Let’s use the motto: friend Pedro, make it happen. It can only get worse. The bad is already the good, it’s over. There are no more tricks in your ratty top hat, no more stupid tricks in your green sleeves. There are no pirouettes or impossible mats on which … get back on your feet. There are no unforced errors on the part of the Turuleca opposition that will get you out of this, there are no more pacts with this devil that you have managed to make him suspicious of you. There are no little inventions, no pot meals, or synchronized choreographies that stop the bleeding of the faithful. There aren’t enough cheesy talk shows that can scream whatever trashy narrative you’re devising. Your mental Falcon is running out of runway and no matter how hard you try to pretend you’re still taking off, turbulence signals a crash landing. Collision, accident, survival, cannibalism.
There is no other way out of this alley than agony, which is the passage that will lead you to your scaffold. She hates you to the point of lying, hurt because you no longer pamper her, because your situation has broken your romance. No, Pedro, there are no demoscopic stoves that can hide this stench of decomposition of the infamous sum that you collected for nothing, this subtraction carried out which only multiplied your ruin and divided the country. No, comrade, there are no Tezanos or Redondos to clean and make up this mud. Because you don’t paint on mud, because mud stains and you’re lost. There is no creativity capable of distorting the indigestible banquet of facts and scandals.
Every day you go without casting the ballot boxes increases the cruelty of your end. Why this extension if there is no ball to take penalties? Why castrate the future if your past is catching up with you left and right. There’s no point invoking that fanged wolf you’ve manipulated so much as your namesake in the fable. You are part of him, you have camped in his mouth. You can’t disguise yourself as Ché either, the train of this nonsense has passed. They debate the comedy and the disgust of seeing you crawling behind this fugitive, who is progressive as Salazar is feminist. Page explained it the other day; If they humiliated you standing up, how could they not humiliate you on your knees? This will be your ironic epitaph, Commander Sánchez.
You’re not even trying to sugarcoat the despair. Hypocrisy has exploded out of control. The feminism of the brothel, the fly, the bracelet and the camouflage haunts you. The anti-corruption fight of chistorras, lettuce and suns. Organizational secretaries, the plumber, the prosecutor and relatives. Yes, in your final delirium you will surely invoke beatings and chases, but this joker has already disenchanted even the fanatics. You have lost your conviction, and soon, very soon, they will deny you, Peter, just as you denied knowing this rock on which you built the Church of mediocrity and absurdity. Before long, they’ll swear you didn’t exist.
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