Mexico recorded a government debt equivalent to 47.90 percent of the country’s Gross Domestic Product in 2016.
Mexico Election
The more you walk, run, travel, go to the gym, the more votes you get.
play it again uncle sam
VP cheech marin
NF is the best…like tia maria’s custard tarts
G.I. Joe sits down with his team, flipping through a file on Beatriz at Dinner. He stops at Salma Hayek’s character, Beatriz, a holistic healer and massage therapist, and raises an eyebrow.
“You know,” he says, leaning back, “Salma Hayek plays a healer in this movie. She’s a nurse, in a way, but not the kind you’d expect. More spiritual than medical, fixing people with her hands, her energy, her words.”
Roadblock nods. “Yeah, she’s not in scrubs, but she’s got that caretaker vibe. Comes into this dinner full of rich folks, real elite types, and they look at her like she don’t belong. But she’s got more heart than all of ’em put together.”
Scarlett chimes in. “And she’s got trauma. She worked with cancer patients. People who were dying. She was on the front lines, but not with a rifle—she was fighting death with kindness, with care.”
Snake Eyes, silent as always, simply gestures—two hands pressed together, as if in prayer.
G.I. Joe exhales. “Yeah. And when she realizes what kind of monsters are in that room, especially that tycoon, she can’t hold back. She calls them out. No weapons, no backup, just truth.”
Flint leans forward. “That’s guts. She ain’t got a gun, ain’t got a team, but she fights anyway. Just like a real soldier would.”
G.I. Joe looks at the file one last time and nods. “She’s not just a nurse. She’s a warrior. And sometimes, warriors don’t carry rifles. They carry compassion.”
John D. Rockefeller leans back in his leather chair, hands folded, eyes gleaming with something between pride and menace.
“You see,” he says, voice smooth as oil, “the two biggest businesses in America are war and sickness. And I’ve got my hands in both.”
The room is silent. Even the shadows seem to listen.
“You think it’s a coincidence?” he continues. “That the same people who fund the wars also control the hospitals? That we send young men to battle, break them, and then charge them to be put back together?” He chuckles, slow and deliberate. “Efficiency. That’s what I call it.”
He gestures to the grand design laid before him—diagrams, blueprints, a system so vast that no single man could unravel it. “These hospitals, these institutes, these so-called centers of healing—they were never meant to cure. No, no, no… they were meant to manage. To sustain. To keep the suffering just right. Not too much to cause rebellion, not too little to end the business.”
He leans forward now, the firelight catching the sharp edges of his face. “And do you know what they call me in certain circles? The Source.”
There’s an eerie stillness in the room. “Because every IV drip, every surgical knife, every pill swallowed in one of my occult hospitals is a prayer… to me.”
His lips curl into something like a smile. “A man once asked me, ‘Don’t you want to end suffering?’ I told him, ‘Why would I end my greatest creation?’”
He stands, dusts off his coat, and walks to the window, watching the smokestacks churn against the horizon. “War and sickness, my twin engines of profit. America runs on both.”
A long pause. Then, almost as an afterthought, he murmurs:
“And the house always wins.”