bdsm-fiction Chapter 130 The Game of Politics: Undercurrents
Chapter 130 The Game of Politics: Undercurrents
Chapter 130 The Game of Politics: Undercurrents
New York City Hall, Mayor's Office.
A roar pierced through the oak door, startling the female assistant who was passing by in the corridor with a cup of coffee, causing her shoulders to tremble.
The liquid in the glass spilled onto the carpet. She didn't even dare to stop wiping it up, and hurried back to her cubicle.
"What is that guy doing? What does he want?!"
Mayor Morris braced his hands on the desk, his knuckles pressing against the walnut wood surface, turning a bloodless white.
His tie was crooked, and one of the buttons on his cuffs had popped open at some point, but he didn't even notice.
His entire attention was focused on the television set in front of him, which was still showing news footage.
Lee En on the screen had just lowered his right fist when the cheers from the audience had not yet completely subsided.
"The election is almost over! What does he mean by suddenly jumping in like this?!"
Morris's voice rose higher and higher, the last note splitting into a raspy roar.
He grabbed the coffee cup on the table, intending to smash it, but he forced himself to stop, his wrist trembling in mid-air several times.
Finally, he slammed the cup back onto the table, spilling coffee that soaked the freshly printed poll report next to him.
Originally, thanks to the prestige of the Hellsword Squad and the effect of Li En's several public appearances, his approval rating had been pushed to an unprecedented height of 168 percent.
What was his final vote share when he was elected mayor of New York City last time?
Sixty-two percent, and even that number is inflated quite a bit.
He arranged for people to vote for those unvoting voters who rarely voted.
He also arranged for people who were already marked as dead in the records but had not yet been removed from the voter register to vote for them.
These methods are not honorable, but no one ever investigates them, and no one ever manages to find them.
It was through these means that he obtained that 62 percent and sat in that chair.
But now, there is only one month left until the final round of voting.
In thirty days, he will be re-elected and continue to sit in this office for another four years.
But at that moment, Lee stepped forward and announced his candidacy in front of millions of viewers across New York.
Are you kidding me!
Morris leaned against the edge of the desk, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the surface several times, his breathing heavy and his chest heaving violently.
Then he suddenly stopped tapping, and the muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
He gleaned a slight sense of reassurance from his earlier rage.
Based on all the information released by Lee En so far, he has neither joined the Democratic Party nor the Republican Party.
He estimates that he plans to form a completely new political party and run for office as an independent candidate.
This means that he is not taking away Maurice's job.
He's stealing jobs from both the Democrats and Republicans.
It has taken these two parties over a century to shape the political landscape of the United States into what it is today.
You get a share, I get a share, we keep to ourselves, and all the distribution of benefits and the transfer of power operate smoothly within the tacit understanding between the two parties.
If a third-party political party suddenly emerges, and chooses New York City, the world's most watched city, as its first stop, and actually wins.
The tacit understanding that has been maintained between the two parties for over a century will be torn open, leaving a gaping hole that can never be repaired.
This is something neither party can allow to happen.
Therefore, no matter how strong Lee is, everyone in both parties will automatically side with Morris.
Let's help him shut down this suddenly appearing third party.
Thinking of this, the anxiety that had been suffocating him in his chest finally subsided a bit.
He straightened his tie, took a few deep breaths, and gradually concealed the furious look on his face, regaining his usual composed and dignified demeanor in front of the camera.
Then he turned his head and looked at the person standing in the corner of the office.
Chief Gallo had been standing there for quite some time.
He stood there from the moment Maurice started throwing things, hands behind his back, standing straight with no expression on his face.
They neither stepped forward to persuade them nor retreated.
He was like an old tree transplanted indoors, so quiet that he almost blended into the background.
"Gallo." Morris's voice was a bit hoarse, but it had returned to a fairly steady tone.
"You and the Manhattan Precinct Chief, Brock, have been friends for decades; you were partners before."
"Tell him to ask what Li En is up to."
Gallo did not answer immediately.
The moment he saw the press conference being broadcast live, he had already called Brock.
The call was short, but it was enough for him to understand the whole story.
That was enough for him to hear something in Brock's voice that he hadn't heard in a very long time.
That was Brock in his youth, before he was buried half his life in the dust of Hell's Kitchen.
Brock, the guy whose eyes would light up when he faced off against gangsters on the docks.
Brock only said a few words on the phone, but the last syllable of each sentence rose in pitch.
The intense heat, so strong it couldn't be contained, scalded Gallo's eardrums as it traveled through the receiver.
That feeling instantly transported him back to more than a decade ago.
"Gallo!" Maurice, noticing his distracted state, slammed his hand on the desk with a loud bang. "Answer me!"
Gallo raised his eyes and spoke calmly.
"It means exactly what it says: Lee is running for mayor of New York City, and he already has the support of Norman Osborn and Tony Stark."
boom.
Morris slammed his hand on the table a second time, this time harder than before.
He snorted coldly, a deep crease appearing at the corner of his mouth.
"Stark Industries and Osborn Corporation are not companies that can be controlled by just the two of them; all the shareholders will put pressure on them."
He was right. It was in the top-floor conference room of Stark Industries headquarters, just a few kilometers from the city hall.
An emergency shareholders' meeting, which was not originally scheduled, is underway.
Among the dozen or so shareholders with the highest shareholding percentages are people who have had private dealings with Mayor Morris for many years.
They are simultaneously firing at Tony Stark via video conferencing.
"Tony! What the hell are you doing?! Why are you publicly supporting that policeman's mayoral run?!"
"Stark Industries' stock price is already falling! Do you think this is a joke?!"
"If you insist on going your own way, we will consider jointly selling off Stark Industries stock. Think carefully about the consequences!"
"Too young! Absolutely lawless!"
Curses, threats, and the muffled thuds of tables being slammed poured out from more than a dozen different windows simultaneously, creating a cacophony of ear-piercing noise through the omnidirectional microphone in the conference room.
Tony Stark sat in front of the screen, holding a coffee cup in one hand and his fingers hovering over the touchpad with the other.
He turned the volume of all the windows down to the lowest setting at the same time, turning those flushed faces and constantly opening and closing mouths into a silent mime scene.
He then leaned forward, pressed the microphone button, and spoke as casually as if he were ordering takeout.
"You can dump it if you want. Stark Industries is what I call the business."
After saying that, he immediately shut down the video call, silencing all those words that hadn't yet been spoken.
He's not even at headquarters right now.
He was in the laboratory at the Umbrella School, with various instrument screens spread out on the workbench in front of him.
Above it was a set of brand-new data that had just been analyzed from Thor's blood sample.
Bruce Banner is leaning over the gene sequencing platform, adjusting the parameters.
Connors stood next to the incubator, holding a petri dish that had just been taken out of the incubator, his goggles pushed up to his forehead.
These two of the world's top scientists are waiting for his analysis results.
He doesn't have time to argue with a group of shareholders who don't even understand the principles of an arc reactor.
They can throw it away if they want, it doesn't matter.
He has completed the research and development of new energy sources, and the production line for Dragon Blood Tablets has also been successfully tested and put into mass production for the first time.
Even if those shareholders really have a bad idea and unite to maliciously suppress Stark Industries, causing the stock price to plummet, it doesn't matter.
Once the stock price bottoms out, he can easily buy back all the shares that have been sold off.
They will earn more than before and regain 100% control of the group.
Thinking of this, he suddenly raised his head and shouted at the ceiling.
"Jarvis, contact Barron and have him get in touch with those two lawyers from Umbrella Corporation, what were their names again?"
"Mr. Matt and Mr. Foggie," Jarvis's voice came from the speaker, steady and clear.
"Yes, it's those two." Tony placed his coffee cup on the edge of the counter and traced a new touchscreen in the air with his finger.
"Have them prepare the funds so they can buy in all of Stark Industries' shares when the stock price drops low enough."
"Also, you need to act as an intermediary and ensure that only the Umbrella Corporation makes the purchase, blocking all others from doing so."
"Yes, Mr. Tony," Jarvis replied.
Bruce Banner, sitting in front of the gene sequencing platform, looked up, his goggles pushed up to his forehead, his brow furrowed, and his tone genuinely perplexed: "I'm not very familiar with the financial world, but is it really possible to go this far? To prevent others from buying your company's stock?"
Connors put down the petri dish in his hand, his gaze shifting from Tony's face to the speaker grille on the ceiling, then back again, his face full of curiosity.
Tony pursed his lips, picked up his coffee, and took a sip.
"Stocks are essentially just data streams on the internet."
"In this era, Jarvis can control everything on the network."
"If I really wanted to, I could make all the money in the accounts of those so-called major shareholders and large groups evaporate in a matter of minutes, but I don't want to go too far."
Banner and Connors both fell silent.
After a few seconds, Banner took off his goggles and wiped them, his voice low, as if talking to himself: "Then I'll just have to get some cash and keep it at home."
Connors nodded seriously, placed the petri dish into the incubator, closed the door, turned around and went to rummage through the lab notebook in the drawer, muttering to himself, "Why don't we get some gold? After all, paper money is printed."
"That makes sense," Banner agreed earnestly.
Tony's hand, holding the coffee cup, hovered in mid-air, and his lips twitched twice.
"I won't do anything that scary, don't worry."
"Destroying the order that humanity has established will benefit no one."
The two PhDs thought about it and realized that what he said made sense, so they stopped dwelling on the topic.
The two returned to their respective consoles and continued to stare at the data stream on the screen regarding the fusion path of divine power and dragon blood potion.
Meanwhile, in his New York City Hall office, Mayor Morris had just finished a phone call.
He put the landline receiver back on the stand, leaned back in his swivel chair, closed his eyes, and exhaled a heavy breath.
Then he picked up the receiver again and dialed the next number.
He contacted more than a dozen people, including key figures from one or two parties, members of parliament from several key voting districts, and the de facto controllers of several multinational corporations.
Everyone gave the same answer: Li En must be killed.
Everyone has reached a consensus on the strategic approach: no matter what, we must first suppress this suddenly emerging third-party candidate.
No one suggested trying to win them over, and no one suggested negotiating.
Because everyone knows deep down that someone like Li En cannot be absorbed by either side.
A man who dared to publicly hang the heads of Hollywood stars and members of Congress on the door of a police station.
How could someone who ordered his subordinates to be burned in public and announced on camera that he would send them to hell be content to sit at someone else's poker table and wait for the cards to be dealt?
This kind of person only knows how to start a game themselves.
Since they cannot be incorporated, there are only two options left: suppression or destruction.
Morris hung up the last call, turned his chair around, and faced Chief Gallo, who stood in the center of the room without moving an inch.
He remained silent for a long time before speaking, his voice completely devoid of anger and agitation.
All that remained was a thin, almost inaudible plea.
"Is there really no way to get Lee Eun to stand on our side?"
Gallo shook his head, his voice as calm as still water.
"How could someone like that be willing to work for someone else?"
"Is that so?" Morris leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers on his stomach, his eyelids drooping slightly.
When he raised his eyes again, the thin layer of pleading in his eyes had completely evaporated, replaced by something dark and cold.
"Then the only option is to destroy him."
The tone wasn't particularly impassioned or aggressive.
But it is precisely this overly calm statement that makes the chill emanating from this sentence more piercing than any roar.
Gallo stood there, looking at him, and whispered a reminder.
"Frank Castle—nowadays, you can really send people to hell."
"How can you withstand that kind of power?"
Morris's fingers stopped on his knee.
He looked down at his right hand.
The hand that usually holds a pen to sign documents, raises a glass to toast the wealthy at banquets, and waves and smiles at voters in front of the camera is trembling slightly.
This is an emotion that was once forgotten in a corner—fear.
On this land, faith in God is a belief in which the vast majority of people are instilled from childhood.
Even those powerful figures sitting at the top of the pyramid, once you peel away the outer shell of worldly power, are essentially no different from ordinary people kneeling on church benches praying on the street.
More or less, they all believed in heaven and hell.
However, they have always had a self-consistent logic: to do evil and offset it with doing good.
Donate money, build churches, attend charity dinners.
She picked up a sick child in front of the camera and smiled compassionately.
Once these steps are taken, the accounts will balance.
Those who do things that cross the line of human decency are often also the most ruthless in their philanthropy.
In their logic, they are God's shepherds, and the people are just sheep.
If they help God manage the flock well, they will surely be able to enter heaven after death.
But now, some people can bypass all trials and send people straight to hell.
The very existence of this force uprooted their entire logic.
Morris stared at his trembling hand and remained silent for a long time.
When he looked up again, he found Gallo's expression to be far too calm.
That's not the expression someone about to be caught in the eye of a political storm should have.
It was more like someone who had already bought a ticket and was standing in the waiting hall at the dock, watching the storm approaching in the distance.
No matter how big the storm is, it has nothing to do with him anymore.
"Gallo," Maurice's voice suddenly became very soft, "Are you having other ideas?"
Gallo met his gaze calmly, his tone unchanged from when he was reporting on his work.
"I'm almost retired, why would I have any such thoughts? I just don't want to get involved anymore."
He paused for a moment, shifting his gaze from Maurice's face to the sky outside the window, heavy with gray-white clouds.
"Two more years, please let me go."
Morris stared at him for a long time.
The office was so quiet that only the faint hum of the air conditioner vents could be heard.
Then he reached out and waved lightly towards the door.
Gallo did not bow or say goodbye.
He turned and walked towards the door, his leather shoes clicking steadily on the oak floor, each step neither too fast nor too slow.
The door closed behind him with a dull thud.
Morris sat alone behind his desk, listening to Gallo's footsteps gradually fade away in the corridor until they disappeared completely in the direction of the elevator.
He lifted his right hand off his knee; that hand was no longer trembling.
He pulled another cell phone out of the drawer.
This is an old-fashioned flip phone with a prepaid account and only three contacts saved.
He opened the lid, pressed one of the numbers, and held it to his ear.
It rang three times before being answered.
"Feed." Morris's voice was very low, his lips almost touching the microphone.
"Yes, gather all of you and take care of Frank Castle tonight."
A hoarse reply with a mechanical noise came from the other end of the receiver.
Morris didn't say a word, snapped the flip phone shut, and stuffed it back into the depths of the drawer.
Then he leaned back in the swivel chair, interlaced his fingers on his belly, and closed his eyes.
Waiting for the sky outside the window to gradually darken.
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