The boss of the "Speed Cycling Party" in the west of the city sent someone to give me an ultimatum, asking me to hand over all my supplies and women and serve him as a dog.
He has more than a thousand men, drives modified muscle cars, wields machetes and steel pipes, and is the king of this wasteland.
What about me? I only have a hundred people and a crappy museum.
He laughed at me.
I didn't reply.
The next day, I asked my "Tiger and Leopard Rider" to lay trip wires on the road.
Then, there is no more.
When the iron hoofs of the pure-blood war horses shattered the hood, and when the cold horse's shaft penetrated the so-called "boss", the people in the wasteland finally understood a truth:
In the face of absolute military discipline and tactics, the mob is just a number.
