You also would think you were in a coffin, right?
Well, I do not: I do.
So what was it: Before he was alive and now dead. No white light, no official reception, no speedy trial, no nothing.
"I felt bad, and I felt good? No matter: he was dead, and all I could think of was that I had a desire smoking unbearable.
- These ceporros, I told myself ... with the anger that you have the truffle-no, I had no doubt: I had taken for him, certainly have not cared nor embalsabarme. Not by putting on a suit-and this fact was confirmed by the tissue that I touched the skin, which was obviously my tracksuit. So with a little luck, I still carry the snuff in your pocket.
tried searching but could not move my arms. Of course, pussy. How could I move? He was dead, dammit.
Still, I felt a tingle running through his hands. And I tried, and yes, was moving his fingers. He was touching my pants above. And no, it was the bulk of snuff.
- Hey, I said then. Not so fast. The same thing had been buried with your mobile phone. Call these bastards. Do not try to tell the truth, because in any case not going to believe, wearing the red cloak, what do you want? - But maybe with a little luck, you buy snuff and I'll bring. Or leave the foot of your grave. Do not say that they like it cold cuts? Maybe one of those weird laws that govern the other dimension, it is as if you had left inside. Would not it fucking great? An eternity to snuff. Today, I ask only that: an eternity with snuff.
Suddenly, nothing was as hard as it looked. I moved my hands, I looked. But no, the mobile phone was not.
Come on, I had already gone to another neighborhood, and not a sad package of Fortuna. Even with a blond Ducados, I would be happy.
So I began to mourn. They say that with the transition to the afterlife, at least, is just the putadas ... and a cock! For me, it was every bit as disgusting as ever. Does my pain was gone? Did the tears were gone? Perhaps-and this was the worst, I had taken Whores urge to smoke?
In one of those strange associations of ideas we sometimes happen to the unfortunate, the fever, dice back by fate, because yes, could be associated ideas as you can guess I really was not dead but alive and kicking, but not kicking, it occurred to me to the best-or worst, properly speaking, the god who sent in this world, that of the dead, was Mercedes Mila. I was returning the cheese! You wanted smoking, child? Well now you fuck! You'll have mono until after five!
And that it does not. Because in all my transformations, in all my suffering, all those minutes spent in the room of my parents' house, in front of the poster Sabrina Salerno, no wife, no children, no job, no identity, at least I never missed one thing: the snuff.
Or could be, I thought, sinking more, even more, which is that now I was in hell and hell was this: stay alive but no cigarettes, no voice, can move only his hands.
and pissing on it. And cagándome above, which was what would happen when I came the desire. And no one to protest, something unthinkable for a Valencian.
But then, in abject poverty, a ray of light. A glimmer of hope. The beast of meat that stretches for the last time I tried ...
touch my jam. But no, not that he would enjoy. So I decided to sleep, it seemed that the deli yes they are allowed.
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