STOP YOUR PRESSES AND HOLD ON TO YOUR SEATS BECAUSE WHAT WE’RE ABOUT TO TELL YOU IS HOTTER THAN ASPHALT AT NOON AND RAWER THAN REALITY ITSELF!
HELL HAS A NAME! THE SEWER BEHIND THE “SEE MORE” CLICK THAT LEFT US ALL WITH OUR HEART ON OUR EYES IS EXPOSED. BLOOD, LUXURY, AND A TRAGEDY THAT COULD UNLEASH A WAR IN THE STREETS!
MAIN HEADLINE: THE “PRINCE OF NARCO” IS OVER! THE IDENTITY OF THE JUNIOR WHO WAS TORN TO PIECES IN HIS HALF-MILLION DOLLAR TOY IS CONFIRMED. THE CITY IS TREMBLING BECAUSE THE DEAD MAN IS THE FAVORITE SON OF “THE BOSS OF EVIL”!
SHOCKING SUBTITLE: The mysterious message that chilled your blood on your phone: “Fatal accident, son of…see more loses his life,” wasn’t a macabre game or cheap clickbait. It was the prelude to horror. Today, the pavement of the city’s most exclusive highway is stained with blue blood…deep blue, like his father’s power. Find out the truth that the mainstream media doesn’t dare to tell for fear!
BY: “THE MACHINE WRECKER” RAMÍREZ / RED CHRONICLE FROM THE DEVIL’S KILOMETER
CITY OF FURY.– Oh my! If you, kind reader with a tough stomach and nerves of steel, thought you had seen it all in this concrete jungle where life is worth less than a hard roll, let me tell you that this morning Death put on expensive heels and went out to collect a big bill.
Our phones all vibrated last night, didn’t they? We were having dinner or watching a series, and suddenly, that damn notification with letters changed to trick the algorithms: “Fatal acc1dente p1erde la v1da el h1j0 de…ver más” .
We were hooked, morbidly curious, our hearts pounding. Whose son? The son of a corrupt politician? The son of a washed-up soap opera star? Well, hold on tight, folks! Because the truth behind those three dots is enough to make your pants fall off.
The setting was the toll highway that connects the most upscale area of the capital with the wealthy suburbs, the one where ordinary cars look like ants next to the supercars that speed by. It was a little after 3:00 in the morning. The road was deserted, a deadly invitation for those who think the laws of physics don’t apply to them.
What happened was not an accident, my friends, it was a massacre of iron and arrogance!
THE CHRONICLE OF A DEATH AT 300 KM/H: WHEN MONEY CAN’T BUY LIFE
Witnesses—truckers still trembling and swearing they saw the devil himself—say it wasn’t a car, it was a missile. A toxic green Lamborghini Huracán , one of those that costs more than you and I will earn in ten lifetimes, was racing.
Against whom? Rumor has it, against a red Ferrari that managed to escape. They were going incredibly fast, playing at being real-life Toretto. The speedometer, according to the initial reports (which were leaked because here everything gets out), showed over 280 kilometers per hour. Holy shit! At that speed you don’t drive, you practically fly.
And then, the mistake happened. A blink, a treacherous pothole, or perhaps the excess of “magic powder” and expensive alcohol that, according to gossip, the driver had in his system.
The Lambo lost control right on the curve known as “La Quebradora.” The car didn’t turn; it was launched like a cannonball. It flew, literally flew, my friends, jumping over the retaining wall and crashing head-on, without braking, into the concrete base of a pedestrian bridge.
THE BLOW WAS HEARD THREE NEIGHBORHOODS AROUND!
Physics is a cruel bitch. The carbon fiber, space-age car was reduced to a smoking metal accordion. The V10 engine was ejected fifty meters. And inside… Oh my! Inside, it was enough to make you weep blood.
HELL ON THE ROAD AND THE ARRIVAL OF “THE HEAVY GUYS”
We arrived at the scene just as the first police units and ambulances were arriving. The scene was horrific. It looked like a bomb had gone off. The smell was a pungent mixture of spilled high-octane gasoline, burnt rubber, and that unmistakable sweet, metallic aroma of recent death.
The firefighters were using the Jaws of Life to pry open what was left of the cab. There was no medical rush, if you know what I mean. The driver, a young man no more than 25 years old, dressed in designer clothes now stained with red and oil, had died instantly. “He’s unrecognizable, boss,” a paramedic, pale as wax, told me, “not even his mother will want to see him like this.”
But this is where things got really complicated, folks.
While we vulture reporters were taking photos from behind the yellow tape, the atmosphere suddenly changed. The air grew heavy.
Out of nowhere, black SUVs began to arrive. Suburbans and Tahoes, armored to the teeth, with windows tinted darker than Judas’s conscience. They pulled over abruptly, ignoring the police.
Men in suits, like walking wardrobes, got out, with earpieces in their ears and bulges under their jackets that were clearly not lunchboxes. They were professional bodyguards. No, I take that back: they were high-level hitmen with badges.
They started pushing the municipal police officers, who shrank into the distance. They covered the cameras. “Come on, you sons of bitches, go fuck yourselves, there’s nothing to see here!” shouted the head of security, a man with a mean face and a scar across his mouth.
THE MYSTERY IS REVEALED: THE CRY OF THE “BUCHONA” AND THE WRATH OF THE BOSS
And then, from one of the most luxurious SUVs, a stunning young woman got out, dressed as if for a party, but with mascara running from crying. Her heart-wrenching screams broke the early morning silence. “My baby! Don’t tell me it’s my baby!” she howled as she tried to run toward the twisted metal, only to be stopped by two gorillas.
It was there, amidst the woman’s screams and the dry orders of the armed men, that what was rumored in the “See more” section was confirmed.
The body trapped in the wreckage of the Lamborghini was none other than Iván “El Ivanzitro” Beltrán , the youngest son, the favorite, the heir to the throne of none other than Don Nemesio Beltrán, alias “El Señor de los Cerros” , the most wanted and feared drug lord in the entire northern region of the country.
BOOM! There was the bombshell.
“El Ivanzitro,” known on Instagram for flaunting stacks of dollars, pet lions, and parties with international models. The rich kid who thought the world was his and that the rules didn’t apply to him. Last night, the road proved him wrong.
FEAR GRIPS THE CITY: WHAT NEXT?
Within minutes, the armed men secured the scene. They took the cell phones of two paramedics who had taken photos. Rumor has it they even threatened the public prosecutor to prevent the body from being taken to the regular morgue. They took it away themselves in a luxury hearse that appeared out of nowhere.
The official police, overwhelmed and humiliated, could only watch. They knew they weren’t in charge there.
Today, the city awoke to a tense calm, the kind that precedes a nasty storm. They say Don Nemesio is devastated, but also furious. Who was in the other car, the Ferrari that crashed? If it was a rival who set him up to cause the accident, hold on tight, because all hell is about to break loose and the streets will run red.
If it was just the stupidity of two juniors playing with death… well, the lesson remains, written in blood and millions of dollars turned to scrap metal.
Look, money buys a lot of things: fast cars, beautiful women, power. But it doesn’t buy immortality, and it won’t save you from hitting a concrete wall at 300 miles per hour.
Today there’s a drug lord crying in his fortified mansion, and a junior executive who will no longer post stories on his social media. The road, that damned devourer of men, doesn’t discriminate based on surnames.
We’ll keep reporting, unless they try to silence us for telling the truth! Watch your back and drive carefully, because life doesn’t come with spare parts! Over and out!
