North America at this time was more like a marketplace. Everyone pursued maximum profit, and for that, etiquette, morality, and rules could all be cast aside.
No matter how despicable, vile, or utterly deranged a tactic was, as long as it succeeded, people would sing its praises. Some would even help whitewash it.
If one could still evade punishment, it would be classified as American wisdom.
Most of the time, so-called competition was not some contest of skill, but more like a life-and-death struggle on the battlefield.
Franz's final words were:
"Teacher, you once said that rules are made by people."
Metternich set down the letter in his hand. He seemed to have finally understood why Franz had sent him to North America.
Metternich finally made up his mind. He would make another trip to Mexico City.
Mexico City, Presidential Palace.
The moment Colonel Jimmy stepped through the gates, he heard the cheers from the cockfighting arena and could not help frowning.
Santa Anna was a fanatical cockfighting enthusiast. He owned over a hundred fighting cocks and spent vast sums of money on them every year.
To Colonel Jimmy, it was utterly meaningless. When he reached the entrance to the cockfighting arena, Santa Anna's secretary finally staggered over, reeking of alcohol.
"Colonel Jimmy, the President is handling official business—hic."
"Get out of my way!"
Colonel Jimmy shoved the drunken secretary aside and strode through the archway. At the center of the courtyard stood a massive circular structure modeled after the Colosseum.
Inside the arena, officers with open collars and noblewomen whose collars were opened even wider roared and screamed. The smell of tequila and blood stung the nostrils.
"I'm betting ten thousand pesos on Death Claw to win!"
Santa Anna sat in the supreme luxury box at the highest point,