HPDBC Chapter 171 If it's for survival
Chapter 171 If it's for survival
Chapter 171 If it's for survival
The water glass in Ron Smith's hand trembled, and tiny ripples spread across the surface.
"Join the Democratic Party?"
Smith's voice rose an octave, even cracking.
"Leo, you're kidding, right? You must be kidding."
He suddenly stood up and paced anxiously around the office.
"Do you know what my constituency is like? Do you know what Erie is?"
Smith pointed north out the window.
"That's the deep red zone. The people there go to church every weekend and to the shooting range every month."
"They hate those liberal elites who live in Philadelphia and Washington, drink lattes, and tell them what kind of car to drive and what kind of straw to use."
"In their minds, the Democratic Party is a group of devils who want to take away their guns, shut down their coal mines, and turn their children into sissies."
Smith stopped in his tracks, placed his hands on Leo's desk, and his face turned bright red.
"If I announce my candidacy for the Democratic Party tomorrow, I won't have to go to city hall the day after. My house will be vandalized with paint, my tires will be slashed, and I'll be hung from a lamppost by angry steelworkers."
"You're telling me to die."
Although Joe Byers next to him didn't say anything, the expression on his face said it all.
His situation in Scranton wasn't much better.
Although there are some moderates there, in this polarized political environment, switching sides is tantamount to treason.
Leo sat in his chair and listened quietly as Smith finished venting.
He understands that fear.
In the American political landscape, political parties have never been just a simple voting option.
It is an identity, a belief, and even a way of life.
These conservatives didn't exist because of the Republican Party.
On the contrary, it was precisely because this group of people existed first, and because of their deeply ingrained lifestyles and ways of thinking, that the Republican Party, as a vessel to contain them, came into being.
Humans are social animals, and the fear of being abandoned by the group is deeply ingrained in everyone's genes.
Leo understands this kind of identity politics very well.
It locked people in echo chambers, making everyone believe that only those on their side were human, while those on the other side were demons trying to destroy the country.
To break down this wall, interests alone are not enough.
It's harder to convert a decades-old Republican to a Democrat than to get him to change his religious beliefs.
"Are you done talking?"
"Leo asked calmly."
"That's all," Smith said, panting. "The conclusion is impossible, absolutely impossible. I'd rather be strangled by Warren than beaten to death by my neighbor."
"Mr. President," Leo called out in his mind, "it seems our plan has run into resistance. These old fogies think changing clothes is more serious than losing their lives."
"That's because they haven't figured out the rules of the game yet."
Roosevelt's voice echoed in my mind.
"They thought that joining the Democratic Party meant becoming Philadelphia's Aston Monroe, being forced to support radical environmental bills, participate in marches, and confiscate voters' guns."
"This is a fixed mindset."
"Leo, you have to teach them one thing."
"Party membership is a big tent that can hold all sorts of people. Southern Democrats and Northern Democrats coexisted for half a century, and we even ate from the same pot with those racists."
"Tell them."
Roosevelt's voice became deep and powerful.
"Who told them to be that kind of Democrat?"
"They can be your Democrats."
"A new kind of democratic party that belongs to the rust belt, to the working class, and to this rough land."
Leo stood up.
He walked around the desk, went to Smith, pressed down on his shoulder, and pushed him back into his chair.
"Ron, Joe. Listen to me."
Leo's voice carried an unquestionable authority.
"You've got a misconception."
"I asked you to switch parties, not to change your mindset, and certainly not to memorize the Democratic National Committee's clichés."
"You can still be yourself."
"All you need to do is change the label and use a new set of rhetoric to reinterpret the world."
Leo held up one finger.
"Ron, you say your voters love coal and hate environmentalists. That's true. Because in their minds, environmentalism equals unemployment and factory closures."
"But what if we phrase it differently?"
Leo's eyes sharpened.
"We are pushing forward with the expansion of the inland port, and we are introducing battery factories and photovoltaic module production lines."
"You don't need to talk to the workers about carbon emissions, global warming, or the polar bears' habitat. Those things are too far removed from them; they don't care."
"You need to talk to them about independence."
"You need to tell your miners and drillers: We're developing these new energy industries not to please the EPA, but to break free from our dependence on Middle Eastern oil and to break free from the power grid controlled by Wall Street."
"We want to build our own energy system in Pennsylvania."
"Whether it's coal underground, solar panels on the roof, or batteries produced in factories."
"All of this has only one purpose—to have Pennsylvania support America."
"This is energy sovereignty, this is patriotism."
Leo emphasized his words.
"We must take control of our energy security, and we must ensure that American-made machines use American-made energy."
"Does this sound familiar? It even sounds like a Republican slogan."
"But now, this is our slogan."
"As long as you can get the factory up and running, as long as you can make the workers feel that they are contributing to the strength of the country, they don't care whether you are mining coal or making batteries."
"In the workers' logic, energy that can be exchanged for a paycheck is good energy."
Ron Smith was stunned.
He blinked, seemingly digesting this entirely new logic.
Energy sovereignty.
The word sounds both tough and full of pride.
It avoided the environmental minefield and directly struck a chord with voters' simple patriotism.
“But—” Smith hesitated for a moment, “and there’s the gun. You know, in Erie, if I don’t support the Second Amendment, I can’t even leave the house.”
"This is the second claim."
Leo raised his second finger.
"Constitutional exemption zone".
"Who says that joining the Democratic Party means you have to support gun control?"
Leo laughed and said, "There's also a pro-gun Blue Dogs coalition within the Democratic Party; you could totally become a member of it."
"You can go back to Erie, stand on the steps of City Hall, and announce to your constituents: Erie is a Second Amendment exemption zone."
"You can tell them that although you changed your party affiliation, it was to swindle money back from Washington, but on core values, you won't budge an inch."
"I'm giving you the right to interpret this place."
Leo stared into Smith's eyes.
"In your city, you are the rule."
"Even if the Democratic National Committee sends you a letter condemning you, you can tear up that letter, or even publicly criticize it on television."
"The more fiercely you criticize, the more your voters will trust you."
"They will think of you as a hero who endured humiliation and went deep into enemy territory just to fight for the interests of his hometown."
"As for me? As for Murphy?"
Leo shrugged.
"We don't care, all we need is for you to print the Democratic Party on your ballot and for you to vote for Murphy at the crucial moment."
"How you explain your position in Yili is your prerogative."
Joe Byers listened in stunned silence.
He felt his worldview was being reshaped.
This is simply the pinnacle of political pragmatism.
They only change their clothes, not their thoughts.
They even use this contrast to create political capital.
"But Leo," Byers raised the last and most difficult question, "what about cultural identity? Those workers, deep down they feel that the Democratic Party is an elite party, a party that looks down on them. How do you eliminate this class divide?"
"Good question, Joe."
Leo raised his third finger.
"This is the third claim."
"Class narratives overshadow cultural narratives."
Leo walked to the window and pointed to the construction site in Pittsburgh outside.
"For decades, the Republican Party has been instilling in workers the idea that your enemies are the cultural liberals and the city people who support abortion."
"They successfully transformed class contradictions into cultural contradictions."
"Now, we need to reverse this logic."
Leo turned around, his eyes blazing.
"You need to tell your voters: Look at Lieutenant Governor Monroe in Philadelphia, look at Senator Warren in Washington."
"who are they?"
"They are the elite who drink red wine, wear bespoke suits, and play golf at country clubs."
"Warren is a Republican, Monroe is a Democrat, but they are essentially the same kind of people."
"They are the ones who sold the factories to Mexico, the ones who cut your pensions, the ones who watched you lose your jobs and did nothing."
"And us."
Leo pointed to himself, then to the two mayors.
"Although we carry the Democratic Party's name, we are a blue-collar party."
"We wear work clothes, we go to construction sites, we drink the same beer and smoke the same cigarettes as you."
"Our enemy is not the people with guns, nor the people who go to church."
"Our enemies are the financial vultures that take your jobs, and the bureaucrats who have you by the throat."
"We want to tell voters: Warren traded God and the flag for your votes, and then turned around and sold you to Wall Street. As for me, although I've changed my skin, I've brought you bread, jobs, and dignity."
"In the face of this logic, party affiliation is completely unimportant."
"We must use our original class interests to break down the cultural barriers they have carefully constructed."
After Leo finished speaking, he quietly looked at the two mayors.
A long silence fell over the room.
Ron Smith's hands stopped trembling.
His eyes began to focus, and his brain worked at lightning speed, processing the contents of Leo's three claims.
Energy sovereignty.
Constitutional immunity.
Blue-collar party.
Smith sat there, his eyes gradually deepening from initial astonishment, even revealing a chilling fervor.
He was a veteran who had been in the Erie municipal scene for decades, and the reason he hadn't thought of this before was simply due to the inertia of his thinking.
He confined himself to the cage of being a "Republican".
In this cage, he had to obey the state committee, watch Senator Warren's face, and fawn over her every time he had to fight for the budget.
But now, Leo Wallace, this young madman from Pittsburgh, kicked open the cage door and pointed to the open field outside, telling him: that's your territory.
Smith's mind was racing, calculating every move in the game.
Energy sovereignty means he can legitimately use the Democratic Party's green fund to subsidize his coal mines and drilling platforms; workers will support him, and business owners will support him too.
Constitutional immunity means he remains a hardline conservative, still able to fraternize with voters on the shooting range, and even more popular than before, because he is a "lone hero who dares to defy party political correctness."
The Blue Collar Party signifies that he has completely shed the accusations of Philadelphia's elite arrogance; he stands on the moral high ground, a fighter for survival.
This is hardly a surrender.
This is evolution.
If he actually follows this script, Ron Smith will no longer be a minor Republican mayor in northern Pennsylvania.
He will have absolute control over Yili.
This power is a hundred times greater and a hundred times more alluring than being an obedient mayor.
Smith's fingers scratched unconsciously on the tabletop, his nails scraping against the lacquered surface, making a soft sound.
He felt his aging heart pumping out the same hot blood he had in his youth.
He raised his head, and in his eyes burned a flame called ambition.
"Leo".
Smith finally spoke.
His voice was somewhat hoarse, but it carried a chilling ruthlessness.
"You're a genius."
Smith stared at Leo, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"Or, you are a complete devil."
"But this logic—"
"That's fucking awesome."
He stood up and strode to the floor-to-ceiling window.
He looked out the window at Pittsburgh, the city that belonged to Leo.
Looking at the towering cranes, the bustling streets, and the city that has risen again from the ruins.
He used to be jealous of this place, and even hated it a little.
But now, he sees another possibility.
Yili can also become like this.
Even stronger than that.
As long as he dares to take that step, as long as he dares to tear that damned party emblem off his chest and replace it with a flag that belongs to him.
"If I did that, the state Republican committee would definitely fire me."
"I couldn't be happier." Leo laughed. "Let them fire you. At that moment, you'll be a tragic hero, a freedom fighter persecuted by a corrupt system."
"This is exactly the effect we wanted."
"I've figured it out."
Smith turned around, his back to the sunlight, his face hidden in shadow, his voice deep and powerful.
"That old bastard Warren thinks he can strangle me by cutting off funding."
"But he was wrong."
"He just helped me cut the dog leash around my neck."
Smith looked at Joe Byers, who was sitting to the side still in a daze.
"Joe, don't hesitate."
Smith's tone was decisive.
"This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."
"We used to be pawns of both parties, and they could manipulate us however they wanted."
"But now, as long as we play by Leo's script, we are the players."
"Just imagine, the moment we announce we're joining the Democratic Party, the whole nation's media will be swarming Scranton and Erie. We'll be in the spotlight, we'll be the bellwether."
"At that point, we won't be begging Harrisburg for money."
"They'd have to kneel down and beg us to take the money."
Joe Byers' Adam's apple bobbed violently.
He looked at Smith's fanatical face, then at Leo, who looked calm and as if he had everything under control.
He finally realized that he had no way out.
Moreover, it certainly looks like a golden road to heaven.
"it is good."
Byers gritted his teeth and stood up.
"Let's do it."
"I've had enough of being a lackey to those bureaucrats."
Leo looked at the two mayors.
He had already done the deductions. When Warren held a knife to their necks and he handed them a gun, whether out of the will to survive or the desire for revenge, there was a greater than 90% chance that the two men would side with him.
However, when Joe Byers’s “Let’s do it” actually landed, Leo felt his tense muscles finally relax.
The pent-up frustration in my chest was completely released with that promise.
Relaxed.
A sense of ease and control over the whole situation arises spontaneously.
This means that he is no longer fighting alone on the hard ground of Pennsylvania.
He had his own territory and his own power.
"Welcome, gentlemen."
Leo stood up and straightened his collar.
"Now that everyone has reached a consensus, we don't need to waste any more time."
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"Go back and prepare."
"Make the press conference bigger and more lively."
"I want to hear the sound of you tearing up your party membership cards, echoing throughout Pennsylvania."
Smith strode over, extended his rough, large hand, and gripped Leo's hand tightly.
This time, his grip was incredibly strong, as if he were placing all his bets in that single squeeze.
"Don't worry, Leo."
Immediately afterwards, the other hand came over as well.
Joe Binles placed his hand over the hands of the two of them.
Three hands clasped tightly together.
These three hands represent three major industrial cities, the livelihoods of hundreds of thousands of blue-collar workers, and a torrent capable of overthrowing the old order.
From this moment on, the entire political landscape of Pennsylvania will undergo a radical transformation.
At that very moment, Roosevelt's voice echoed in Leo's mind.
"Look, Leo."
"You're not just trying to win over a few mayors; you're creating a new organ within the massive body of the Democratic Party."
"A political entity that belongs exclusively to the Rust Belt and is responsible only to this land."
"You used that still-developing billing system to string these scattered industrial cities together like beads on a string. You used the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of the midterm elections to force them onto your chariot."
"Now, on the map of Harrisburg, besides Philadelphia and those rural areas, there is another piece of territory that no one can ignore."
"Leo, you're not just the mayor of Pittsburgh anymore."
Roosevelt's voice became deep and powerful.
"You are the de facto overlord of this rust belt."
"You are the one who holds the power over the industrial lifeline, the flow of votes, and political loyalty here."
"Go, take your new allies, and set this wasteland ablaze."
Leo released his grip, looking at his two allies who were about to head to the battlefield.
"Go back, gentlemen."
"Warren is waiting to see us fail."
"Give that old guy a little surprise."
"Let him see what a comeback from a desperate situation looks like."
Smith and Bernie nodded, picked up their coats, and strode out of the office.
Leo stood there, staring at the empty, cracked doorway.
He knew that the fire had been ignited.
Next, we'll watch as it burns through the wasteland and turns Warren to ashes.