20N 2015 remembering the General

Remigio the man got up on that splendid morning of a quiet autumnal Madrid in the neighborhoods for the umpteenth time without success, he had made up his mind to give up tobacco. He thought that maybe it wasn't advisable, and even more so on a date with so much informative bombardment, so many comings and goings, counterclaims and explanations (those on TV were making the partridge dizzy, those from the Infilthy World wrote brainy editorials, poor little things don't know how to write, they there is plenty of bad milk and they lack a job) for the Paris massacre. The Catalan scuppers stopped pouring shit, Rajoy was still making the light bulb. Obviously, it was a very different 20N because there were Moors on the coast. A lot of fear in the soul, so many baticores and very little shame! The media smeared the world with lies every morning and the planet was transformed into a large graffiti that damn they had opened the door to Islam open bar entry at will and the Trojan horse began to hit jumps pulling out of his belly the new Achaeans, everything that carried within the fury of contained anger the cutlass and the noose of many centuries. Swift-footed Achilles was coming toward them. But now modern wars are seen calmly from a sofa in front of the television as if it were an exciting sitcom where the correspondents featured on the scene inflate the dog and repeat themselves more than the onion. This is good for the call effect and the panic syndrome. Close, man of God, that hinge, lock the door with the alamud but there is no crossbar of closure that is worth. They sneak in waves. The same government brings them. This really is an Orwellian double talk to have the staff grabbed by the very same. Remigio Bermejo said:

—Today we mourn the General. Forty years ago I was in London

And he went down to the alcove where his books were stacked asking for reading, due to his jubilee idleness. Remigio Bermejo wanted to be a villain in his corner but the bug of the profession tickled his balls and he couldn't help but sit in front of the computer like that morning 40 years ago he went down to the teletype to transmit a hasty chronicle of reactions, long and oceanic, in the cilla where the ghost was and some bottles of Madeira vintage from 1898 that, cutely in honor of the general, were sipped following the Irish tradition of “wetting” the deceased at the wake.

"No need to worry right now, I'll give you a greyhound." Quiet.

Deep down he liked this silence in the graveyard of his library. There, his friends who never deceived him and spoke to him silently in their eloquent stillness of the twenty-four white circles, mounted a guard of stars and dreams in a row. He came down with a Kaddish or responsorial psalm that flooded the neighboring courtyard. The first hard workers turned on the lights in the kitchen and heated the tea to go to work and they weren't scared when they heard his outraged voice. At least it wasn't a shot. Three-quarters of a century ago many shots had been fired in that neighborhood that was then an olive grove. The General, after passing command to Varela, won that battle against the Internationals and the Moors, invoking Allah and thinking of the houris, had run to the government with their caps. Miaja, Dolores and El Campesino resigned, they returned to Casa Campo losing their asses, but the Spaniards with the glories lost their memories and did not forgive that short Galician general with command in Tenerife who He crossed the Strait with his legionnaires. The winners became the losers over the decades.

A León drowsiness all Circumflex Eyebrows began to run the sprinting hectometer in the background of inanity and lies. The travelo and the goths laughed at their bloody father thanking them. Hee hee hee. He put the eyebrows and others the balls. The old woman gave birth to historical memory.

"Wasn't all forgiven?" Bermejo told the man from Cuenca that at that time he was walking down Regent Street stuffed in his leather Republican aviator jacket, showing off his long hair and bell-bottom pants, more clueless than a donkey in a garage.

The new idiotype had changed the password. He remembered that cold London morning. Paco Martos called him from Madrid, his chief editor and his guardian angel. He uttered a single word. He said:

-Already

And he hung up the phone. The general's long agony was over. He sat before the ticker in the cellar where the ghost of Earl Kelly dwelt in his lair and machine-gunned a sorrowful chronicle. The history of Spain opened a new page. He had just married for the second time. Her wife, who was not in that roguish, turn-of-the-century London, completely well, accustomed to the good life of Oviedo and the Asturian meadows, slept peacefully and did not want to wake her up. In the attic of South Kensington the ghosts of her frightened him. He thought better not to wake her.

At nine o'clock it opens