Capítulo 1460: Chapter 691: Angsa Guanlong Scions

Washington D.C., White House, Oval Office.

“Bang!”

Little Bush suddenly slammed the expensive encrypted phone handset back onto its base with such force that the entire mahogany desk seemed to quake.

His chest heaved violently, the veins on his forehead throbbed, and his face was a furious shade of purplish-red.

Just now, on the phone, he had almost recklessly screamed out that forbidden word — the X button!

Using the destruction of the entire North America to threaten that Mexican butcher!

Let’s die together!!

Now, the frenzy subsided, reality was like a bucket of cold water pouring over his head, chilling him from spine to heel.

He, George Walker Bush, the noble descendant of the Star-Spangled Banner, Angsa heritage!

The Bush family had cultivated this continent since the “Mayflower” era, his Old Dad had been a “cold-faced political figure” throughout World War II and the Cold War, one of the last veterans’ glows!

The Queen of England would even call him cousin according to seniority!

Who was he? He was the President of the United States of America! The leader of the Free World!

But now?

Texas!

Texas! Such a big Texas!

Richer in oil than any other state in the U.S., home of the vastest ranches, representative of the purest cowboy spirit, Texas! Was lost during his term!

That idiot Stuart!

He had originally hoped that Paul Constantine Stuart could hold on a bit longer, even if only as an exile government, he could still maneuver in Congress, negotiating, imposing sanctions, providing secret support, slowly turning the tide, at least retaining the nominal legal claim to Texas.

But who the hell could have expected!

Stuart fell so quickly! So utterly! The advance of the Mexican armored torrent was faster than the damn crash of the Stock Market!

While the bickering on Capitol Hill was still unresolved, over there in Houston, the city hall had already raised the Mexican Eagle Emblem!

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Little Bush kicked hard at the heavy desk, the expensive solid wood surface groaned dully, his toes throbbed with intense pain, but it did nothing to ease his inner torment.

He staggered out of the Oval Office, ignoring the stunned gazes of his secretary and security personnel, and plunged headlong into the adjacent private study, slamming the door shut with a crash, locking it!

Disgrace! Unprecedented disgrace!

This wasn’t just a blemish on his political career, it was directly tossing his resume into a Texas oil well and setting it on fire!

“Knock, knock, knock!” The sound of knocking on the door accompanied by the anxious voice of his confidant aide:

“Mr. President? Are you all right, sir?”

“Get lost! Everyone get lost! Don’t anyone come bother me!” Little Bush roared, his voice hoarse.

Outside the door, silence fell instantly.

He slid down onto the carpet, his hands burying themselves into his meticulously managed but now slightly disheveled hair, his expensive suit crumpling into a heap.

Over, it was all over.

He knew that for the rest of his life, he was tied to the title “the most embarrassing president in American history.”

How would the history books write about him? How would textbooks evaluate him?

“George Walker Bush, during his term, lost the territory of Texas.”

He might even be given an extremely disgraceful posthumous title: “Land-cutting Marquis”? “Duke of Loss of Virtue”? Or worse, those damned Eastern Elites and opposition parties might even give him the temple name: “Bolshevik Sect,” now that would be truly absurd.

Even though the Soviet Union was gone now, once that label was pinned on, his Bush family’s century-old reputation…

He couldn’t help but curse using Texan slang, but then a greater wave of sorrow surged in his heart, he was losing the right to even curse in Texan slang!

“Paul. Constantine Stuart ruined me.”

He suddenly thought of today’s meeting, he was almost drowned by Congress’s showers of criticism, he was a genuine Star-Spangled Banner flag bearer, but other political families were also old and prestigious.

That night, for George Walker Bush, was as long as a century.

In the study, smoke swirled, expensive cigars and cheap cigarettes burned together, a perfect reflection of his tumultuous and disordered state of mind.

Several times, he almost couldn’t control himself, his fingers trembled as they reached for the phone, wanting to dial that damned number that made him suffer such enormous humiliation.

He wanted to question Victor, why hadn’t the diplomatic note arrived yet?

What did the Mexicans actually want? Did they really want to force him and America into a corner?

But the last traces of reason, or rather, the fear of that “X button” and its representation of an abyss, held him back time and again.

He couldn’t be too hasty.

He could only wait.

The sky outside gradually shifted from pitch black to gray-white, then to the faint light of dawn.

Little Bush slumped on the sofa, his suit crumpled, tie loosened, heavy bags under his eyes, looking as if his spine had been extracted.

As the first ray of sunlight stung into the study, he finally staggered to his feet, took a deep breath of the murky air, and turned the lock on the door handle.

Outside the door, his chief diplomatic advisor was approaching briskly with a document in hand, clearly having waited a long time.

As soon as he saw Little Bush’s appearance, the advisor was startled, almost dropping the file folder to the ground.

“Mr. President! God, you…” The advisor’s voice was filled with shock and concern, “You need to rest immediately, or let a doctor take a look at you! You look terrible.”

Little Bush waved a hand, voice hoarse: “I won’t die, what is it?” His gaze fell on the document in the advisor’s hands.