The Starving Port (6)
“Let me tell you a slightly different story.”
I said.
“During the Vietnam War, one in three American soldiers deployed to the battlefield had experience using heroin. One in five showed symptoms of chronic addiction. But do you know who first started producing and selling heroin in that region?”
“Well, I don’t know much about that market. The U.S., maybe?”
“No. France.”
“Too bad. It was getting interesting.”
“No need to be disappointed. By the 1950s, America had joined in.”
“Why those two?”
“Their interests aligned. France wanted to keep Vietnam as a colony, and America wanted to stop the spread of communism. But the force leading Vietnam’s independence war? None other than the communists—the future Viet Cong.”
“Huh. Now it’s getting interesting again.”
France had been cultivating and selling opium in the region since the 19th century. It weakened ethnic resistance while funding their rule. America initially favored Vietnamese independence, planning to install a pro-U.S. regime afterward to block communism. But France threatened to side with the Soviets if America didn’t back them, dragging the U.S. halfway into France’s camp. From then on, America became the enemy of Vietnamese nationalists.
That said, America had little to complain about. After France got beaten by the Viet Cong and fled, America inherited their legacy.
El Fuego sneered in a low tone.
“In short, the heroin that addicted U.S. soldiers was something America created itself?”
“Close enough. Strictly speaking, they handled distribution and outsourced production, but they can’t deny being the biggest player in Southeast Asia overall. The drugs the CIA spread across Vietnam eventually reached American soldiers’ hands too.”
France fully withdrew a few years after America entered. More than half of today’s infamous Southeast Asian Golden Triangle was America’s handiwork.
El Fuego’s sneer deepened.
“Looks like selling drugs to their precious ‘citizens’ is an American tradition. You probably know this already, but that damn CIA is a senior player in our market!”
“Of course. Reagan administration, right?”
“Ah, yeah. The president’s name was Donald Reagan, I think? Heard that somewhere. Seeing how shitty the current president is, maybe the name Donald is cursed. Haha!”
It was Ronald, not Donald, but no reason to correct him. Reagan championed the War on Drugs publicly, but behind the scenes, the CIA sold drugs to Americans to fund Nicaragua’s pro-U.S. anti-communist Contras. That’s when U.S. drug addiction crossed the point of no return.
The CIA is powerful and competent, after all. South America became the world’s top drug producer around then too, thanks to CIA payments shattering local security forces. That’s why I find America blaming others for its drug problem utterly idiotic. Who’s resenting whom? They’re founding members of two of the world’s three major drug hotspots.
“Back to the beginning—”
I steered the conversation.
“America worried those addicted soldiers would return home craving drugs. But the reality was the opposite. Freed from war, they no longer needed it. Only one in a hundred remained addicts. Famous anecdote—anyone heard it?”
El Fuego twisted his lips and shrugged. He didn’t know. Turning my gaze, Mayor Chelino shook his head too. The cartel boss? Fair enough. But a politician should’ve picked up such a socially famous story by osmosis.
There was also the Rat Park experiment. Rats isolated in cages got drugs; the control group in a ‘park’ paradise got the same. The lonely ones obsessively indulged. The social, free ones ignored it—even sweetened solutions. Even cage addicts quit after moving to the park. Crystal-clear implications.
I continued.
“Truth is, pleasure-seekers addicted just because drugs were easy to get are a minority.”
Not a light sin, but right now, I’m playing devil’s advocate to absolve the cartel.
“Americans can’t escape drugs because their lives leave them no choice. Precarious day-to-day scraping by, environments devoid of joy, parents with nothing but poverty to pass on, friends in the same boat, a society blind to the discarded and left behind.”
Leaning back, I added with measured cynicism.
“The biggest culprit driving American drug addiction isn’t Mexican cartels or Chinese triads—it’s America itself. That’s my conclusion.”
Silence fell, broken by sporadic claps. Clap, clap, clap.
El Fuego grinned at me, clapping slowly with exaggerated motions.
“You really seem to hate America.”
“Not just America.”
“Hm?”
“America, China, Japan, Germany, Belgium, Britain, France. I hate any nation with heavy sins but no remorse. God wouldn’t approve of what they’ve done.”
“Kehahat! Never expected God to enter the chat. This is fun—really fun!”
El Fuego slapped the mayor and his colleague’s shoulders, seeking agreement, then asked me anew.
“So, Hwang, you think we’re better than America?”
“You’re villains, of course. But...”
“But?”
“Villain or not, God’s using you for good. He’s infinitely benevolent; all good outcomes in this world stem from Him without exception.”
“Hear that? Hear it?”
El Fuego laughed flippantly.
“They said he was devout, so I figured some stuffy old priest type. But look at this! If he had nothing better to do, he’d be teaching our kids catechism! They’d be hooked on Sunday Mass! Haha!”
The other two at the table looked displeased by his levity, especially the host. As a ruling party member and mayor of a tourist port crawling with cops, he couldn’t bow to cartels—but he’d played along to avoid petty friction. No wonder he’d been condescending from the start. Spanish has formal and informal “you” too. Not deliberate rudeness to humble a foreign businessman—just a naturally asshole personality. Does this guy lack parents like me?
El Tiro, silent till now, finally spoke.
“Don Hwang. Something you should know.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve interfered in my business.”
“Interfered?”
As I echoed, El Fuego tried reining him in.
“Man, you’re too hasty. Let’s keep it friendly.”
“Hasty or not, I can’t gather the assigned troops by deadline. From local layabouts to beggar scum, everyone’s bellies are full—they won’t even listen to recruiters. All because this foreigner stuck his nose in.”
Exactly as I intended, but it didn’t feel great. Insurance is ideal when unused. This Tiro trying to scrape up meat shields was an ill omen for me.
Fighting could break out in this city too.
Not necessarily here—they might ship troops to Guadalajara. But they urgently needed bodies. Even disposable daily-wage meat shields cost upkeep, and with numbers like that, no long-term plans.
Thud! Tiro slammed the table; I flinched theatrically.
Tiro leaned forward, growling threateningly.
“Here’s the deal. Want to do business in our turf? Pony up military funds. Then we’ll ensure your convenience.”
Before I could reply, El Fuego irritably cut in.
“God, you’re hasty! Do you have to?”
“I don’t take orders from you.”
“I run this port!”
“And I’m deputy commander of Dobla A.”
Now I knew Tiro’s identity. Dobla A—Artistas Asesinos—one of Sinaloa Cartel’s three armed wings.
Shortstack’s a bigger deal than expected.
Elite Gente Nueva was busy clashing with holy knights in Guadalajara; a deputy from one of the remaining strike forces here meant what? If fighting hit the port, it’d suck but stay within projections. Cartel-on-cartel without meat shields? Local military and police could handle it. No martial law anytime soon.
I’d set it up that way.
El Fuego scowled.
“Anyway! I’ll handle the talking—you stay put. Think of my position?”
“...”
Tiro grudgingly leaned back, arms crossed. El Fuego’s standing in the org wasn’t bad—connections, blood ties maybe. Just “port boss” wouldn’t check a Dobla A deputy.
Doesn’t look staged either.
If good cop/bad cop, FBI would headhunt him.
“This port won’t turn into a sea of fire like Guadalajara?”
I swallowed, feigning suppressed fear as an investor. El Fuego waved it off, reassuring “Hwang.”
“No, no. Relax. His mission’s a flanking strike. Sicarios gathered here will swing south to Michoacán, raid those knight-wannabe idiots’ base.”
“Hey, El Fuego!”
“What now?”
“Spilling ops to an outsider? You sane?”
“What’s to worry? This guy from across the Pacific a knight spy?”
“Principles exist!”
“Fuck principles—to do business, show trust! Don’t you get how much Chelino and I are yielding today?”
They bickered entertainingly. Eyeballing each other, they relented at the mayor’s mediation.