Casare kicked the other man's face in frustration. He was a cop, a front-line cop. Just because he was more second-line recently didn't mean he had gone rusty.
Could someone become a jail guard in Mexico without a few tricks up their sleeve?
Dragging the man by the neck, he pulled him in front of the Mexican flag, yelling, "Pick it up! I told you to pick it up! Pick up the flag!"
The Spaniard's nose was askew, dazed, like a dead dog.
With a backhand slap from Casare, the Spaniard, who was already staggering, lost a few teeth.
"What are you doing! What is this!"
Two men dressed in Spanish military uniforms pushed their way through the crowd and ran over. Seeing the plight of their comrade on the ground, they pointed at Casare and shouted.
Fat Casare let go, the Spaniard collapsed to the ground, and he laughed before delivering a kick to the man's head.
Undoing the buttons on his suit jacket, he walked up to the two soldiers, squinting, "Hitting someone, can't you see?"
