The return of José K., a hectic life
Crouched in a corner of his chiribitil, warming himself with a helpful self-hug, electric heater on minimum, we have to see how the poor energy companies suffer, forced by this vile government to raise our rates so that their leaders do not die of hunger, Our friend recognizes himself as fearful, crushed by panic, more afraid than Carracuca, horrified by this dark present and a future that he glimpses even more painful. It is no surprise, then, that he finds himself reluctant to look out onto the street, doubtful that his weak strength, as old as he is, will resist the onslaught of the terrifying reality.
José K. is clear. Already ruling, as of today, “the lion king, the richest person in the world, President Elon Musk, and his vice president, the billionaire gorilla Donald Trump,” in the words of John Carlin, and the union of both mythological beings, underpinned For its gangs of greedy billionaires, anything can be expected. True, in 2024, the leviathan with the orange pompadour obtained 77,268,289 votes, compared to 65,853,514 in 2016. Can so many human beings be wrong? Don’t even doubt it. Humanity is diverse and lovingly welcomes millions of cobblestones, bolonians, cacasenos and mamacallos. Even with a MAGA cap or precisely for wearing such a gadget. What will be the variety among the bipeds that exist, even those who like Pitingo, our friend reminds us.
We were saying about the tragicomic duo that tomorrow they come up with the idea of buying the Alpujarras, just because, because they want to, and they take them wrapped up. And whoever says that beautiful Granada enclave can extend it to the door of Alcalá, look at it, look at it, or to the Sagrada Familia, that one of these centuries will end.
Terror, fright, anguish. The barbarians can do everything, they destroy streets, cities, continents. Antarctica, of course, or the Panama Canal. However, their specialty is consciences, José K wisely warns us. We are the most powerful, the richest, the most ruthless. Who opposes us? Is there anyone there who tries to stop our flagrant superiority, little beings who look at us from your miserable condition of tiny specks of dust that barely dirty our mountains of gold, frankincense and myrrh? Do you say something? Silence, friend, I’ll fill your mouth with thousands and thousands of dollars. And they keep quiet, they do keep quiet. And if not, we’ll blow their heads off. For stubborn.
Multiple shudders because it is time for savages, says an enraged José K.. Improve the qualification, if it occurs to you, to name Benjamin Netanyahu, his battle-hardened generals, so neat, his ferocious ultra-religious ministers – how much god can there be in the brain of a beast? – and his brave soldiers. That is not a war. It is a crazy massacre that already counts nearly 50,000 Palestinians dead, for 2,000 Israelis, the balance is horrifying, bombs and rifles against an unarmed population, a third of them children, why stop at their young age, if we let them grow up tomorrow They will try to claim rights and lands, our possessions by divine right, outcasts that they are but who believe they are human beings with the same rights as us, the chosen people. At least, and there everyone sees it crystal clear, with no margin for error, the one chosen by the richest people on the planet, the world at their feet, massacre whatever they consider appropriate and, if they lack deadly weapons, right here, from Washington or any other place on the planet says that civilized people will happily supply them with the hammers they need to smash the heads of Palestinian babies. Let us console ourselves with this ceasefire that peace, properly speaking, will never come as long as cosmic impunity towards Israel remains alive. Are the Hamas militiamen also savage who stirred up the beast and lit the jar of horrors with that attack on October 7, 2023? Of course, our man despises the fanatics of both sides equally. To those in Tel Aviv, whatever they say in the Pentagon or the Elysée, too. Is the thing understood?
José K. has gone very far, he admits it, but entertained by these nightmares he has managed to get out to the sidewalk of his dirty street, the irrigation is for other neighborhoods, determined to enjoy for a little while this sun that still, what an aberration, It’s free. You have to be careful, he tells himself, more angry with every step of his modest walk, around the block and back to the tabuco. Let’s avoid, for example, stepping into the neighborhoods where the most excellent judges swarm, beings armed with a toga, fists and a lantern to go looking for reds to hit on. For what crimes? What abominable acts are they accused of? Don’t worry about that little thing; our imagination, overflowing and curly like Stephen King’s, will find the sin. Hidalgo, Peinado, Aguirre, Marchena, Llarena, García Castellón, José K. cries, how much honor on your coattails, how much fight in your bizarre hearts for the triumph of justice, truth, honesty and, above all, Oh, on the right, that angelic cloud of good people! Of course, with the consent or the repugnant silence – yes, repugnant – of the judicial and fiscal career, great champions of very high concepts, but who do not move a muscle when judicial miseries are dragged through the mud of shamelessness. Our man, for example, remembers that there is a Council of the Judiciary. Does this sound familiar to you? he asks rhetorically. How arduous your work, come meetings and more meetings to do nothing and let the snakes crawl at your feet as they please, do not come to complicate our lives with their problems!
Fear, you know, is free. But the hypochondriac has more reasons for his fears when he suffers, what a pity, very serious illnesses. That is why José K. tells us, the vein in his temple has already been marked, that we must also avoid walking through the Puerta del Sol in Madrid, that Miguel Ángel Rodríguez, MAR in the fight posters, walks around its surroundings and ambiguities free, always ready to defend, lance in the shipyard, old buckler, skinny nag – not his owner – and racing greyhound, the honor of his mistress, at his feet, lady countess, and of her handsome lover, that most honest man who invented ghost companies and defrauded the Treasury like you and I had a drink at the bar on the corner. So to defend the aforementioned great man and fill the crime scene with stinking smoke, he puts you, who was foolishly passing by, in a deadly lock, and as cocky as he is, he tramples you and also insults you. “I’m not going to hurt you, I’m just going to crush your brains,” Jack Nicholson whispered to Shelley Duvall in The Shining. But be careful, only José K. is encouraged, the faker and his henchmen believe, protected by their close friends, magistrates and pens, that they are going to get away with it. They won’t get it. The fraudster is the beloved gallant, the liar is his spokesperson, and at the center of the plot, the painful young lady who lives poorly in the attic. Said remains.
We were there when Catavenenos, an old friend of José K., appeared around the corner, with that green face that characterizes him, due to the many poisons he ingested, the result of his selfless vocation. He usually keeps our man up to date on the exploits of the other leg of shamelessness, the means of the right, and today he shows him a clipping of the ABCwhere one of its most scurrilous commentators, Juan Manuel de Prada, is called, criticizes the actions for the death of Franco and longs for his readers how well the Spaniards lived under the aegis of the bloody leader. Don’t get sick, friend Catavenenos, José K. tells you, there are things, like the bitterness of the artichoke, that have no solution. The Basques of Vocento believe that they are the owners, but in reality the ectoplasm of the Luca de Tena continues to rule in those dark waters, impossible to eradicate. It is the same specter that hired the plane for Franco to start the rebellion against the legal Republic, the same one that complied, humiliated neck, with Fraga’s orders to cover up, with the indignity of distorting with great typographical displays, a letter from the young Enrique Ruano to his psychiatrist to justify the vile murder of some savage police officers – the same term again – in the death throes of Francoism, that regime so beloved by the ABC from then on, the ABC today and, never doubt it, the ABC the future, if hell were infinite. Black ghosts always moving in a mess of colossal dimensions and extremely extensive in time.
“The stinkier the shit, the harder it is to clean it off the bottom of your shoe.” Quote from Pat, the secretary of the Cormoran Strike detective agency. A heart so blackby Robert Galbraith.
#Hail #Donald #hail #Elon #terrified #slaves #greet
