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Guerra de los farrapos

Gran-Occidentia

Irrelevant Backwater
Joined
Aug 2, 2020
Messages
47
Capital
Puerto Angeles
Nick
Boro
Leopoldo Duhalde's world was turning to shit, his Correntine counterpart had been blown to kingdom come, the streets were a fucking warzone with gangsters and police fighting over the city's landmarks. Still these degenerate criminals controlled large swathes of the city and indeed within in the rest of the mandate's territory. Not that he was surprised, Monterrey's miserable excuse for a security service were riddled with corruption and weakness. No what he needed were men loyal to him, of course die-hard Integralists were thin on the ground but he knew of a few of the major landowners who were men of good morals, and of course the he could count on the churches support especially in the country.

" Manuel, get Don Felipe on the phone....call Don Hernado and the Archbishop too". Leopoldo yelled out to his assistant. He pulled out a cell phone from his desk, he needed to contact his masters in Gran-Occidentia too this opportunity to seize Monterrey was simply too good to pass up.


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Esteban was not a violent man, but he was a poor one. He had missed the last two months rent and his family was in danger of losing their homestead, that is until Don Felipe had come to the village saying that every man who went to the capital and joined Governor Duhaldes new auxiliary police force would receive 10,000 Quiris from his own pockets,

So that was how Esteban had ended up in a shabby blue uniform with an a rifle nearly as old as he was dodging bullets from criminals.
 
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San Jose

Regional Actor
Joined
Oct 31, 2006
Messages
6,963
Location
Los Angeles, California
Capital
Palmira
Nick
Jose
Outskirts of Naccos, Southwestern Estados Unidos de Corrientes

Gustavo Castillo surveyed the Correntino city behind him, apparently admiring the view of it as the sun set behind him to the west, bathing the urban center with a warm, orange glow. Dressed in a rather dusty tropical shirt with practical cargo shorts and well-worn hiking boots, he had the look of a student touring southern Corrientes from San Jose, his brown skin and close-cropped black hair giving away his origins. He even had his phone out, a relatively cheap smartphone, as though he were taking a picture to post to DagerroGram for a #bellovista photo, one of thousands posted seemingly everyday. It was a believable sight, especially with the standard black backpack resting by his feet, and his cheap but reliable motorcycle parked next to him.

He was anything but a tourist. An argument could be made of him being a student though, but his curriculum involved less academics and more practical matters such as cocaine smuggling.

He was on a mission to pick up a shipment of cocaine from bordering Monterrey, and he would be crossing the border after the sun set to maximize his chances of not getting caught by border patrol. Not that they were hard to avoid anyway, Monterrey's law enforcement was legendarily corrupt and stretched thin as it was. Given the recent violent protests in Embarcadero, their focus was internal rather than external, an excellent time to make some money.

True, it was a dangerous time to be moving around illicit drugs, especially with Montano blood all riled up as it was being spilled on the ground, but when was it not dangerous? Besides, it was in Gustavo's blood, Josefino tradition, to move around substances that the rest of the world found distasteful at best, how could he not stick his hands and nose into trouble?

With a mischievous smirk, he turned away from Naccos and towards his future profit, putting the backpack once again on his shoulders and bringing the old motorcycle to life. He had to keep moving, making sure never to stay in one place too long. His job was not to attract attention, only meet with his contact in Acahay, in the dead center of Monterrey, and pick up the valuable package to take across the border into Gran-Occidentia. From there, he'd hand it off to another contact and get his money. Where it went from there mattered little to Gustavo.

People were going to get high no matter what, people died regardless of circumstances. As far as Gustavo was concerned, his role was to make his life as lucrative as possible, so he might as well get involved in the chaos that was Monterrey.
 
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Gran-Occidentia

Irrelevant Backwater
Joined
Aug 2, 2020
Messages
47
Capital
Puerto Angeles
Nick
Boro
Embarcadero had always been a vibrant city, that's what Alejandro Martinez always love about it. The city was alive, dangerous sometimes but beautiful in its own way. Not anymore. Alejandro's little corner store had been in his family for generations and even in the bad times he had never considered moving, and so he had stayed his little corner store a bastion of normalcy in a world gone mad.

The vaqueros and peasants who made up the new auxiliary police weren't too bad, just hired hands doing a job and trying to survive, he could empathize with that. Some of them where even decent men, some rare ones even paid when they frequented his store.

The Integralists though were a different matter, hard bastards. the avenues surrounded the governor generals office had been an unsavory new nickname " The Orchard". from the tree lined avenues new stranger fruits grew, cartel members, common criminals and anyone else deemed " degenerate". That was world Alejandro heard more and more " degenerate" seemed to mean anyone and anything the Integralists hated.

No the city had changed, everywhere people where afraid. they averted their eyes especially when around "the Orchard". Alejandro didn't think it was possible but he had finally reached his breaking point, he would leave the city maybe the country even. Any sane man would.


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Gran-Occidentian-Monterrey border


There had always been a constant trickle of material from Gran-Occidentia into the mandate, everyone knew, but the government in Puerto Angeles always maintained enough deniability to distance themselves from any weapons or supplies that made their way into the mandate. Now however was different, the trickle had become a flood. The trucks never stopped day or night row upon row entered the mandate, where exactly no one knew at least not yet.
 
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