'm so free-spirited than traveling long distances at night in my gray horse-mounted four-cylinder completely lunatic, drunk and maybe even a bit dreamy and charismatic. Sometimes I pick up my friends, the whores of the Guerrero or my junkie warriors of the underworld. I enjoy the cold air that hits my face as the speed increases, cuts it and makes my lips turn cold and raspy. I openly mock law enforcement officers only quasi-face look at me with depression, or mulling guessing maybe my destiny.
And I get to where bullet holes. There is no other way to describe the worlds but are always visible and tangible underground.
at something that I keep my eye seems to divine which side doors open to give a slight push to explore what lies behind: naked bodies, sweaty, smelly copulating, fusing their cells through their encouragement and vital liquid.
She holds my hand hastily, find a room where an intruder comes in terror: a black rat feet long fed his fangs showing angry about our daring curiosity. We left a little comforting warm bed and full of bugs.
And our bodies lie down next to each other to look at the ceiling where I see what should be the surface ... very far away. Inhale and exhale cigarette smoke coca mixed with marijuana that we share: we are kissing through it.
She strips showing her white and cadaverous body from lack of light. My heart beats fast excited but stops suddenly to hear is sixty dollars.
and opens her legs and a foul odor rises from the center of creation. Penetrate her with my erect member and a gas soon begins to invade the environment, I see it, smell it and I gather that is lethal. The buffeting by insolent action, run the room. I get high just a whore does not deserve to die.
When I leave I realize that the nocturnal creatures, those devils indulgent vices watching me. Trying to flee disappeared from her luminous eyes but one of them I can see, with a kick to me heels scraping on the ground tomb, is mounted over me and kisses me warmly on the mouth touching my body and trying to envision a hole, something which can get the magic it brings. After struggling a while I inserted a thin line of white powder through the nose ... when the vacuum is that I am ready.
And I go to the surface, back into the air. But I still feel like I need more, always need more. The memory of her on my bed, overwhelmed me, revives me to go snooping around below.
After a few beers in another hole and a distance not too the largest meeting in a corner near Tepito and since I see in the distance, I know it perfectly symbolizes my pleasure, my perversion more entertaining and today will exploit together some gold mines ... or maybe silver.
asked me if I'm going to hit again, I said I did not know and she with eyes of infinite sadness can I say yes, but I'm not willing to hurt, I do not see his blood shed on our white sheets almost underground . I know she likes to hit it and tell me why charge me sixty dollars, says that one day I'll kill her and I answer emphatically, No! A whore should not die.
and go to another hole where instead of fanged rats, starving dogs look at us with mournful eyes ... And I lie down beside her and hug them and tell them everything will be better and I do as she rushes me with his hand to follow her. I feel like a tear down my cheek.
Once inside our room it hits my face and I like it. Out of his bag what I imagine will be a gun, but oh! surprise are amphetamines and cocaine.
I like you, he says. E
exchange: she gets me and I offer substances member me which I find hard to get. And so we take drugs and dream copulate.
When I wake up crying she looks at me and says I'm cute and sweet words I say fuck should not die. After a moment he snapped, but an asshole as I can. And I implore you desperate to kill me. I want this to be the last time, I want to rest with the smell permeated my body for eternity.
Hit me until I was unconscious and then with a dagger drawn my heart and give to the dogs in the hallway - I say. She asked in astonishment to me that I work ... I am a writer, I answered almost in tears.
Meditate a while, an eternity, his eyes look at me with mock indulgence, takes my hand and release the evil laugh loudest and have heard and then almost shouting: A writer must not die! A writer must not die!
When I turn to look at your eyes is gone.
Don Fer. February 2008
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