HPDBC Chapter 128 Counterattack in the Mud
Chapter 128 Counterattack in the Mud
Chapter 128 Counterattack in the Mud (Bonus Chapter for 20000 Monthly Tickets)
Deep in the Allegheny Mountains in western Pennsylvania.
The sun was setting, and its afterglow burned the sky into a murky orange-red.
The massive hydraulic fracturing rig emitted a deep, rumbling sound, and the ground trembled slightly in rhythm with the machine.
The air was filled with the smell of burning diesel fuel, mixed with the sulfurous odor characteristic of shale gas.
Last night there was a heavy rain, and the ground turned into a dark brown swamp, making a gurgling sound with every step.
The media reporters had been waiting here for a long time.
They were wearing windproof jackets suitable for outdoor activities, and their trousers were rolled up high, but even so, many of their shoes were still covered with thick mud.
The camera lens cap was removed, the microphone was held high, and everyone was waiting.
This was supposed to be a fierce and provocative siege.
John Murphy just dropped a bombshell yesterday regarding Chad Evans.
Corruption, bribery, and lobbying by energy companies.
These accusations are enough to make any politician associated with them busy distancing themselves from the situation in front of the camera.
The reporters had imagined countless ways to start.
Warren might offer a tearful apology, claim she was unaware of the situation, or simply cancel her trip and return to Washington.
A black Ford pickup truck drove over a puddle, splashing mud and water everywhere.
When the car door opened, there were no bodyguards clearing the area beforehand, nor were any public relations personnel coming out to test the waters.
Warren jumped out of the car.
He was wearing a faded dark blue work jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, oil-stained jeans, and heavy work boots covered in dried mud.
He didn't look like a senator giving a speech; he looked more like a drilling foreman who had just changed shifts.
Hundreds of workers who had just finished their shift gathered around.
Their faces were covered in black coal dust and greasepaint, their hard hats were worn askew, and their eyes held weariness and scrutiny.
The union called them here; they wanted to hear what this big shot from Washington had to say.
Warren strode toward the makeshift podium made of a few wooden crates.
He stepped into the mud puddle, the muddy water reaching his ankles, but he didn't even glance at it.
Reporters swarmed around him, their cameras and microphones instantly shoving in front of him.
"Senator Warren, regarding Senator Murphy's allegations that your campaign manager Evans accepted bribes from an energy giant —"
"Do you acknowledge that Evans used improper means to influence environmental policy?"
The questions were loud and jarring.
Warren reached out and grabbed the microphone stand, then turned to look at the group of silent workers.
The drilling rig was very loud, so he had to increase the volume.
"Good afternoon, guys," Warren's voice came through the speakers. "This place smells fucking awesome."
A few scattered laughs came from the crowd.
Warren faced the camera with a fierce look in his eyes.
"I heard you."
"John Murphy, that slick-back-haired nerd who drinks a decaf latte in his office. He told the whole world yesterday that my brother Chad Evans is a piece of trash."
The scene quieted down a bit.
The reporters held their breath, anticipating Warren's explanation.
"He said Evans went to work as a consultant for an energy company and took millions of dollars. He said it was corruption. He said Evans was selling his soul."
Warren paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the reporters in the front row who were frantically taking notes with their notebooks.
"Murphy is right."
The entire audience erupted in uproar.
The reporters stared wide-eyed, and the workers began whispering among themselves. Was this an outright confession?
Warren suddenly waved his hand, pointing to the huge drilling rig behind him.
"Evans has indeed made a lot of money! Every penny he takes goes into his own pocket! I don't deny that! If Murphy thinks this is some kind of leverage he has against me, he's as naive as a baby!"
He took off his baseball cap and casually tossed it into the muddy ground to the side.
"In Washington, that's skill! That's not a crime!"
"Do you think I'm the kind of coward who'd cut ties with a subordinate just because they've made a fortune? Would I sacrifice a comrade who's followed me for years just because of a few idle words from Philadelphia reporters?"
"No!"
Warren's voice resonated in the ears of everyone present.
"Why does Chad Evans earn $600,000 a year? Because he understands the industry! Because he knows better than anyone how to fight those environmental fanatics in Washington who are always thinking about shutting down your factories and banning your mining!"
"Because every penny he saved for this company in compliance costs ultimately went into your salaries and the ceaseless roar of this drilling rig!"
Warren pointed to the group of workers.
"Do you know how many new regulations those guys at the Environmental Protection Bureau came up with last year? Three hundred! A full three hundred! Every single one of them is telling your boss: Close down, get out, stop digging that damn rock here!"
"Those people sitting in air-conditioned rooms have never stepped in mud or smelled natural gas in their lives. They just look at the data on their computers, then slap their foreheads and say: Oh, for the sake of the earth, for the sake of polar bears, these thousand wells in Pennsylvania must be shut down."
The workers' expressions changed.
Anger welled up on their faces; they knew that feeling all too well.
Every shutdown for inspection, every new emission standard, means reduced bonuses, or even layoffs.
Warren's voice grew louder and louder, even drowning out the roar of the machines in the distance.
"If it weren't for someone like Chad Evans, someone who understands policy, law, and knows how to circumvent those damn rules, helping him navigate the company—"
Warren pointed sharply to the ground beneath his feet.
"This factory should have closed down last June! Those machines are rusted by now! And you guys should be standing in line at the employment center collecting welfare benefits right now!"
"Murphy accused him of taking money to do things. Yes, he did take money! But he did something crucial to protecting Pennsylvania's energy industry!"
"If someone can keep your jobs and keep this place going, shouldn't they be paid a high salary? Should we punish them just because they succeeded?"
Warren's eyes turned incredibly fierce, like an old wolf guarding its prey, staring intently at the camera as if he were looking directly at Murphy through the screen.
"I will not abandon Chad Evans, just as I would never abandon any of you."
"That's my rule, Russell Warren's rule—as long as you're contributing to this state, as long as you're one of us, I'll always have your back!"
Someone in the press box tried to interject and steer the conversation back to a moral issue: "But Senator, this still doesn't change the fact that it's a transaction of money and power—"
"Shut up!"
Warren turned around and roared, startling the young reporter into taking a half-step back.
"Money-for-power deals? Murphy calls this money-for-power deals?" Warren faced the workers, spreading his mud-covered hands. "I call this survival!"
He jumped off the wooden crate and walked straight into the group of workers. His bodyguards nervously tried to follow, but he waved them away.
He grabbed the shoulder of a middle-aged worker with a full beard.
The worker's work clothes were covered in black oil stains, and he was carrying a thermos cup with peeling paint.
"Tell me, buddy, what's your name?"
"Mike," the worker said somewhat hastily.
"Mike," Warren repeated, "Mike, do you have a wife? Do you have children?"
"Three children, two in school, one just learning to walk," Mike replied.
Warren nodded, his gaze sharpening as he stared directly at the camera.
"Did you hear that, Murphy? Three children. These three children need to eat, to be clothed, and to go to school. Mike needs this job, and all five hundred Mikes here need this job!"
Warren released Mike's shoulder, stood in the center of the crowd, and opened his arms as if embracing the muddy land.
"Murphy wants to shame you with his moral fastidiousness. He wants to tell you that the means to save this factory are dirty. He wants you to think that Evans's exploitation of loopholes for the company is a crime."
"Screw moral fastidiousness!"
Warren roared, veins bulging on his neck.
"When your bills are piled on the table, can morality pay for them? When your children are hungry, can Murphy's high morals conjure up bread?"
"Chad Evans took the money, that's true, but he was taking bullets for you!"
"He's on the front lines, using his methods to keep your jobs! We're playing a game with Washington, yes, it's a dirty game, it's complicated, but we're doing this so Mike can still get paid next month!"
The atmosphere at the scene was completely ignited.
The anger that had been suppressed in their hearts for so long, the anger of being marginalized by mainstream society and looked down upon by the elite class, found an outlet at this moment.
"That's right!"
Someone in the crowd shouted.
"Screw the Environmental Protection Agency!"
Then someone else shouted.
Warren jumped back onto the crate, looking down at everyone.
At that moment, with that dirty work jacket, he looked less like a politician and more like a leader of a rebellion.
"They say I'm unclean, they say the people around me are unclean."
Warren lifted his foot, showing off his mud-covered boots.
"Look at these shoes! In this place, if you want to work, if you want to move forward, you're bound to get covered in mud! Only those who do nothing but talk can keep their shoes spotless!"
"I want to tell John Murphy that you can attack me, you can attack Evans, but you can't take away these people's livelihoods."
"To keep every job here, I'd make a deal with the devil; I'd wallow in the mud!"
He suddenly swung his fist into the air.
"Because this is Pennsylvania! We don't play games! We only care about surviving!"
A brief pause.
Then, a huge cheer erupted like a gushing gas well.
"Warren! Warren! Warren!"
The workers raised their oil-stained hats and waved their fists, their faces, which had been numb with exhaustion, now flushed red.
In their eyes, that Chad Evans was no longer a greedy vampire.
Warren's words reshaped reality: Evans was an agent infiltrating the enemy, someone who was willing to get his hands dirty for the greater good.
But Murphy, the impeccably dressed man spouting moralistic platitudes, is the real enemy who wants to destroy their livelihoods.
The reporters' eardrums ached from the sound.
They held up their cameras and recorded this crazy scene.
In the footage, Warren, his face covered in sweat, stands in the mud, receiving a tidal wave of cheers from the workers.
A young female reporter stood on the periphery and witnessed this incredible scene. The expression on her face gradually changed from initial shock to a complex look.
She raised the microphone to the camera, her voice trembling with emotion: "This is a campaign rally, and things have completely exceeded everyone's expectations. Russell Warren hasn't shied away from the sharp allegations about bribery; instead, he's redefined them in a very compelling way."
"He told the workers that everything he did, even those deals that weren't exactly honorable to outsiders, was to protect the state's industrial lifeline. And the workers' reaction was simply breathtaking; they cheered, they went wild for this honesty."
Warren stood on high ground, looking down at the faces below, flushed with excitement.
He knew he had won his bet.
In this forgotten corner, the anxiety of survival is far more powerful than abstract moral principles.
He turned his head and looked at the reporter behind him who had asked a tricky question, his eyes cold and mocking.
"Any other questions?" Warren asked.
The reporter opened his mouth, looked at the burly workers glaring at him, and finally silently put down the microphone.
Warren sneered, turned around, jumped off the wooden crate, and walked back into the crowd.
This time, he was surrounded by workers, like a triumphant general.
Countless rough, large hands reached out and patted his back, then grasped his hands.
Mud smeared on his work jacket, but he didn't care. He even laughed and took a cheap cigarette from a worker, putting it in his mouth.
The lighter flame flickered in the twilight.
Warren took a deep drag of his cigarette, the acrid smoke filling his lungs.
He squinted, looking through the smoke at the gradually darkening horizon in the distance.
Murphy should be sitting in front of the TV watching the live broadcast right now.
Warren could picture the look of astonishment on that face.
Because mud is dirty and soft.
It can trap your feet, or it can become material for building barriers.
Most importantly, when everyone else is stuck in the mud, the person who is willing to take the lead and wallow in it is the hero.
Night fell completely.
Huge searchlights were turned on, illuminating the mining site as bright as day.
The drilling rig continued its tireless roar, extracting black wealth from the depths of the earth.
Warren's figure gradually disappeared among the workers, leaving only the still echoing cheers that lingered in the desolate valley for a long time.
The media's broadcast vans began packing up their equipment, and reporters edited their upcoming articles with complex expressions.
They had already come up with a title, although it wasn't the one they had envisioned before they came.
The mud of western Pennsylvania is etched in everyone's heart.
In Pittsburgh, Leo pressed the power button on the remote control.
The images on the television screen vanished instantly, and Warren's highly inflammatory shouts and the workers' frenzied cheers were abruptly cut off.
"He admitted it," Leo muttered to himself. "He laid everything out in the open."
Roosevelt's voice echoed in his mind, his tone grave: "He's a top-tier adversary, Leo. He knows how to manipulate people. In the eyes of those workers, a bandit who can snatch food from Washington's jaws is far more trustworthy than a gentleman who only talks the talk of morality."
Leo stood up and walked to the French windows.
"This battle is going to be tough." Leo tapped his fingers lightly on the window.
In western Pennsylvania, Warren took off his heavy mud boots.
He sat in the back seat of the van, his whole body aching.
Outside the car window, the massive shale gas field was receding.
"Boss, that speech was fantastic!" the assistant exclaimed excitedly from the front row. "That segment about the environmental bureaucrats is on X..."
It has already been viewed a million times.
Warren did not answer.
He looked down at his hands, which were covered in grime, with black grime under his fingernails that he couldn't get rid of no matter how hard he rubbed.
"Get me a bottle of water," Warren said.
The assistant handed me a bottle of Evian mineral water.
Warren unscrewed the bottle cap, poured the contents directly onto his hands, and scrubbed them vigorously.
The clear water, mixed with mud and sand, turned into a murky yellow, dripping onto the carpet.
He washed very hard, and his skin turned red from rubbing.
Only after the entire bottle of water was emptied did his hands barely reveal their original skin color.
Warren tossed the empty bottle aside, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.
He doesn't hate mud, but he doesn't like being dirty all the time either.
Once the purpose is achieved, the mud loses its value.
As for those Mikes who cheered for him just now, they'll have to keep rolling around in the mud tomorrow, while he will eventually return to clean Washington.
The car entered the gradually darkening highway and sped towards the next battlefield.