go abandoned and burnt Bowling House.
still feel the smell of burning flesh ...
using Naphtha and Kerosene found in the basement, soak the entrance, the wooden staircase, trying to spend a little below the entrance door to the house, where they were mutants.
As I let my father lit the fire? I should realize that it was not in condition and having no chance to get to the little bar liquor Volonté, had taken large amounts of kerosene.
With horror I watched as it became a fireball. I covered with a blanket off his clothes as fast as I could. The flames spread through the basement to an infernal speed. Press the control button to open the lab and entered dragging.
_Papá, do not worry ... you'll be fine.
_Hijo. It's my fault.
I looked into his eyes without understanding what he meant. _It
my fault that your mom died. _No
say that dad. The alcohol is to blame and that damn column got in your way.
_Hijo. Listen. Before he died I have two things to say.
_No daddy going to die ...!
_Escuchame carefully: First. Never trust a Uruguayan and a Jew. _If
dad ... and the second?
_Te love and know that you're adopted ....
_Adoptado ??!?!
were his last words. My father had died. Even
stunned by those last words, embrace your body defenseless-smoking and making sure I had everything (grenades, notebook, dollars, gas mask, map, a couple of flashlights and a tin can), I opened the hatch. I turned my head to see my old body for a few seconds through profuse tears and enter the tunnel.
often wished that my dad died. But it was a real desire. Rabies was passing by some punishment. Now I really was dead. I closed my eyes and endeavored review your image. I remembered when I was younger had to play football with Charlie and the other kids in the neighborhood. Longing
beat crumbling oblivion the recollections of people who we were, making them mythical. One sometimes wonders if he really existed or are the product of a beautiful dream.
Between sobs, cockroaches and filth, I followed the road map to indicate the "Garage." Remembering old ways of boys, try to mitigate the pain. The old bowling
Garage. How many stories! Ninety percent of them are countless. How many mines we got to the Black and the frog there? Many healthy drinking. Thousands of hours of dancing and lift.
At a time we left the cowboy boots. To me it occurred to me to cut the ignition of a match box and paste it into the block, on the inside (where it touches the ground). When asked us to fire a female, best cowboy, took out a match and to the surprise of her and the present, lit it with the mallet.
many came to ask how we were doing? As we laugh watching try the same thing? We never reveal the trick. It is the beauty of inventing something new. Can only be yours forever.
some time, those memories were ghosts of an abandoned bowling sad.
To reach the hotel the building, entered through a ventilation duct. I was easy to find. Was sealed. To have wanted that map and the tunnel Volonté? I could barely walk.
Damn! Bowling could not enter. The end of the pipeline was sealed by a grid. Luckily I could look through it. It was not what I expected to see. The interior was remodeled and was a luxury mansion. Stolen goods? Could not be. He was ordained to live. Luxury home was hidden from anyone.
held my breath to receive income from a group of well dressed men. Two settled into the living room of the house and six others were positioned Brawny watching. They were gangsters? Because so watch?
One I recognized immediately. He was elected Mayor of Gualeguaychú, Juan José Bahia. The other seemed a familiar gray. He knew, but did not know where.
After a very pleasant chat, the grizzled hand over a briefcase to the mayor. It was full of bills! The era? Twenty million dollars?
a bitch! I had voted in Bahia and now he saw that it was a corrupt, like everyone else.
The current mayor (Irigoyen), he was indicted by a joke in the treasury of the quartermaster. Roughly a thousand missing dollars. Not that kind of stole, was the treasurer, but the same process.
I almost swallowed his tongue upon hearing the final courtesy of Mayor-elect:
_It a pleasure doing business with you, "Patron."
"Pattern"? In Gchu. there was one person known as "El Patron". Many years ago I saw him last. Walking in the city center. He was fond of Gchu. Such was the power he had, no one contradicted him. Everyone called him "The Master".
He owned many companies, which had a certified mail that used to traffic drugs. It was a mafia boss. Once he was photographed by a "Heads" which later appeared executed and burned.
When all evidence pointed to him as the mastermind of the murder charge, he shot himself with a shotgun. The face was unrecognizable and many say that much like a tramp he disappeared in these days of Gchu.
was true what he was seeing? Was this Yabrán with 10 years and a few surgeries? Old Volonté
had these tunnels to hoard evidence and strike back at those who extorted? Perhaps the awkward pasito Volonté was like limping dog or the cry of women. Pure lies.
Through the gap I can not go and although I could not risk being discovered by the thugs Yabrán. Back the tunnel to hide. The cemetery rule it out. Is too far away to walk in a squatting position. I need to find a safe place to leave without being seen. I return to my grandmother to find out about my true identity. I know who I really am.
Where do I go? (can select more than one).
(Click to enlarge)
Help
voting ( the survey is right, earlier in this blog ).
help me God. I still feel the smell of burning flesh ...
0 comments:
Post a Comment