jeudi, septembre 23, 2004


He was missing for three days now and what he did we did not know.

I was in a motel in front of a typewriter tryin’ to get my thoughts right. Tryin’ to make some senses out of my stupid dreams of ambitiousness.

You know Macbeth? Shakespeare?. No. You know, the act I the most appreciate? the third one, the act of treason.

When I was writing there was this song on the radio… I taped it and listened to it over and over… The song was El despeiro.

It was a night like all the other nights at the British hotel. Alcohol was flowing, women were lovin’ me boss was strayin’ to get thing’s right for everyone. What a good boss he was. Indeed.

He was missing for three days
He was missing for three days
He was missing for three…

And what he did? we did not know.

But a night like all the other night when the boss was trying to get things right for everyone…
As usual.

He appears in the British hotel

He appears armed… death on his mind. But not any kind of death… the death of my boss.

When I was in front of this stupid typewriter, trying to get my thoughts right… trying to get the fuckin’ machine to work… He jumped me, the boss; he tried to make me pay for his errors… Well let me tell you one thing. It’s not happening. IT IS NOT HAPPENING!

So he entered the bar after three days off. Armed.

The silence.

The crowd fleeing the place, smelling the disaster to come.

The silence, harsh silence.

My boss turning around to face his visitor.

Him, walking slowly, death on his mind.

No sound.

My boss showing a slight smile.

Him raising his right arm.

My boss getting up.

Me, already up.

No flicker, the seconds elapsing slowly, almost stopping.

Him shooting and shooting and shooting.

The boss falling to the ground, arms wide open welcoming.

Me not doing anything… my hand and my face, my face and my hand my body washed by the blood of my nurturer.

Him escaping, my boss’s death on his mind, me falling to the ground

No sound.

Black out.

Me, awaking with his gun, the gun of the third act.

Me, judged to be a murderer. Not understanding.

Me, on the death chair, but not any kind of death.

Me as him, as them, as us.

All dying at the same time, at the same place for the same reason.


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