Chapter 210: Football Hooligans? Go to Hell!

Since the mid-1980s, when Prime Minister Thatcher ordered a crackdown on football hooliganism, the results became quite evident over the following decade. However, the lower-league environment in which Manchester City was located at the time gave the "Guvnors" just enough space to survive—barely.

The crackdown on football hooligans also varied depending on the league level, especially after the establishment of Premier League. This corporate league naturally didn’t want hooligans tarnishing its brand value. But with limited police resources across the UK and most matches taking place simultaneously on weekends, it was clear that on match days, the majority of police forces would be deployed to maintain order at Premier League games.

As a result, the hooligan organizations affiliated with Premier League clubs were the first to be heavily targeted, followed by those connected to First Division teams.

Richard arrived at St Thomas’ Hospital in Bermondsey, London.

Although early reports claimed that only O’Neill was injured, those accounts were based on immediate eyewitness statements from the scene. They didn’t reflect the later government consensus, which revealed that the actual number of injuries was significantly higher.

The room fell silent once more, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner. Looking at everyone around him, Richard felt a wave of suffocation wash over him—as if the pain of every injured person there was his own. It was the same sharp sting he remembered from crashing into the goalpost, now wrapping around him like an invisible weight.

"Richard, are you okay?"

Seeing him sway, Marina quickly grabbed his hand.

"I’m... yeah, I’m okay," he managed, though his voice wavered.

His eyes scanned the room once again, taking in the weary faces, and a fierce fire ignited deep within his chest, rising with a surge of restless energy.

Without hesitation, he knew he had to get out.

Near the hospital gate, a taxi waited by the roadside. A panicked woman burst from the car, stumbling toward the hospital entrance. Then Richard caught sight of a young man—a familiar face.

The same man who’d joked and laughed with him during City’s match against Brentford

(Chapter 166).

Richard quickly hid himself in the shadows. He didn’t want anyone to see him.

Initially, football hooligans no longer dared to fight near stadiums, as most football grounds in England—and the surrounding areas—were now under constant surveillance. And it wasn’t just the stadiums; cameras had been installed near key buildings and important public spaces throughout the city, making it nearly impossible to cause trouble without being caught.

No one expected the Bushwackers to make a scene—let alone for the Guvnors to ambush and beat them down in public, right at London Bridge.

The next day, the River Group was hosting a major event in Manchester, and Richard’s old friend Fay—knowing he wouldn’t always get the chance to see him—decided to say hello.

But when Fay arrived at Maine Road, he was taken aback. How could it be so quiet?

With no other choice, he went up to the CEO’s office—and sure enough, Miss Heysen was there.

"Oh, I actually saw Richard on my way here," she said. "He told me he needed to see a friend... hmm, what was his name again? Bennion? Yes, that’s it."

"Andrew Bennion?" The moment Fay heard the name, his expression changed. "Was he alone?" he asked sharply.

"No—he was with Marina. Why? What’s going on?"

To her, the name Andrew Bennion meant little. But to Fay—who had lived in London and had witnessed firsthand the chaos football hooligans had brought since his days as a bookmaker—it meant something very different.

Bennion wasn’t just a name. He was the organizer of the Guvnors.

Fay groaned. "Damn football. They just can’t stay out of it, can they?" He turned abruptly, already moving to chase after Richard. "If anything happens to him... damn it. We have to bring him back. Goddamn it!"

"Hey, hey, Fay! What’s going on?!"

But Fay was already gone—running far into the distance.

"..."

Ah shit, it seems like something’s about to happen.

Richard knew where these people usually gathered—none other than the bar owned by Ric Turner, the owner of MCFC BlueMoon, the Manchester City fan website.

The car slowly stopped in front of the bar.

"Thank you for your help," Richard said over the phone, addressing Johansson of UEFA.

"No worries," came the reply—casual and clipped.

The line went dead.

Richard slowly set the phone down.

Richard, once again, felt thankful that everything had happened in the Den, not in Maine Road. With the result of a 10-point deduction, he was already satisfied. He had achieved what he set out to do and had no further intention of extending his influence here.

"Richard, we’re here," Marina whispered quickly, glancing toward him through the rearview mirror.

Richard nodded as he looked toward the bar. He could see shadows of people flickering against the orange glow that spilled through the windows, the light dancing like flames.

BANG!

Someone was suddenly thrown out of the door, shocking both Richard and Marina instantly.

"What happened?!"

Inside the bar, everything was in chaos.

"Carl! Fuck! You and your blazing squad! Are you out of your mind? Didn’t we already agree to a truce?!"

But the other party wasn’t listening. He kept throwing punch after punch.

"Fuck you! Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear what I just said? You scum!"

When Richard cautiously stepped into the bar, he was taken aback.

In the corner, two men were locked in a brutal fight—and he recognized both of them.

One was Andrew Bennion, and the other was Carl Morran. Both were organizers of Manchester City’s hooligan firms—and now, they were tearing each other apart.

As Richard scanned the room, his eyes landed on Ric Turner, the bar’s owner, calmly smoking by the corner. Turner caught his gaze and, recognizing him, gave a subtle nod and beckoned him over.

"Why so calm?" Richard asked as he approached. "What exactly happened here?"

Turner shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Don’t worry—I’ve got it all covered by insurance." He took a slow drag from his cigarette before continuing, "It’s just Morran. The kid’s been picking off Guvnors one by one ever since they caused that mess at London Bridge the other day."

Richard was at a loss for words.

Back to the fight—

Bennion grabbed Moran by the collar, his voice sharp and furious. "Carl, you promised you wouldn’t interfere with what we do!"

Morran snarled, grinding his teeth. "Yeah, I said that. But I also warned you not to drag innocent people into this mess." His eyes burned with anger. "Now I wish I’d beaten every last one of you. While City’s fighting tooth and nail for promotion, you lot are out there brawling with outsiders—nearly ruining everything we’ve worked for!"

"You bastards! They tore the City flag to shreds! They destroyed our honor—"

"Don’t you dare talk about honor around me!"

"..."

Richard glanced over at Turner. "Do they do this often?"

Turner shrugged. "Yeah, but it’s the first time they’ve fought inside the bar."

"Can you turn off the CCTV for me?"

"Already done." Turner said, then something suddenly clicked in his mind. "Wait, why do you ask? What do you want to do?"

But Richard was already walking toward the two men locked in a brutal rear naked choke, holding a bottle wrapped in tissue to avoid leaving fingerprints. Just as Morran was about to pass out from Bennion’s grip, suddenly—

SMASH!

Richard swung the bottle, smashing it against Bennion’s head.

"THIS IS FOR OUR COACH!"

Before Bennion could react, Richard grabbed a second bottle.

SMASH!

"THIS IS FOR ALL THE WOMEN AND OLDER FOLKS YOU’VE WRONGED!"

SMASH!

"THIS IS FOR STUPIDLY FIGHTING IN LONDON BRIDGE AND INNOCENT CHILDREN GETTING HURT! Is that what you call honor? THIS is your f*cking honor?"

Richard’s hands trembled as he reached for another bottle—but there were none left. He felt ashamed and guilty that he had never taken action against this group, instead waiting until such an incident happened.

He felt remorse and anger for not being able to stop their actions in time.

"F**king imbeciles! I regret not calling the police to have all you sons of b*tches arrested! While my team was fighting with blood and tears, you lot ruined it with your bloody brawls! And now what? Your men threw bricks that hit innocent people! You and those Millwall bastards ruined everything!"

"..."

Turner stood stunned and speechless, while Marina, who had been about to dial the police, froze in place.

’Damn it... If she’d known things would spiral like this, there’s no way she would’ve agreed to come without a bodyguard.’

The pub, which had just been as noisy as a coliseum, suddenly fell silent. Everyone stared at the newcomer in shock, and the flag they had held sacred—the sky blue banner with the Manchester City emblem and the words "Honor is my name"—fell to the floor.

Of course, the first to react were the Guvnors boys.

"You bastards!" one of them shouted as he tore the flag in half. A hiss of outrage rippled through the crowd.

Under the influence of alcohol, those who had drunk too much clamored to rush forward and teach the ungrateful Richard a lesson. But Bennion, who had just released Morran from a chokehold, stood up while Morran gasped for air.

"You’d better explain yourself, punk, or else! I don’t give a damn who you are!" Bennion growled through gritted teeth. "This is our turf!"

"Stop wasting time talking to him, Andrew! Let’s beat him up! That bastard’s gone too far!"

"I’ll send you straight to hell! Just like you tore our flag, I’ll tear you to pieces!"

"How dare you insult our honor! When we cheered for the team, you were still in your dad’s balls, asshole!"

"Sons of b

tches! You’re all f

cking bastards!"

Bennion’s men roared and shook their fists like beasts about to be unleashed from a cage. They looked fierce and abhorrent.

Thankfully, Turner jumped in just as the tension reached its breaking point.

"Wait—wait! This is Richard Maddox!" he shouted, voice cutting through the room. "You can’t lay a hand on him!"

Richard wasn’t just any man—he was the bar’s biggest investor, the backbone of their operations both here and on the website, and more importantly, Britain’s youngest billionaire...

As expected, the bar fell silent once more upon realizing that the newcomer was none other than Richard Maddox. And Richard showed no fear as he faced the rowdy, drunken crowd.

"A kid is in critical condition in the hospital right now. If he dies, then you’re all his murderers!"

"..."

Everyone froze in place. "What are you talking about?" was the only thing they could manage to say.

If someone was injured in the Den, it wasn’t them—because before the Bushwackers invaded the pitch, they had already been surrounded by security and couldn’t get in.

Richard sneered coldly. "Go ahead, enjoy yourselves here in the bar, drinking and celebrating all you want. But let me tell you this—whoever threw those bricks at London Bridge yesterday, those stones hit an innocent child."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.

"That child is now fighting for his life because of you. So don’t fool yourselves thinking this is just some game. This is real. Real lives are at stake."

The room grew heavier, the laughter fading into uneasy silence as Richard’s words cut through the noise like a knife.

Seeing the bar fall deathly silent, Richard sneered, "Football hooligans? Go to hell!"