NABC Chapter 109 Buhou! I've become a sacrifice!
Chapter 109 Buhou! I've become a sacrifice!
Chapter 109 Buhou! I've become a sacrifice!
Havana, Prime Minister's Office.
The palm trees outside the window stood motionless in the afternoon sun.
The air was humid and stuffy, like a water-soaked sponge pressing against the skin.
Miguel Behimus sat behind his desk, holding a pen with the nib hovering above a document for five minutes.
The document is a draft regarding adjustments to oil import quotas for the next quarter.
Next to the draft was a tablet computer with its screen lit up, displaying the New York Times news page.
Title: "Regime Changes in Venezuela: President Trump Declares Mission Accomplished"
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Miguel didn't open it.
He doesn't need to look.
It was Milk Dragon's blitzkrieg attack on the prison horse.
Subsequently, all Venezuelan oil export contracts were frozen, ports were filled with oil tankers, and refineries were shut down.
Forty percent of Cuba's oil comes from Venezuela.
The remaining 60 percent comes from Russia, Iran, and several African countries.
However, these channels are also unstable now.
It's uncertain whether Russia is still alive, while Iran is already causing trouble, leading to intermittent supply to Africa and a threefold increase in prices.
Miguel put down his pen and leaned back in his chair.
The chair is an old thing; the leather is cracked and the springs creak.
The office is also an old thing from the Big Brother era.
He stood up and walked to the window.
Downstairs are the colorful facades and weathered balconies of Havana's old town.
There are few tourists and even fewer cars on the street, mostly vintage cars from the 1950s that run on diesel and spew black smoke from their exhaust pipes.
The country is still functioning.
But it's operating very slowly.
The reason we've been able to hold on until now is thanks to the "abstract matching mechanism" in the South American region: if you're short of oil, I'm short of food, and he's short of medicine, we exchange them with each other.
There's also the legacy left by the eldest brother.
Factories, farms, schools, hospitals, power grids, railways.
It was all built by the older brother; the equipment is old, but it still works.
The same goes for the technicians; they're all getting old and nearing retirement. Few young people are learning this; they all want to go to Miami.
Miguel looked out the window, feeling lost.
He turned around, walked back to his desk, and picked up his tablet.
Swipe your finger to open another page.
Live broadcast recording.
The image shows a redneck man standing on the steps of Parliament Square in Lansing, Michigan.
Carl Jensen.
Miguel clicked to play.
There was no sound; he had muted it.
He watched as the man raised his hand, pointed at the camera, and his lips moved.
There are subtitles below, automatically translated, so they're not very accurate, but you can understand the general meaning: "God said, this land is the new Canaan."
"God said, 'We must cleanse.'"
"God says, the holy war is about to begin."
Miguel fast forward.
The scene shifts to nighttime, with a mushroom cloud rising in the direction of Detroit, its white light blinding.
Fast forward again.
The scene shifts to daytime, with corpses hanging from the ruins—on lampposts, bridge piers, and crane booms.
Fast forward again.
The scene shifts to a construction site, in the snow, where thousands of people are working, with bulldozers, cranes, and searchlights.
A man stands on a high platform, with a red flag fluttering behind him—red background, black cross.
Miguel paused.
He zoomed in on the image to look at the man's face.
An ordinary face, white, middle-aged, with a stubble beard and empty eyes.
But this same person purged an entire state overnight, declared the establishment of a nation, and rebelled against the Union.
And it was successful.
It's been successful so far, at least for now.
Even more strangely, Milk Dragon Tekapo did not send troops to suppress the rebellion.
No airstrikes, no ground troops, no economic blockade—well, Michigan was already in ruins, so a blockade or not made no difference.
It was just a symbolic condemnation from the federal government.
Miguel put down the tablet.
He walked to the small refrigerator in the corner of the room, opened it, and took out a bottle of ice water.
The water is bottled, imported, and the label is in English.
He unscrewed the cap and took a sip.
The water was icy cold and stung my throat.
He walked back to his desk, sat down, clasped his hands together, and pressed them against his forehead.
The thought popped into my head again, like a needle pricking my temple.
"He will not suppress it."
Miguel spoke in a low voice, which sounded loud in the empty office.
"He's waiting."
What are you waiting for?
Wait until that redneck develops and he's ready for "holy war".
Waiting for a grand ceremony.
A decisive battle with religious implications.
Milk Dragon mentioned this in a previous livestream where he demonstrated a miracle.
"Wasn't that just a spur-of-the-moment joke?"
He was serious.
If he were serious, he wouldn't be trying to extinguish the flames in Michigan at this stage.
He needs that fire to keep burning, to burn even brighter, until everyone can see it.
Then he put it out himself.
Or be burned to death by it.
But before that, he needed something else to distract himself.
Michigan news has dominated headlines for a week now: nuclear explosion, massacre, nation-building, theocracy.
All people's attention was focused there.
Milk Dragon doesn't like this.
He needs to be the sole focus.
So he will create a new climax, a bigger, more exciting climax that better demonstrates "the power of the Lord".
Miguel looked up at the world map hanging on the wall.
His gaze fell upon his own country.
Cuba.
Atheist countries.
The biggest nail in America's backyard.
It is also the most suitable offering.
What could demonstrate divine power more than conquering a nation of unbelievers?
What could be more proof that God is watching us than having a red regime kneel down on a live broadcast around the world?
Miguel felt a spasm in his stomach.
He stood up, walked to the map, and stretched out his hand, his fingertips touching the outline of Cuba.
"Buhou".
He said in a low voice.
"Big brother, we're going to follow in your footsteps."
He turned around, intending to walk back to his desk, make a phone call, summon the cabinet, and hold an emergency meeting.
But as soon as he took a step, his body froze.
A feeling welled up in my chest.
It wasn't pain, it was burning.
It was as if someone had lit a fire inside him, the flames starting from his heart, spreading along his blood vessels, burning his limbs, his fingertips, and his scalp.
He opened his mouth, trying to inhale, but the air he inhaled was also hot, burning his throat.
"Ugh—"
He made a sound, very softly.
He looked down at his hands.
My hands were trembling, and my skin was turning red, as if it had been scalded by boiling water.
Sweat appeared, but immediately evaporated, turning into white vapor that rose from the skin.
He stumbled and grabbed the edge of the desk for support.
"What is this—"
He gritted his teeth and forced out a sound.
"A nuclear bomb? Why is there no sound—"
Outside the window, the sky was still blue, the sunlight was still bright, and the palm trees remained motionless.
There was no explosion, no flash, and no shockwave.
Only the fire within him was burning.
It's getting more and more popular.
He felt his skin cracking, like parched earth, with a red glow shining through the cracks.
My eyes started to swell, and my vision turned red and became blurry.
A buzzing sound filled my ears, like a million bees flying around.
He tried to shout, but no sound came out.
He fell down, his knees hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Its body curled up like a cooked shrimp.
The fire burned through from the inside out.
Then forearms, shoulders, and chest.
Finally, there's the head.
Finally, Miguel Behemoth, whose body remained completely unchanged, lay on the ground.
He was burned to death.
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