. In his entire life, every drinking party he attended involved swirling glasses of red wine and discussing political donations of hundreds of thousands or millions of dollars. When had he ever been forced to drink such cheap liquor by these sweaty workers at the bar?

But he couldn't escape, and Leon wasn't planning to save him.

When Harvey downed the first glass, he felt like he had swallowed a razor blade.

After downing the second cup, his stomach began to churn, and his head started to buzz.

By the third cup, Harvey suddenly stopped shaking.

He stared blankly at the glass in his hand, at the group of boorish people around him, singing and dancing, ready to fight at any moment over the slightest disagreement. The string that had been taut in his mind for half his life suddenly snapped. What had he been doing all this time?

He was someone's dog, cleaning up Reynolds' messes, laundering money for the Democratic Party's top brass, and constantly calculating his kickbacks, fearing that one night someone would shoot him to his death.

If you make so much money but can't even sleep peacefully, what the hell is the point of living?

"Damn it!" Harvey suddenly roared inhumanly.

He abruptly pushed away the bottle in the old welder's hand, grabbed another unopened bottle of whiskey from the bar, bit off the cork with his teeth, and spat it onto the ground with a "pui" sound.

"You bunch of bastards! You think I can't outdrink you?!" Harvey's eyes were bloodshot, his tie was torn off, and his shirt buttons popped open, revealing his white belly.

He raised the bottle, tilted his head back, and began to chug.

Old Han and Wote were both stunned, and several workers around them started whistling.

"The mayor is awesome!"

Harvey downed almost half a bottle in one gulp, slammed the bottle heavily on the bar, and, panting heavily, pointed at the group and began to curse:

"I've had enough! To hell with official documents, to hell with budgets, I'm the mayor now, I can do whatever I want!"

He stumbled around and, amidst the commotion, his gaze locked onto Leon, who sat in the shadows. Perhaps alcohol emboldened the timid, but Harvey felt fearless now.

Even if he dies, he'll at least see what Lyon and his gang are planning to do to Seattle before he dies.

This feeling of going crazy without a care in the world is much more exciting than counting money in the office. It seems pointless to keep all that money at home or buy a better villa. It feels much better to go crazy in a bar like this.

Leon leaned against the corner of the booth, holding a glass of ice water he had only taken a sip of, calmly watching the chaotic scene unfold. After MacArthur and the others arrived, he gradually withdrew from the center of the revelry, handing the stage over to the veterans.

Eva stood to Lyon's side and slightly behind, her brows furrowed tightly.

She watched Harvey jumping and leaping on the bar, and the skinny guy who had been given double the stimulants darting around the crowd like a monkey. Then she looked at the union leaders who were usually so tough on the streets, now embracing the veterans in the stronghold and calling them brothers.

She found the scene extremely bizarre, and what was most outrageous was that there was a strange sense of harmony amidst the chaos.

……

After a few rounds of drinks, the atmosphere couldn't have been better.

MacArthur let out a burp, put his arm around the tattooed construction foreman and a bald representative of old Jim's dockworkers union, and squeezed into a booth.

"Brothers," MacArthur said, patting the two men on the shoulder and lowering his voice.

"The boss just said that from now on, we'll be the ones who call the shots in Seattle. However, a group of people that my old comrades have been protecting aren't doing too well. They're all looking for a proper way to make a living." He raised an eyebrow at the bald man and the tattooed man.

"The outsourcing contracts with the city hall, and those quotas under the union, you know what I mean. I plan to send some of my own people, and some of my trusted underlings, in to lend a hand and earn some extra money on the side."

Without a second thought, the tattoo foreman slapped himself on the chest.

"This is nothing! The brothers' business is my business! Tomorrow, you send someone to the construction site in Third Block to find me. Even if he doesn't know how to lay bricks, I'll still give him a safety supervisor position and make him a free salary!"

The bald man nodded in agreement, slurring his words:

"It's simpler at the dock. They're cracking down on cargo coming in and out now, and I'm short of a trustworthy guy to help keep an eye on things in the container area."

"Anyone who's one of General MacArthur's men, come on over! I've already had someone fill out the union registration forms for them!"

"Then it's settled." MacArthur laughed and raised his glass to clink against theirs.