Post by Ignatius on Nov 30, 2007 21:46:07 GMT -5
Somewhere in Eastern Mexico
Port City, Hernandez Isles
Emillio Raul Hernandez, a famed crime lord and "pirate chief" feared by all in the Gulf of Mexico, sipped happily at his glass of tequila while he admired the beautiful sunset from the window of his massive Spanish-esque villa located near the sea. A venerable man of fifty-four years of age, Hernandez had managed to amass an enormous personal fortune worth nearly 4.2 billion U.S. dollars throughout the course of his various 'business' ventures in the Gulf, many of which were completely illegal in practice. From directly participating in the illicit flow of drugs throughout Central and Southern America (directly dealing with the Colombian drug cartels) to openly raiding the ships of sovereign nations passing through the Carribbean sea with his own private fleet of pirate ships, the venerable old crime lord literally owned the lives and land of thousands of Latinos in a stretch of land reaching over one hundred and twenty square miles of land, easily taking the dubious recognition of being the most dangerous criminal in the world.
By feeding millions of dollars into the mouths of Mexico's corrupt politicans, the crime lord easily stayed a sizable distance away from the threat of any sort of retribution from the ineffective Mexican government, doing literally whatever he pleased on his enormous 'micronation' of three-thousand.
"Hey!!!!" shouted Hernandez to the group of buxom, bikini-clad girls splashing around in his enormous Olympic-sized pool, "Calm it down, putas... I don't pay for you to cause all dis noise when I work!"
While obviously displeased with their "sugar-daddy's" rude comments, the quartet of scantily clad girls heeded Hernanez's call for silence, angrily skulking away to the interior of the enormous Hernandez mansion to escape the grumpy attitude of the crime lord. Haughtily yanking several towels from a brass rode welded above the concrete wall marking the end of the massive courtyard, the four buxom females stalked off, leaving Hernandez alone with Chico Gonzales, his right-hand man.
"What the hell is this?" muttered the crime lord, throwing a stack of reports he had been given into the air, "Tell me why the fuck we'd have a problem with our 'trade' even if those 'gringos' try to crack down on our 'businesses' here in the Gulf! We possess one of the largest private fleets in the world, a sizable cadre of loyal henchmen, and the advantage of literally owning the heads of this filthy country! Let the Americans boast of their efforts to clean up this god-forsaken region, my business is with money; I don't intend to be stopped!"
Chico Gonzales, the skinny, rat-faced right hand man of Emillio Hernandez, did not visibly shake despite the "boss-man's" display of foul temper, instead reaching towards a small note pinned to the cork-board of Hernandez's daily planner.
"But boss-man," interjected Gonzales, pointing at the reports of the killings of several of Hernandez's criminal contact in the American state of Georgia "the gringos may be a stupid lot, but they certainly seem to go through their plan of ridding the Gulf of... people like us.. Our fellow business partners are intensely worried about the future of the Colombian-Mexican drug trade and demand to know what you, the largest influencing force in Middle-America, intend to do about this threat."
"What we do, Chico," replied Hernandez angrily, "is continue on with our business with the Mariannas, Rodriguez‘es, and Yakuza without any pause in our routine. Should the foolish Americans attempt to interfere with our business ventures… Our friends in the Mexican government should be able to help us out..”
The two men paused in their heated discussion, quietly watching the slowly setting sun sink down in the western horizon. Far in the distance, Hernandez could make out the figure of one of his own gunboats moving slowly back to Port City, undoubtedly laden with the week’s catch or tribute.
“I will not let anyone, not even the President of a nation interfere with my work,” muttered Hernandez, shaking his head in anger, “inform our contact in Cuba that Hernandez himself assures him that his next ‘shipment’ will remain intact, and that we will personally provide security for he and his family over the course of this… storm.”
“Dispatch a pair of gunboats to the Paola isles, along with a small group of our finest men to provide security on our next operation, even though I doubt anything’ll come out of those gringo fools’ boasts..”
Port City, Hernandez Isles
Emillio Raul Hernandez, a famed crime lord and "pirate chief" feared by all in the Gulf of Mexico, sipped happily at his glass of tequila while he admired the beautiful sunset from the window of his massive Spanish-esque villa located near the sea. A venerable man of fifty-four years of age, Hernandez had managed to amass an enormous personal fortune worth nearly 4.2 billion U.S. dollars throughout the course of his various 'business' ventures in the Gulf, many of which were completely illegal in practice. From directly participating in the illicit flow of drugs throughout Central and Southern America (directly dealing with the Colombian drug cartels) to openly raiding the ships of sovereign nations passing through the Carribbean sea with his own private fleet of pirate ships, the venerable old crime lord literally owned the lives and land of thousands of Latinos in a stretch of land reaching over one hundred and twenty square miles of land, easily taking the dubious recognition of being the most dangerous criminal in the world.
By feeding millions of dollars into the mouths of Mexico's corrupt politicans, the crime lord easily stayed a sizable distance away from the threat of any sort of retribution from the ineffective Mexican government, doing literally whatever he pleased on his enormous 'micronation' of three-thousand.
"Hey!!!!" shouted Hernandez to the group of buxom, bikini-clad girls splashing around in his enormous Olympic-sized pool, "Calm it down, putas... I don't pay for you to cause all dis noise when I work!"
While obviously displeased with their "sugar-daddy's" rude comments, the quartet of scantily clad girls heeded Hernanez's call for silence, angrily skulking away to the interior of the enormous Hernandez mansion to escape the grumpy attitude of the crime lord. Haughtily yanking several towels from a brass rode welded above the concrete wall marking the end of the massive courtyard, the four buxom females stalked off, leaving Hernandez alone with Chico Gonzales, his right-hand man.
"What the hell is this?" muttered the crime lord, throwing a stack of reports he had been given into the air, "Tell me why the fuck we'd have a problem with our 'trade' even if those 'gringos' try to crack down on our 'businesses' here in the Gulf! We possess one of the largest private fleets in the world, a sizable cadre of loyal henchmen, and the advantage of literally owning the heads of this filthy country! Let the Americans boast of their efforts to clean up this god-forsaken region, my business is with money; I don't intend to be stopped!"
Chico Gonzales, the skinny, rat-faced right hand man of Emillio Hernandez, did not visibly shake despite the "boss-man's" display of foul temper, instead reaching towards a small note pinned to the cork-board of Hernandez's daily planner.
"But boss-man," interjected Gonzales, pointing at the reports of the killings of several of Hernandez's criminal contact in the American state of Georgia "the gringos may be a stupid lot, but they certainly seem to go through their plan of ridding the Gulf of... people like us.. Our fellow business partners are intensely worried about the future of the Colombian-Mexican drug trade and demand to know what you, the largest influencing force in Middle-America, intend to do about this threat."
"What we do, Chico," replied Hernandez angrily, "is continue on with our business with the Mariannas, Rodriguez‘es, and Yakuza without any pause in our routine. Should the foolish Americans attempt to interfere with our business ventures… Our friends in the Mexican government should be able to help us out..”
The two men paused in their heated discussion, quietly watching the slowly setting sun sink down in the western horizon. Far in the distance, Hernandez could make out the figure of one of his own gunboats moving slowly back to Port City, undoubtedly laden with the week’s catch or tribute.
“I will not let anyone, not even the President of a nation interfere with my work,” muttered Hernandez, shaking his head in anger, “inform our contact in Cuba that Hernandez himself assures him that his next ‘shipment’ will remain intact, and that we will personally provide security for he and his family over the course of this… storm.”
“Dispatch a pair of gunboats to the Paola isles, along with a small group of our finest men to provide security on our next operation, even though I doubt anything’ll come out of those gringo fools’ boasts..”