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

More than half an hour had passed since Harvey started chugging bottles at the bar, and the atmosphere in the Irish pub had almost evolved from simple revelry into a large gathering.

Ryan, holding a beer, skillfully moved between several round tables pushed together.

He didn't join MacArthur's revelry, but instead stayed on the edge of it, targeting the grumbling, half-drunk workers.

He had just sat down on the edge of a sofa when a burly man with a thick beard and a noticeable burn scar on his arm patted him hard on the shoulder, the smell of alcohol hitting Ryan in the face.

"Brother, what you just said about politicians being vampires is fucking right." The bearded man hiccuped and gestured with his finger in the air.

"I used to work in a military factory in Pennsylvania, at General Dynamics! They made 155mm artillery shells!"

Ryan poured the other man some wine, adopting a listening posture: "155mm? The fighting was fierce in Ukraine; you guys must have made a fortune back then, right?"

"Make money my ass!" The bearded man slammed his hand on the table, making several empty bottles clang loudly.

"Those suit-wearing dogs in Washington said they wanted to maximize artillery shell production, and they poured a full five hundred million dollars into it! Do you know what the result was?"

He stared with bloodshot eyes, held up his finger, and then made a circle.

"Zero! In two years, we haven't delivered a single decent shell!"

Several workers nearby, their faces flushed from drinking, turned around, looking incredulous. "Nonsense! If you throw 500 million at it, even throwing money at someone would kill them. How could you not even hear a sound?" a bricklayer shouted.

"I swear! These are the exact words from the audit report after they discovered we couldn't deliver a single shell!" The bearded man's neck veins bulged with anger.

The report stated in black and white: "Failed to produce any metal projectile components that meet the contract specifications."

"When I saw that piece of paper, I was so angry I laughed."

"Those idiots, Commissioner Smith and his gang, are too capable. They're clearly using the factory as a money-printing machine, but they insist on calling that thing a production line!"

The bearded man took a big gulp of beer, wiped his mouth, and said, "I've been working in this factory for two years, and I've never seen so much money! There's nothing in the factory except a few broken machines that are practically scrapped! How are we supposed to produce anything?"

"Oh no, actually, strictly speaking, we did build artillery shells too." He suddenly sneered.

"The projectiles were cracked, the wall thickness was uneven, and the strength was less than half of the standard. Because of this, those guys in suits came and scolded our workers for not doing their jobs."

"Screw it! This isn't our workers' problem!"

"Without a suitable production line, without new equipment, and with blueprints from the last century, are we supposed to take two steel plates and a pile of gunpowder and mold the shells by hand?!"

"Making cannonballs? Hahahaha!" A few bursts of laughter erupted from the crowd.

Just then, a man with a buzz cut squeezed in, carrying a wine glass. He was one of the veterans MacArthur had brought. "It's not just your factory, the situation up front is even more outrageous," the buzz-cut veteran said, plopping down on the table and lowering his voice so that everyone around him could hear him.

"I used to be in charge of logistics and looked after warehouses in Europe."

"The Pentagon officials just slapped their heads on the wrist and approved over three million rounds of 'democracy ammunition' for Ukraine."

"I watched helplessly as the boxes in the warehouse were moved away one by one, until there wasn't even a bottom left. Even rats would have to come out with tears in their eyes after going in."

The veteran shook his head, glancing at the people around him with a cold smile:

"Do you know what's the funniest thing? Our inventory is running out, and the military industry in the rear says they want to resume production. They've been working themselves to the bone for years, just like this guy said, but production capacity just won't go up."

"Right now, those guys in NATO desperately need 155mm self-propelled howitzers and shells. Guess who they're buying from now that our production capacity is insufficient?"

"The Germans?" someone shouted. "Aren't Krupp's steel pipes pretty awesome?"

"Stop talking nonsense." The veteran waved his hand.

"The Germans' products are good, but they only manufacture a few per year, and their production capacity can't meet the demand. The current order backlog is several years in advance."

"By the time they finish building it, the grass on the graves of those on the front lines will be two meters high."

Please visit [website address] to see the latest chapter! Address: dEqixs.oRg "That's France?"

"The French cannons are expensive, slow, and troublesome to repair. Who on the front lines would want to use that kind of pampered equipment?" the veteran scoffed.

He picked up his glass, swirled it, and, seeing the curious looks on the faces of those around him, said a country no one had expected: "South Korea."

There was a moment of silence, followed by an even louder outcry of questions.

"South Korea? That place that sells kimchi and effeminate idols?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I'm not kidding." The veteran's expression turned serious, and his voice became sorrowful.

"Right now, the most purchased weapon by NATO is the South Korean K9 self-propelled howitzer. It's not just those idiots in Europe; even Canada is placing orders with the South Koreans!"

"Why? Because Koreans have short delivery times! You place the money, and they'll get it to you within a month. If their production capacity isn't enough, they can just pull artillery out of the military to fill the order."

"The performance isn't top-notch, but the key is that it's fast. The price-performance ratio is decent. A cannon that can make a sound on the battlefield is a good cannon."

The veteran finished his drink and slammed the glass on the table.

"Our America, the greatest country on Earth, has an empty arsenal and has to rely on the South Koreans to fill the gap. Is there any hope for America?" Upon hearing this, the surrounding veterans and workers fell silent, a deep sense of powerlessness spreading under the influence of alcohol.

"I actually know a bit about this," a rather thin-looking man interjected. He was wearing a wrinkled jacket and was clearly someone who worked in the waiters' union.

"I used to work as a junior clerk in the purchasing department of General Dynamics. I was just doing odd jobs, not actually managing purchasing."

"Do you think GM doesn't want to build equipment? They actually do want to, but they keep getting betrayed by their own people."

The thin man's tone was full of the frustration of a corporate slave.

"In order to increase production capacity, the purchasing department originally planned to buy a 650-ton pipe section machine from Dongfang."

"The prices were cheap and the delivery was fast, but as soon as the order was ready, the U.S. Department of Commerce imposed sanctions on goods from the East and prohibited the purchase of them."

"Fine, we won't buy the complete machine. GM will grit its teeth and say they'll go to the East to buy a 7500-ton forging press, and we'll come back and build the pipe section machine ourselves, okay?"

He spread his hands, making a helpless gesture.

"The Ministry of Commerce has issued another ban—it's off!"

The people around were stunned, even the bearded man from the military factory stopped drinking.

"Later, the head of the General Purchasing Department almost lost all his hair. He came up with a shady idea: he placed orders with Dongfang for loose parts and bought key components, planning to assemble them himself like building Lego." The thin man gave a bitter laugh.

"As a result, the U.S. Department of Commerce directly sanctioned the company responsible for the design in the East as a 'military-related enterprise'."

"That's not all, they also imposed heavy taxes on special steel along the way."

"In the end, General Motors tried to bring the goods in under the guise of importing scrap metal, but customs blocked that route."

"I was in my office looking at those documents, and I was completely stunned."

"I really don't understand why the U.S. Department of Commerce is always picking on its own defense industry. Is it that those high-ranking officials in the White House just want to get money on paper and don't want to make any real investment?"

The skinny man sighed, grabbed the wine bottle on the table, and poured himself a full glass.

"Starting in 20, the continuous sanctions made our purchasing department feel like we were defusing mines every day. Then... then the higher-ups said 'increase revenue and reduce expenditure,' and I was laid off."

"Screw cost-cutting and revenue generation," the bearded man cursed.

Ryan sat down beside him and listened to the story. He knew he had to say something now.

He cleared his throat, leaned forward, and glanced at the group of workers.

"Do you guys think the Department of Commerce is stupid? Or that the Pentagon is blind?" "Actually, neither, guys. This system is designed this way."

Ryan pointed to the empty wine bottles on the table.

"For the Ministry of Commerce, sanctioning the East and protecting so-called 'national security' can bring them votes and political capital."

"As for whether you have machines to use in the workshop, or whether the veterans on the front lines have artillery shells to fire, they don't care at all."

"In their eyes, people are not people, and cannonballs are not cannonballs; they are all just numbers."

Ryan picked up his glass.

"They protect their monopoly through sanctions, hollow out the country, and then kick you aside."

"As long as this profit-driven capital system remains, even if you change ten more commerce ministers, even if your military-industrial enterprises really want to do something, you still won't see any machines."

"Think about it yourselves. If everyone just finds an excuse to ruin the project, and everyone splits the five hundred million dollars, wouldn't that be better than spending money to renovate the production line, buy materials, and pay salaries?"

Several workers stared intently at Ryan, their confusion gradually replaced by anger and acceptance.

"Well said." The bearded man slammed his hand on Ryan's cup. "Those sons of bitches."

While a profound exchange of ideas was taking place in the booths, the atmosphere at the bar was completely different. Leon sat on a high stool, leisurely sipping his iced water.

Inside the bar, a chubby Irish bartender was frantically wiping the same beer glass with a rag.

His hands were trembling violently, and beads of sweat on his forehead glistened under the light.

"Who...who exactly are you people?" The bartender finally couldn't hold back any longer. He lowered his voice and glanced at the group of burly men singing, dancing, and swearing in the dance floor with a look of horror in his eyes.

"Don't fucking cause trouble, buddy. My small business doesn't want to die."

"Do we look like we're up to no good?" Leon leaned back on the bar, his tone relaxed.

"We're just drinking."

"Drinking?" The bartender nearly crushed the glass in his hand.

"Look at them! Construction workers, dockworkers, veterans, and a few murderers who look like they just got out of prison!"

"These guys would pull out a gun just by looking at each other on the street, but now they're huddled together cursing Washington!"

The bartender leaned closer and muttered through gritted teeth.

"If this happened in 20th-century Germany, it would be called a beer hall riot! I have a feeling someone's about to jump on a table and declare they're marching on town hall!" "My pub may be run-down, but it's my livelihood, and I don't want to die! If you want to rebel, go to the next street!"

"That's your misconception. We just got together for a drink and to catch up," Leon chuckled.

"Getting to know each other better? A bunch of women getting together to drink is what getting to know each other better, but a bunch of men getting together to drink in a public place like this... Do you know that according to some outdated local regulations in Seattle, this could be considered an illegal assembly, or even a riot!" the bartender muttered nervously.

"Relax," Leon said, looking at him.

"No one will smash your shop today, and from now on, this place is under my protection."

The bartender paused for a moment, then stopped wiping the cloth in his hand.

"If anyone tries to collect protection money or causes trouble after drinking too much, you don't need to call the police. Just contact my men." Leon pointed to the group of muscular men who were going crazy on the dance floor.

"They will help you solve all your problems."

"But correspondingly, our people may come here often in the future, so this place will become our half-canteen."

The bartender looked into Leon's eyes, then glanced at the group of incredibly powerful "customers" on the dance floor, and swallowed hard.

He was internally screaming: 'Asking you guys to solve my problem? You fucking seem like the biggest problem of all!'

But he's a shrewd businessman. Having a ruthless person of that caliber protecting him on this street is much better than being extorted by a few street thugs every day.

"Fine." The bartender slung the rag over his shoulder and sighed.

"Anyway, I can't do anything anyway, just don't really treat my shop as some kind of revolutionary headquarters."

"Don't worry, we're just talking business." Lyon picked up his glass of iced water and raised it to the bartender.

……

While a beer hall gathering was taking place in Lyon, a clandestine meeting was also taking place in the basement of a bankrupt printing factory in Portland.

Old Huo sat next to piles of expired ink cans, his palms sweating profusely.

The basement was filled with the pungent smell of chemical solvents. Two people were sitting at a folding table not far away.

One of them was Mike, who was the size of a bear, wiping a Glock pistol with its serial number worn off with a rag covered in machine oil.

The other was Elias, in his fifties, with gray hair, wearing a sweater.

Elias was a well-known labor lawyer in Seattle. He was sent to federal prison for four years by a group of capitalists' lawyers for leading an illegal strike at the docks.

After he came out, his license was revoked, and he went completely underground. "Have you finished telling me about last night?" Elias exhaled a puff of cigarette smoke and looked up at Old Huo.

"That's all I talked about with him," Old Huo said, letting out a long sigh.

"So Ryan's been exposed?" Mike stopped cleaning his gun and pressed his thumb directly onto the slide.

"His underwear has been seen through." Old Huo leaned back in his chair and tugged at his collar.

"That guy named Ray was standing outside Ryan's door, and he heard at least the second half of our conversation."

Mike jumped up: "Damn! I'll take a few guys and drive to Seattle right now to get Ryan out."

"That Ray guy has a madman backing him who even dared to bomb the East District Police Station!"

"Sit down, Mike," Elias said, tapping his cigarette ash in a steady voice.

"If Ray wanted to kill someone, Ryan would have been chopped up and thrown in the trash last night."

"Since he talked to Old Huo, it means he does have other demands."

He looked at Old Huo: "What were his exact words?"

"He said he was our ally," Old Huo swallowed, repeating the conversation from last night. "He also said that his power was far greater than ours, but he was being watched by a bunch of scum and was locked up in Seattle, unable to leave."

"He needs those of us outside of Seattle to help him spread the net."

Old Huo paused for a moment, then looked at Elias: "He also requests to see someone on our side who has influence."

A deathly silence fell over the basement.

Mike sat back down in his chair, threw Glock on the table, and let out a cold laugh.

"Allies? Screw allies." Mike rubbed his face, laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking.

"We printed 5,000 flyers in Portland, intending to organize a union outside Starbucks, but the young employees reported us to the manager because the flyers didn't include the 72 gender pronouns."

"And what about this 'ally'?" Mike pointed north.

"He's in Seattle, with the police chief covering for him, and the newly appointed acting mayor is a puppet put in place by his boss."

Mike glared at Old Huo: "We're like rats hiding in the sewers, scurrying under the FBI's noses. He's a tyrannosaurus rex wearing the state's machinery of violence on his body! What does he want from us? Does he want our flyers to print well?"

"It's about our anonymity and our decentralized network." Elias tapped the table with his finger holding a cigarette.

He stood up and walked to a white wall in the basement. The wall was covered with clippings, photographs, and intricate red lines, all analyses of the current state of America.

"Mike, what do you think is the hardest thing about starting a revolution in America?" Elias asked without turning his head.

"FBI wiretapping? NSA's prism program? Or those SWAT teams that are always ready to fire?" Mike replied.

"Those are just the surface of the violent apparatus." Elias turned around, his eyes sharp.

"The most difficult thing is establishing class consciousness."

He walked to the table and stubbed out his cigarette in the ash-filled can.

"In the last century, we could organize automobile workers and steelworkers."

"Everyone knows who the boss is and who the vampire is, but what about now?"

"Capital and politicians have used various means to dismember the proletariat."

"They told white truck drivers that their enemy was the Mexican immigrants who stole their jobs; they told black cashiers that their enemy was privileged white paupers."

"They use abortion, gun control, gender pronouns, and environmental labels to divide the lower classes into hundreds of mutually hostile tribes."

"If you lock a redneck veteran and a Latino dishwasher in a room and tell them that Wall Street is the common enemy, they'll pull out their guns and kill each other before they even hear what you're saying." Elias braced his hands on the table, staring at Old Huo and Mike.

"Plus information-based monitoring."

"Why are we forced to scatter like rats across various cities, communicating through this clandestine means?"

"Because once we assemble a team of more than fifty people, the FBI's algorithm will use our supermarket bills, web browsing history, and mobile phone location data to preemptively classify us as a domestic terrorist organization and then wipe us out in one fell swoop."

"But Ray, or rather, the policeman Leon behind Ray, broke this deadlock."

Elias's voice carried a suppressed fervor.

"Look at the reports Ryan sent back. You all know what that madman is doing, so I won't repeat it again."

Old Huo felt a chill run down his spine. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water and took two gulps before managing to reply, "So, you also think he's a staunch communist?"

"Whether he's a communist or not is irrelevant; what matters is that he's doing what we all dream of doing but can't achieve," Elias said, staring at old Ho.

"Many of us understand the theory, and we also have undercover agents spread across various cities on the West Coast. We know which people at the grassroots level can be trusted and which are informants for the police."

"But we have no legal status, no funds, no organized weaponry, and no privilege of being immune from police checks."

"And Ray has it." Elias slammed his hand on the table.