Alessio Chiadini Beuri

127 Express
What counts is the journey

Transl.: Gaia Santacroce

Cover: © Alessio Chiadini Beuri

©Alessio Chiadini Beuri 2022

Introduction

Walkabout

127 Express

Millennium Fart

WAZZAPAMANI Showband & Review

Vlady Jones's Locker

Fart By Me

I'm a Queen!

One Flew Over the Cockoo's Nest

Moobs on a hot tin Roof

The Great Endurance

Carol

The snake charmer

Fangio University

Fastforward

Contacts and Greetings

Introduction

127 EXPRESS is a book about journeys.

As the journey is evasion from everyday life, each story in this collection is a breath of it is a breath of light-heartedness and absolute, crystalline freedom. Of expression, of soul, of body.

One leaves to stop thinking about problems, to put difficulties on hold, to forget someone, to find answers.

Sometimes a journey can be physical, sometimes dreaming or longing dearly for something is enough.

That’s why what matters is the journey, because it is the road, we travel that really changes us and not the final aim, that we may never see. The journey seen as a discovery of ourselves, of our limits, of what is different. Traveling to break fears, to learn silence and sing out loud as we never thought.

The journey of the flesh and the spirit.

Of low and high things.

Of virtues and shame.

The protagonists of this book are four friends that share an apartment in downtown Bologna, Italy. They enrolled in university, but saying they are students is too much. Between them, they call themselves Spanky, Zanna, Moobs and Fangio… but at the registry office they are Enrico, Martino, Alex and… Fangio.

Spanky, apart from being the main narrator, is the most rational one, the most balanced. It is his perennial undertaking to mediate the strong characters of Fangio and Moobs, resolve the depressive states of Zanna and bring balance to the Force, albeit brief.

Zanna lives in a world of his own and that’s why every incursion in the reality is for him a bizarre trip. So when he finds himself dragged by the other three on their pilgrimages full of aperitifs and poor in conscious meanings, he cannot help but gasp in amazement and not lose sight of them for a second.

Moobs is the proud link between the human being, the Terminator and a warthog. He is beautiful like a Greek god, he knows no shame and once he smells you, he can find you anywhere.

Fangio is by definition "annoying to watch", as ugly as hunger. He's got a ponytail, the bulging buzz of a hard drinker on an otherwise stunted body and a tuft of hair sticking out of his backside. He does not know the elegance in dressing and proclaims himself the Guru of Looove of the other three.

The Fiat 127 is the fifth real protagonist, an old lung inherited from Zanna’s dead uncle, Vladimiro Zanetti, which knows how to rescue you when you need it.

While in Walkabout you will start to know them, and when you think you understand them, they will go, exactly as a respectable Walkabout evening foresees. MemberKid, a historic friend of Fangio's, will make a brief appearance with news that will leave everyone speechless. You’ll hear about Virginia and Cecilia, sometimes, the two unfortunate girls who share the apartment with the four rowdy. I didn't feel like introducing them to you, however, because they deserve a bigger narrative arc. They will return, in a few months, in “Who more KING than us”.

Then it will be the turn of the first "saga" of this collection: four stories (127 Express, Millennium Fart, Wazzapamani showband & Review, Vlady Jones's Locker) during a car trip to Verona and the delivery of a mysterious box, legacy will of Zanna's uncle. The gas stop, nighttime taverns, bar fights, tea and cookies.

In the Moobs Saga (Fart by me, I'm a queen!, One Flew Over the Cockoo's Nest, Moobs on a hot tin Roof) you will discover that camping nights can be too long and that scented candles are not always a good buy. You will learn the true purpose of rickshaws and how to set up a tent. You will have to face, along with Spanky and Fangio, a side of Moobs that will make you tremble. Free aperitifs and bodysurf on the house.

In The great Endurance you will witness a relentless fight between Moobs and Fangio that could put an end to their friendship. You will know the importance of socks and how beautiful Beach Volleyball is.

In the Fangio Saga (Carol, The Snake Charmer, Fangio University, Fastforward), our boy will have to face a truth that has been ignored for too long and will have to painfully decide which path to take on that crossroads called Life. Spanky, Zanna, Moobs and MemberKid will help him in the undertaking, in a completely new role.

And this for the moment is all, have a good trip!

Walkabout

For the reading of this episode: Land Downunder – Men At work

"What the hell are you doing here?"

What a start for a night that should have been legendary.

Friends are the only family which will never turn its back on you, if even if you are an unbearable dickhead who tries with every mean possible to sabotage the joys of others and sniff other people's girls like a hound.

A family won’t turn its back on you even if you are Moobs. And that’s exactly what we did during the night we spent at Walkabout the 8th of March, women’s day. A crazy shit, in my opinion. The day, not our night. Our nights are always shit. Everybody knows the story behind the 8th of March, so I'll spare you the lesson. I do not have anything against the female gender, this needs to be clear. In good days, I would fuck a good 40% of it. In dry periods, the percentage rises up to touch 80% of candidates. 0% instead is only for when I am in love. Who of your boyfriends can say the same? ALL OF THEM, effectively. But knowing they are lying. I am not. Think about it. Call me. I am almost certain that women in our days have h undergone a considerable mutation from the generation, let’s say, of our grandmothers. Now, I do not want to hear the feminists scream submission, male yoke, equal rights and so on. Go shave your pubis and let's talk about it again. You got equality, I’ll say, and every time that the cowardly male dares to say something, even if only "My love, you have just put out the cigarette on my scrotum" you get angry and vomit on the unfortunate two hundred years of bile that no one knows how you managed to inherit. The woman after ‘68 is like one of those loser kids, puny and insignificant that we always made fun of in high school. And then one beautiful day, they enter the class and, without saying a word, start shooting. But then we see every day how they resolve conflicts: the burning envy, the atavistic anger, the stabs in the back, the sideways words, the grim looks, the fucking of others’ boyfriends.

Men simply measure their dick and that’s it.

So, what is the night at WALKABOUT Night. Everything started with a question: why bother for hours in a place that can't offer us what we want? Why don’t we have the courage to change? Why stay 3 hours to look at a girl sitting at the bar trying to find the right words only for her to leave without you being able to say even a fucking word? There is the need to have deadlines. If your minutes are numbered, if you know you only have half an hour before leaving for another place, your mind is emptied of all fantasies, all fucking doubts to put you in front of just one thing: the PRESENT. The only rule of WALKABOUT is this one: you cannot stay in a place for more than thirty minutes. At the end of that time, you have to leave, without exceptions. It is not required to pick up a girl, order something or talking with somebody. You can just sit down and scroll on your phone. Nobody cares, the social animal that is inside each one of us will eventually wake up from hibernation. In the condition that Moobs was, we couldn’t ignore him, also ‘cause he kept on spitting in our coffee and since the house moka doesn’t make cappuccino, there is nothing to be happy about. So that’s us outside our apartment, me, Boobs, Zanna and Fangio, the head of the expedition. He knows all the hot spots of the city, the boiling points: where a fresh man risks incurring in an overdose of their own sperm: at the sight of so much feminine grace, the body responds by increasing the production of sperm troops which, ready for the battle, go to position themselves at their combat posts. The landing was in Vulvaland. Then, right at the bottom of the stairs of the building, like a ghost, an apparition, a spirit, MemberKid was waiting for us: skin cancer tan, sleeveless as if it were August in hell, the serene smile of someone who has not disappeared for two months without being heard or sending a notary to read his will.

“I came back from South America, chicos!” He replied to the question of Fangio, who was pretty pissed.

And we thought he was giving his ass off in the worst bars in Caracas, better that way. We're all single tonight. Potentially, at least.

The first stop is a small glamorous pub frequented, for the most part, by Erasmus students. Good run for our money, in short. Money, which, if necessary, becomes dinero in the Spanish evening, مال in the Arab one and denaro when there is an elven aperitif.

Everyone is very intimate here, in the sense that asses and kisses rub so frequently tha boner could be the name of the house cocktail. There is a lot of fog, I don't know why since smoking is forbidden, and the furniture in the room is left to the designer lamps and shelves full of books. I find it cool: there are a lot of ideas in books and if you are a discreet reader you can keep half of the pub's attention for at least ten minutes. Just enough to leave a mark and be remembered.

In my personal experience, Harmony are the perfect readings to do aloud: spicy topics, stereotypical dialogues you can play with and situations that are so idiotic to make you laugh even recited by David Attenborough.

Okay, maybe that’s too much.

However, the Parquet remains an excellent place for language experiences… LANGUAGE!, to taste the exotic tastes of the world, for adventurous and mononucleosis palates.

At the end of the time we went to Laser, a bedlam venue intended for an undefined customer target: ranging from diner furniture to the billiard room, from the stage for live concerts to a large wooden gazebo at the entrance. The counter is kilometers long and there are waitresses for all tastes, soft lighting, good music and counter elbows. Zanna must have been distracted for a moment as he's been playing pinball and forgetting the effect it has on him: the flashing lights, the beeping and twinkling sounds and the digital helplessness against the fucking force of gravity have the ability to bring out the beast of Satan that is in him.

Swearing and insulting a plastic and iron light box can be inconvenient if you are trying to pick up a girl. I mean, not that it's a problem for Zanna, since with his Spanish girl everything is going fine, but you must keep in mind that what you do will probably have repercussions on the whole team. None of us, therefore, could save him from the mighty slap of Moobs which overturned him.

The bathrooms are adjacent to the common entrance, which allows us to finally answer the question that has kept philosophers awake at night since the dawn of time: σκατά που πηγαίνουν στην παραγωγή τους το μουνί στο μπάνιο (what the hell are girls going to do together in the bathroom)?

They complain, whimper without dignity of unrequited loves, gossip about the slut who poses as a femme fatale, they hold the bag while the other squats.

Nothing fancy, but now you know it.

In nights like this, even if when you go back home, you feel like you have not accomplished anything, they almost always grant a legacy. Whether it is considerable or not depends on how much we can make of it.

The group is our fortress, our shield, our mansion. If it were not there, we would sail on sight without tools, with the risk of running aground and breaking the hull on the rocks of shame.

For this reason, every group of friends is also an obstacle, a prison, a nest of cotton wool that keeps us warm from everything.

Who hasn't happened to meet the gaze of a beautiful girl or a mysterious-looking young man and feel blocked, not so much by ourselves, but by the people around us?

Companies are a big hindrance when you want to start a conversation: you must not only impress the person you are interested in, but you must also overcome the resistance that their group, unwittingly, moves against you.

Now listen to me carefully because what I will tell you could change the history of all ars amorosa from Casanova onwards. The Miyagi Diagram.

The Miyagi diagram is shaped like a cross-eyed breast, the result of a failed mammoplasty.

The boy from Group A and the girl from Group B have to face each other to look at each other. In this position it is almost unthinkable that they would start talking, things should be shouted from one side to the other of the crowd of people that separates them. If one of them does not get rid of their entourage, the two strangers, who could also have loved each other, will leave without even having heard the name they wanted.

Since women never stop reminding us that the cavalry is dead, I thought of a solution that takes all of this into consideration.

A word is enough, a universal code that leads to action: at the shout of SENSEI, the members of the groups should begin to turn, bringing the two young people to meet and exchange numbers, fluids and everything they owe.

I'm not saying it will be easy. But if you help me, ten years from now, the word Sensei will echo strongly in all the clubs of the world. I don't know if I deserve a prize, but if there was, at least the Nobel Prize for Pasture should bear my name.

And now here we are, the third bar of the Walkabout: the Heptagon.

The Heptagon is an alternative pub that has been in style lately. You go there if you are someone, you go there if you are nobody. It is a social stage for the entire city: sooner or later everyone passes through it.

Housed in what was once an old warehouse on the second floor of a large appliance store, it has a large alcoholic suicide terrace and a too modest parking for the comings and goings it is supposed to accommodate. The furniture is varied and slightly vintage: there is no chair, armchair or table that is the same as the other; the DJ corner is reduced to the bone and the bathroom door falls in love with your nasal septum every time you have to pee.

At Heptagon everyone is free to do and be whatever they want, the air of competition is so low as to make it a perfect test bed for all kinds of love techniques. I would not be able to explain the reason why, I think it is a question of alchemy. At the Heptagon you are not judged, we are like many white mice who have to reach the end of the maze. Audacity and madness.

Sucking into an armchair sipping kalua coke like a pro, Member * waited for 11.42 pm to tell us:

“Guys, I am getting married”.

What kind of noise does a news like that makes?

The one of a chair and an ass that fall loudly on the ground. Fangio.

We, on the other hand, had no words. Maybe the loud music played a bad joke on us.

"How much did he drink?" asks Moobs.

"That's the first drink, and it's all ice." I replied.

"What's up?" Member* asks him.

"Do you even have the courage to ask what's up?! Holy shit, did you hear yourself?! ". Fangio gets back on its feet.

"The thing that I'm getting married?"

"He said it again! I do not believe it!" Fangio yells addressing the Heptagon customers who look at us distracted without really seeing us.

"Congratulations!" compliments Zanna.

"Here he is going to cry like a pussy! Moobs, go and hold his hair while he's throwing up! " downplays Member *.

"I thought you had had enough of weddings!" I say.

“And that was true, my friend, until I met Marcela. Never turn your back on providence, Spanky..." he winks at me.

"What then buggers you!" yells Fangio seeking our approval.

“She's from Rio. She is a fantastic dancer, I met her at the carnival! "

"And does she have balls?" Moobs jokes, pretending to weigh a testicular bag with his hand.

"It's all fine".

"But is she dying? How bad is it? Did the doctors let her go anyway with the severe mental deficits she has? Does she know that you are a sex maniac? Where do you plan to park her whole family? " Fangio is a train launched at insane speed against a school.

"We are getting married at the end of April".

"Why wait so long?"

"For the bachelor party".

"Just know I will be dressed for a funeral."

"Something worse awaits you."

"It's hard for me to think what it could be."

"You will be my best man."

127 Express

For reading of this episode: Small Town– John Mellencamp

"After you’ll put it back in, right?" I asked distractedly as the traffic flowed slowly under a spring heat that smelled of Apocalypse.

"Of course, if I won’t, it’d dry up. I’ll use it, I care about it."

"But how the hell did you get cold in April when it's fifteen thousand degrees under the shade?" Moobs asked, gazing at the chapstick in Fangio's hands.

"Eh, dear", he replied, "When love takes you, it doesn't offer you wine and asks you if cleaned your ass!"

"Of course you could have left the cold room..." I objected, unleashing my eyes over the intersection.

"Did Wan Kyu set you aside between a spring roll and a frozen prawn and made love to you?"

"HUAN KYU... more or less: she took me, she grabbed my testicles firmly and served herself on me." said Fangio holding nuts that we can't see.

"And how was it? Has the nian gao been seasoned? " Moobs asked, shocked by the story. If he found a girl as infatuated as he is, the encounter would create a hormonal paradox, the result of which could cause a chain reaction that would unravel the very fabric of the boxer-thong continuum, and destroy the entire universe! I recognized that it was the most pessimistic hypothesis: the destruction could be very limited and especially limited to our apartment. Great Scott!

"Now I understand why the Chinese are conquering the world," he replies, dreaming.

Fangio no longer worked at the Indian pizzeria. After having gone into hiding for two months he has never been renewed his contract.

That's right, we live in dark times. He now works at a Chinese rotisserie. And he just got banged by La-Ming's daughter, the boss’ daughter, Huan Kyu. Huan Kyu Da-Dong.

"The only thing that bothers me a bit is my butt..." he admited.

"Did she use chopsticks?" asked Moobs.

"No, I leaned against the door without underwear and you know... skin and frozen metal don't go well together..."

"You mean that…"

"I couldn't pull myself away anymore, …. yes."

"And how did you do it, with a jellybean between your legs?" I asked sarcastically while the horizon continued to disappoint expectations.

“Eh, no, Huan Kyu helped me. She propped herself up against the door with her foot, she took my hands and she... she pulled..."

"Uhhhhhhhhh ……" I shared the pain.

"Oh yeah!" he confirmed.

"I mean, do you mean that now, in that rotisserie there is a shape of your ass made of skin?" Moobs, doubled over with laughter, slapping the buttocks of Fangio who reared up shooting a curse.

Ten steps away is Sahid who, hoping to be included in our circle of friendship, smiled at the scene with his hands crossed over an apron full of his big belly and stains that someone who sells fruit and canned foods shouldn't have. Blood, pee, shit.

From here it seems, at least.

We are under the porch, in front of the entrance to our building, it is Saturday, it is so hot that we cannot even sweat because the liquids evaporate instantly and instead of going looking for some fountain, pond, puddle to wallow, we wait for Zanna, of whom there is not sight.

"Where are we going?" Fangio remembers of not knowing. Basically he doesn't care. When he smells revelry, revelry or the possibility of making a healthy mess, he pushes himself into it with his head down. Reckless and brash.

"Don’t worry! What matters is the journey! " Moobs says, even if he doesn’t know as well.

"TONANT bullshit !!!" he rebelled."You wanna tell me that you aim for a girl, you sand off your ass to conquer her, you convince her that you are a boy deserving to hear how she screams the name of the Lord and when you are finally about to lie down together, you let her get knocked by someone who came out of nowhere? No thanks. You did not understand shit! I’ll make him shit out of fear! " Yes, of colitis, not of fright. I remind you that the Fangio does not inspire fear, it’s awful to watch.

"There he is!" I yelled pointing to a car parked at the traffic light down the street.

"But where did he go parking? in Mexico?"

There he is Zanna inside that car, a blue Fiat 127 that coughs and spits smoke.

Zanna, pompous, leaned out of the window and, smiling, looked for signs of appreciation in our gestures and expressions: I had my hands in my pockets and a small frown on my forehead; Fangio scratched the drinker's buzz peeking out from the Panter's shirt; Moobs' was chasing a butterfly.

"So?!" asks Zanna, not at all defeated in enthusiasm as he came to stand on the sidewalk in front of us.

The bodywork was not that bad considering that it belonged to his late uncle and that the last time it left the house, the Berlin Wall was still a fence. Something is wrong with the engine: either Zanna has a spastic foot or his clutch - gas coordination is shit. The 127 was frightening sobbing and venting like a gaping sphincter. It seemed to look at someone who tries eat while they are about to vomit. Today colorful metaphors, I know. It's just that I didn't digest well last night.

"And where do you plan to go with this?" Moobs was amazed while the engine in neutral gasped in retching.

"To the landfill." I presume.

"If all goes well, in a ditch." Fangio.

"Did you get it at an Al-Qaeda sale?"

"Oh, don't worry guys! Look, this car is a jewel! "

"Bowel, Zanna, it's pronounced bowel…!" Moobs corrects him.

"Come on fools, get on!" he cheered

"But wasn't there something else, I don't know, a better stuff? A camel, some skates, a walker? " Fangio asked, unhinging the passenger seat to slip behind him while the Saiyan tail sticking out of his low-waisted pants took away some of my joy for life."

"You will change your mind!" Zanna clapped his hand on the dashboard, as to pet that old friend of hers. A cloud of dust surrounded everything.

“They made these cars out of asbestos, right? Thank goodness, so I die and I don't think about it." I got up to give him a pat on his shoulder.

Moobs seemed the only positive about it. His eyes look like the ones of a child during Christmas morning sparkling out of nowhere.

We were waiting for him, Zanna had his hand on the gearbox, I straightened the seat that slams me happily on my knees and Fangio was already exploring that automobile heirloom in search of fetishes and so on.

Moobs, however, did not get in, not yet. Zanna beckoned him to move, he raised his hand asking for a moment. Then he took a couple of steps back and suddenly throws himself inside the car.

"LIKE STARSKY & HUTCH !!!!!" he yelled as he throws himself on the hood.

Before we knew it, he already did it. We could just stand by and watch. Looking back at the momentum, the powerful athletic gesture, the ass that, instead of sliding to the other side as one would expect, sank into the hood. Now, apart from four wheels and a steering wheel, I saw only one other feature in common with the legendary car of the San Francisco Crusaders: FIAT is from Turin and FORD has the Gran Torino. STOP.

Ah! We have the Great CRETIN.

Zanna, incredulous, threw up his hands. Also Moobs was in the same mood, but for a completely different reason. Fangio, on the other hand, chuckled. I was covering my eyes.

Moobs got out slowly, while car sheet complained (To-TONK!) But it is unable to return to its original shape: the basin remains there. A bird trough. Like Mia Khalifa’s.

"Hey, the dimples on the back of a girl are hot! See it like this! " Fangio stops the laughter to say this bullshit. Zanna was disconsolate, that's all. In response he just gave a listless grunt.

Moobs finally decided to get it. He does it as if he were invisible, as if, in order not to be caught by his parent, he had to get into bed as quietly as possible and didn't even lift the sheets to keep them from rustling.

"Good!" he then exclaimed, clapping both hands on his knees."Snack?"

Everything has a starting point.

It was also for us: just the beginning.

Millennium Fart

For the reading of this episode, we recommend: This way to happiness - Glenn Frey

To be forgiven, Moobs bought breakfast to Zanna.

The trouble with him was not having been able to resist the charm of my and Fangio's eyes. So he opened his heart and bought breakfast for us too.

What a breakfast!!!

This month the barista will be able to get a pizza and a movie. When we left, he wanted to go ahead to throw CIPS petals at our feet.

Once the driving orders and the main rules were established (“Fart Free, I'd say!”), we set off in earnest.

God, it's not that we could fly, but at least we could catch the wake of the three-wheelers to overtake them. Before, on the ring road, a tractor pulled us out.

Memberkid could not come. He was overwhelmed with the preparations for his wedding. He is terrified.

Fangio, who will be the best man, had promised that he will not ridicule any of the bride's relatives, himself or the priest. In the meantime, by the way: Moobs was studying to be able to officiate. Nobody asked him, by the way, and I don't think Member will ever marry in international waters aboard a ship.

"What does it take to become a ship captain?! I already have the rudder! ", that’s what he answered, one day, to Cecilia's perplexities regarding the delirious intentions of bridesmaids in bikini, bow ties and boxers for the guests and a symbolic funeral, with a burning raft at sunset, of our partner's deceased single life. All this, conspicuously rubbing his pack from the pocket of his pants.

All of us, however, have tried to make Member reason. In vain: he is really convinced. Most of the time it feels like we’re talking to a wall. When he is in love, it’s like this, we already know. No matter what the voice of reason says, your friends (who have known you since you were just a dickhead and have seen you become a jerk) who can't understand how you feel because you've never felt before like you do right now. You have already loved, sure, but not like today. You fear nothing.

The first time you saw her, you felt reborn.

Now you just want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

When we love, we forgive everything. Generally speaking, no man is inclined to think that the woman he is dating is a slut. For the women’s part, however, it is well established that we are all irrecoverable whoremongers.

And these bitches, well, they are always others, not themselves. We men, on the other hand, start as naive, unless of course we are flirting on purpose with a girl who is known to be a great “philanthropist”. I’ll tell you more: if we do this, it is because, often, we want to verify the truthfulness of these rumors. We are scientific. It is the Galilean method.

When the girl we have a crush on, ashamed, confesses to us: “I swear I've never done it with anyone else”, we believe it. We believe it because we are convinced that we are special, we are extraordinary, we are not as anyone else. We believe we cannot be framed in the behavioral patterns attributable to the whole male gender. Of course. Sure.

If it's for someone special, every madness is allowed, right?

After all, this is the explanation they give us: the craziness like escaping for love, quitting and leaving aimlessly, abandoning the husband to be with you, they are all exceptions that we justify in this way. She did it because it was US on this side. If there was someone else, no way. It is all due to a singular, as well as unrepeatable, convergence of factors: a boy in constantly wanting to fuck and a girl who lives her constant wanting to fuck without any feminist preconceptions.

Men, stop deluding yourself! You are not special and if you are, you certainly are special for something else. Not for that. Don't be fooled by nice words. Being silent when they speak and having an erection when undressing does not require a particularly sought-after arsenal. If you are deaf and have a cock, you are the perfect man.

"What, did the car engulfed?" No, it's not the engine. It is Fangio that has some problems with the muffler. Race of farts.

"Eh, it's back up! She was about to stop, it had already made her way and then… FFUAAPP!! it changed its mind! " Explained Fangio while in gynecological test position.

"Let it go, don't fight it!" was the advice of an expert in the field, one for whom the term "air balloon" is not just a metaphor. Moobs encouraged by showing him how to do it. A convinced PRrrooooOTT shook the seat. Fangio retorts and keeps note. It's a two-step now.

"Guys, you are plaguing the air!" I complain when I feel the windows shake and it certainly can't be the wind hitting us because we're too fast.

"Why, do you think that what you are breathing is air?" asked Moobs" I've been dropping one every kilometer since we left."

"You started earlier!" accuses Fangio, who had resumed or run the engine at full throttle.

"I'll open the window!" I blurted out purple.

"Oh yes, if you open the window, we will stop! With this car, it's like pulling the handbrake! " Moobs warned.

At that moment, Zanna drew the attention towards him. He too wanted to make his contribution. He is next to me, the "place of the dead". Except that, to be in agony, it was me.

"Well, then ?!" I ask.

PrRrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooooOOOTChhhhhh… !!!

Suddenly a saturated silence fell, only the 127 flaps like a lawnmower.

"Oh-oh!"

"What oh-oh ?!" I asked.

"... I think I've exceeded myself!" And it's not just his impression. Soon it becomes certainty.

Gas station stop. We get there in apnea at almost 75 km/h.

The depressurization of the passenger compartment is powerful: when we opened the doors and get out, the lungs expanded invigorated. Sweet exhaust gases.

Zanna preceded us with legs apart towards the toilets. If it were the title of a film, it would have been Walk in the Lagoon. SQUATCH.

At the toilet, while Zanna cleaned up the mess and emptied the cuffs of his trousers, myself, Moobs and Fangio were careful not to cross the streams, we pulled the water at the same time and in sequence we turned abruptly towards the sinks, gazing into the mirrors like stars. There is no soap. We washed only with water. There was no paper. We shook our hands around and went out. Zanna would have it for a while.

At the gas station bar, we have another breakfast, but then we split up as soldiers on leave: each one to indulge their spirit.

Unlike what you might imagine, Il Fangio didn’t flirt with Antonia, the curvy cashier with a nice mustache and unkempt menopausal beard: he putted on his glasses and went out with the door rattling.

"I'm going to put gas!" I snapped a look and gave him my assent while I cleaned the icing sugar off the donut that had smeared me not even if I were a drug dog, but he had already taken the road to the parking lot.

Moobs, after coffee, sat at the counter dragging a stool from a video poker and ordered himself half a pantry: six eggs of cabbage and asparagus omelette, a pan of eggplant parmesan that half is enough to kill a horse and a bloody Flintstones type steak. Things that, at ten in the morning, he would make even the most convinced coprophage turn their stomachs.

Ah! Everything was accompanied by a freshly squeezed orange juice. Sugar free, because it is heathier.

Satiated by the simple fact of being less than fifteen meters away from Moobs, which was gorged as if there was no tomorrow, I moved to the shopping department. If you have no idea what to give to someone who is blatantly an asshole, I suggest you come here.

Speaking exclusively from a marketing point of view, gas stations have products that other stores, especially those of a certain size, do not have.

Who, after all, has never dreamed of buying, wanting, legally owning the CD “Dance hall with Vanni”? Let's assume that this prospective buyer then rightly wants to listen: in what situation could he do it?

“Honey, it's been a wonderful five years together. I want to celebrate like this... (turns on the stereo or any other music device that accepts similar abortions)... I love you! "

"Dear, do you by any chance remember where the suitcase is?"

It would go more or less like this.

What other events then remain for Petar Krasinsky and his orchestra. Vol.3 and Towards the Accordion and Beyond?

Funerals and Rave Parties after a certain hour: in the former the dead person would wake up, gets up, swear, turn off the music, blaspheme, call a jerk his son-in-law one last time, ask for the last episode of Oprah’s and go back to walking in the light; in the latter, however, the sound of the sirens would be so loud that the boys’d manage to get alcohol poisoning before it's too late.

I left the music section and moved to print media. I left aside the various issues of Playboy, Playmate, Garden of Eden (I have it, I have it, I have a subscription) and my eye fell on an old love: Cosmopolitan.

As soon as no one looks, I took it and gave it a look. My attention stopped on an article concerning premature ejaculation. Not that I care. I am the Alex Schwazer of the double stave. However, it was written that if your man comes sooner than he would like (be it thirty seconds, fifteen hours or has just arrived at the landing of your house) he automatically loses confidence in himself. And a tip for his partner: it is useless to keep his balls in an ice bucket, he didn’t get them sprained! He should switch to a position that stimulates him less, you may stay on top and slow down the pace, don't snort like a locomotive, don't make noises and stop making the car suspension scream that he just had the service done, Christ!

Another article: many men don't know how to please their woman. They haven't found the combination yet and they solve nothing only pushing with the crowbar. Every woman is different. Written in Klingon, among other things. To help overcome this obstacle, many sexologists recommend helping your partner by putting them in the right direction and hoping that they will take off.

I found it right. Quite right. We are not fortune tellers. If it were up to us, the switch of your orgasms would be activated with a clapper.

There are women who become Nazi officers in bed: they give commands left and right, they look at you as the worst person ever existed when you don't get something right and everything that goes through their heads, they say aloud without regard.

Which is good if you are angry with them for something, you can let off steam by trying to make them break the wall with their heads, but if it is already a dark moment for you, it can make you want to cry and an innate instinct to throw to the ground the first thing you find just because you hope she stops squirming and forces you to put it right back, right away.

Another article, another gift: auto-eroticism. Like sex, it has been proven to extend life. I obviously speak to the girls, in whose speeches there is no trace. Only indignation in front of a legitimate question, suspicious silences and nervous smiles masked properly.

"Having at least one hundred orgasms a year can extend your life by as much as eight years."

And with a small additional cost as a gift the Murano glass coasters!

I quote again:

"... a habit to copy to men, who often use masturbation to end the day with a smile."

Induces sleep, like chamomile tea. But if you find yourself in a bar, don't get confused, please!

A mighty burp whistled through the newspaper in my hand. Moobs finished the snack.

"Get clean, go! You have something on your chin! " I warned him.

Moobs took the chicken leg, putted it in his mouth and thanked me. We got out. Approaching the 127, we noticed that both doors were wide open and not even the shadow of Fangio. I crouched in the cockpit to check that everything was in order and yes, unfortunately no one had come to take the car radio that only plays church music and a Hungarian Polke station.

Moobs pointed at Fangio. He was at the gas distributor and was filling it up, as he said. But to another car. A blonde. The driver, not the car. The car was a white Audi. The blonde, on the other hand, had big sunglasses: if they caught a reflection of sun, they could feed a small town in Kansas for a week. The Fangio was standing next to the girls’ door, who had not even got out and who had to turn at least 45 ° to look at him. And she did it. She even spoke to him.

When the tank was full, Fangio putted the pump back in place and returned to the vamp bending down jovially. Before leaving, she went through her purse and gave him something.

"I'll bet ten euros that's her phone number." proposed Moobs'

"Ten euros he got paid." I accepted.

So, as if it were normal for him to defraud a gas station attendant and rob a girl, Fangio reached us without even showing too much emotion.

"Number or money?" asked Moobs, sure to collect.

"Both of them." Fangio showed a lipstick smeared bill. Well, we're just missing the applause.

"We gotta look inside, what do you say?" leaning on the hood of the 127, Moobs observed something that had been on the dashboard from the beginning of the trip: a small wooden box.

"Look, I don't even know what's inside and I don't think even Zanna does."

"Come on!!! Maybe we carry the Ravenclaw diadem and we don't know! "

"Since when have you read Harry Potter?" I am amazed. Moobs reading a book for girls? Moobs reading?

"Ever since cosplayers have worn white socks, checked skirts and glasses!" he winked and added, launching anathema: "Engorgio!”

"Can we see what’s inside this box, then?"

"Fangio, keep in mind that it's a legacy from Zanna's uncle: confined in there might as well be a human asshole."

"Yes, but what would Mrs Petrini do with One-Eyed Willie’s withered asshole?" this time, Moobs was right. It must have been something else, even if you could expect everything from the man who, when he found a booklet of Jehovah's Witnesses in his little locker, set it on fire in the middle of the hall saying: "They are heretics. The rite provides this." or from the same man who every first Thursday of the month put on a CD of Bulgarian voices and complained all night like a calf.

"Maybe it's the laundry, or a kidney or the bones of Signora Petrini's dog who had mysteriously disappeared." I proposed.

"Yes, but why can't we open it?" Moobs' didn’t understand.

"Why does the law say that only the rightful owner can do it?" I suggested sarcastically.

"And Verona?"

"A lucky coincidence is that the infamous Mrs. Petrini, who inherited the box, resides in Verona. Right where we are going! "

"In my opinion there is a sealed fart." Interrupted Fangio, absorbed in his hypothesis.

"A brilliant idea." I agreed.

"I tell you." she nods back.

"I have to buy a tank." Moobs lighted up.

WAZZAPAMANI Showband & Review

For the reading of this episode we recommend: When the night come falling from the sky - The Jeff Healey Band

"Take off your pants!" Moobs intimated "And get in the car!"

Zanna was hesitant. He didn't know if he wanted to do it.

Okay, so, before the scene of Pulp Fiction lands in front of your eyes, it's time to do a little briefing.

While the contents of the wooden box debated with polished similarities and ingenious Tomas Milian syllogisms, Zanna emerged from the toilet soaked like a tampon at the end of the day (here is an example of what I was saying).

"You could have taken off your pants while you washed them." I observed.

"Bent over in your underwear in a gas station bathroom?" he replied. Rightly, by the way.

"Do you want to go for a run to dry yourself?" proposed Moobs.

"In the busy parking lot of a gas station?"

"Oh well, would you just stop complaining?"

"Come on we're late, let's go!" changing the subject.

"A moment: you cannot get in like this." Fangio stopped him, looking at him as if he had a bucket of vaseline clenched in his fist (okay, I'll stop).

"And why? It's my car! "

"Yes, but since we're here too and you smell like a geriatric ward on a bran diet, take off your pants."

"Take off my pants?" NO!"

"Zanna if you get on like this, the seats will smell for life! I don't want to tell you how much they will stink once they dry..."

"How much?"

"Do you know the smell that some armchairs abandoned on the side of the road have after a month? Rancid dog piss, cat poo and bum sweat."

"Like this?"

"Worse."

Finally he is convinced and BRAM! within two flat seconds, he has the pants to the ankles. Someone whistled from the lay-by. Zanna hurried to remove them by tripping quickly. He almost bumped his face against the window of the 127. If he had fallen to the ground, ass in the air and so limited in his movements, perhaps no one, not even us, could have helped him. Once free from hindrances, Zanna handed the pants over to Moobs who held them with little enthusiasm. His eyes seemed to be wondering "Okay, but now what do I do with it?".

We plunged like salmons back into the current of a spring exodus Friday afternoon. But more than like fish, with that tub scrabbling around, we are shipwrecked at the mercy of every spit. Despite this, there is something that distinguishes us from the homologation of exhausts and spoilers for the rest of the flock: a flag.

It is not majestic, it is neither refined nor of value, perhaps it does not arouse fear in the hearts of enemies and maybe we even risk of being attacked. Not from corsairs with checkered smiles. From the steering wheels of the road. Zanna's pants wave high. At least they dry up.

One hundred and fifty kilometers and fifteen patrols further on, after we left green valleys behind us and a great orange sun behind the hills, our conversations began to repeat again. So I asked Zanna: "Have you never heard of this Mrs Petrini?" Just as twelve hours before, we realized we have nothing more to say to each other and silence possessed us instantly. Exhausted.

We proceeded into the night as people who do not know each other, no longer as a united group of friends but only as people who by chance share a space, as beings in their own right.

Zanna's head lolled slamming against the rear window, dozing. Moobs looked at the view distracted behind the dark lenses of his glasses. Fangio drove. It's his turn: he drummed a riff on the steering wheel that only he could hear. You cannot see anything. Deserted roads. No stars.

I texted Alena and thought of the tenant on the third floor.

In any case, no, the Zanetti family has never heard of this woman: she is not an aunt, she is not a distant relative, she has never sent Christmas cards. But Vladimiro Zanetti evidently knew her. He knew her enough to remember her in her will.

So what's in the box?

Some photographs, some old books, maybe an object that has had a particular meaning, a pin, who knows?!

Maybe a key. The key that opens the lock, maybe.

What if there was nothing inside instead?

Maybe we should focus on the box.

"Arrived!" Moobs cried without compassion, leaning out of the seat. I fell asleep without realizing it. A thread of bubbling was coming down from the side of the mouth and staining the collar of the jacket. I looked around, blinking repeatedly: we were still and the 127 is off. There was no trace of the buzz from a bluebottle in agony. Moobs picked Zanna's nose, which is only found after the tenth or twelfth time.

For sure we're no longer on the highway. This or that dog will have an infamous effort to pee at 80 km/hour.

We were parked next to a room with neon signs. A Diner. The typical place that accompanied the Americans from the fabulous 1950s to the post-Vietnam imbalance. There you found yourself on endless interstates, where Harleys and hair grease ruled. Next to it, a parking area so large it is the envy of Mia Khalifa.

"This is the future!" Moobs announced proud and with an epic touch.

"You mean, the past..." Zanna pulled up his pants.

“You are not thinking four-dimensionally! In some time, you will find places like this at every corner! "

"For once you made it right!" Zanna congratulated us, preceding us all.

"And you'll see how many I'll make in here!"

We entered and it was like being a child again, when in front of the TV, we were exalted by the amorous exploits of Barney Stinson and Jeff Winger’s older brother: Arthur “the Fonz” Fonzarelli.

Guys, we went into Arnold's: at the back of the room a Jukebox played a rockabilly full of style, the waitresses chewed gum and winked between the tables carrying always bigger and bigger baskets of burgers and fries. Tipping, yes, this is definitely a tipping and apple pie place.

But also about choppers, Guinness mustaches, tattoos and brawls in the alley.

Precisely for this reason Fangio was mistaken for a native: the long greasy tail, the unkempt air and the metal of studs and trinkets that you can see from afar.

The rest turned to look at us. As if by an unconditional reflex then, ten seconds later everyone leaned over and tilted their chairs to know what we drove, whether pushed out of Satan's backside or into a station wagon by Seventh-day Adventists.

They looked at the 127.

Before they started throwing bottles and yelling to listen to country music tunes, we sited on to four bar stools that seem to be waiting for our sleepy butts.

We sited slowly, so as not to disturb, also because if a mess happened, the billiard cues to be split on the backs were very far to reach.

To complete the picture, even the bartender looked at us wrongly.

Ah, no, he's just cross-eyed. Thank God.

We ordered three shots of the strongest stuff of the house. A concoction so powerful it could crush a car's carburetor.

Zanna wanted to order a juice (next driving turn is his), but in order not to risk being lynched, he asked for a waikiki. Now he sipped from the small glass with apricot as if it were a pint.

While we waited for the sandwiches and diabetes, Moobs left the station to go to the "dance" area. A two-centimeter square cutout between the tables. A small group was already doing their utmost in a boogie. Two girls who did not know the steps, made up for it by moving with the rhythm. But the hawk had already smelled, aimed and hooked them. With fatal precision he landed between them. Do not send someone like Moobs away, it pleases you. He flatters you being such a handsome boy who will come and show his plumage right to you, the insecure girl next door.

Have it.

Never said that Moobs was ugly, on the contrary. He is a cool soap opera actor type.

So, at that point, what you do, when a bit of dew has already formed between the stems? You give him a rope and let him do it. Maybe you provoke him a little and move your butt like Shakira taught you. And that's just how you screw up because at that point he puts his mouth close to your ear and whispers:

"If you feel something hard don't worry: it's my cock! The cell phone is in the car!"

While with the corner of my eye I catched a glimpse of a push and a dodged slap (it's easy when you expect them even from the fruit seller who touches the melons to see if they are ripe and you ask her to check your banana too), my gaze got caught in a silhouette of a man way too familiar.

A boy sitting at a table, all alone. There were no bags or jackets to occupy the other seats. It was set up for only one. The type had his thoughts immersed in a notebook: every now and then, he digged his nose out of the pages to take a look around.

When I smiled at the waitress who just brought me the cheeseburger, I understood everything. He was in love with her. This is a story as old as the world. How many there have been, how many there are and there will be? Boys sitting in the bars with a coffee in front of them that they don't mind letting it get cold, reading newspapers down to the last line just to have the excuse to stay a little longer, perch with the heart that kicks, to admire, to watch the motif of so many emotions pass like seasons.

It is not that they try, they really want to, but they are annihilated by the fear of failure, of saying something so irremediable to burn even the most vain hope. They are not those bar steers who just want to water the buzzard. These are cooked. Cooked with a bang.

I know the guy, I've been there too. How many coffees I drank? How much insomnia I encountered waiting for the look of a moment, the nod of an instant, a kiss escaped by mistake?

This kind of man doesn't care what you think of him: that he is crazy because he is always alone, that every day at 2:05 pm he never has a shit to do as he shows up without ever overstretching a second, that all those tall coffees will kill him sooner or later.

But coffee is ordered big, gentlemen, because at least it lasts a little longer.

And you, young lovers, do not deceive yourself to deceive the populace of this small town of cards and shots at 10.00: after two days, he has already understood everything. And she understood it too. If only because anyone who gets bored gets the post and announces to you and to the whole bar before you have turned the corner. That's okay, anyway. Huge efforts are child's play when you know what to dream of.

And this girl deserved it too. She really deserved it: tall and slender, perhaps too thin but with a charm that is not cheap, not at all obvious or banal. She had a ruffled bun of red hair, a Venus squint that it’s fascinating because she goes unnoticed and the jaunty smile of those who show themselves hiding.

Inside all this urban anthropology, there is also someone who had found the time to get completely drunk: Moobs. When he drinks, he doesn't become annoying. Euphoric, rather, which is worse: if you lose track of where and who you are with, it is automatically not a problem for you to take off your shirt and start dancing on the table rubbing your buttocks with the belt.

Doing something like that in a steakhouse full of studs and hairy haulers is like throwing a Jewish babka in the middle of a neo nazi convention, for reference. We tend to get pissed off a bit. And so do they, the hard core of the place that cared about the magic of all time.

However, they decided to let him vent a little, like the burps they have at their mouth.

"Hey but what's he doing? Dancing with the stars? " asked one.

"Disgusting!"

"And tell him something, right?!"

"Get the hell out! "

"What the fuck are y’all sayin’?" a voice out of the chorus.

"Who are you? Hush up, come on!" a mastodon responded to an altered Zanna who flaunted an impeccable southern accent. I was about to put a hand on the arm of the red, but his reply surpassed me in speed.

"We are not here to get our dicks eaten by mice!" I don't even know if what he said was right for the situation, but the thug was of another thought, given that, shaken by a fit of fury, he almost choked on the brontosaurus chop he was tearing apart. He would have also gotten up, but his one hundred and seventy kilos of fat and shit made the operation quite complicated.

Hoping for help, I turned to Fangio, strangely silent in a situation that would have given him the opportunity to be the protagonist, to be the highlight and to take down all the chicks.

But Fangio was not there, the empty stool vaguely resembled the footprint of an ass and his Royale with cheese was immaculate. Oh, PERFECT!

"Who do you think you are? Redhead, yes you… if you make a line on you, you may look like a fair token! "

"Trust me!" recommended another.

"It's sweet! What? you want to blow his engines? "

Zanna got off the stool. Bravo, maybe we could get out with our own legs. I got up too, showing off an insecure smile that communicated nothing but "I'm looking for Ray Finkle and a pair of clean panties".

Zanna turned to the one-eyed man who was shaking something shaken in the shaker, placed his hand on the wet marble and, looking at the fat man who smoked from his nostrils and was pointing at him, exclaimed authoritarian:

"Give me a milk... chocolate!"

Five minutes later the glass slid onto the counter and ended up in Zanna's hand.

"Who do I think I am? Lorraine. My density has brought me to you!"

I grabbed Moobs by the pants, who hasn't noticed anything, and dragged him off the table. While doing it, I didn’t see the ketchup stain that comes from Zanna's hands and the incandescent anger that burst out and took the whole herd: chairs ended up on the ground, tables overturned, glass shattered, women touched. There was no time to pick up the clothes scattered by Moobs, we needed to head away. And quickly too.

"Come on, heartbreaker!" I said holding also Zanna who instead would have liked to stay and… get to them, I presume.

"And Fangio?" Don't leave your comrades behind! ", protest outburst.

"Zanna..." I shook my head slowly. There's nothing left to do.

"OK let's go." he conferred as the TWAK, SOK and KAPOW raged.

In the confusion, we managed to reach the exit but they saw us, pointed at us, chased us. Moobs almost broke through the window and slipped into the windshield of a vintage Hot Rods. He was drunk, it seemed funny to him and he ran away like Jack Sparrow: straight ass, hands that flop, knees high.

We cried out. They all shouted.

We struggled towards 127 and we didn’t notice how much the suspensions were cracking. In the blissful ignorance of the fucking terror, we just though of getting in and out of there as quickly as possible: Zanna got the right key on the first try and I catapulted out the passenger window as if the doors were welded. Ah, and we're still screaming, even Fangio.

Fangio! We found him!

We turned around and here he was, thighs in the wind on the seat howling like a madman. At that time, a naked figure came out of the cockpit making its way, with no clothes.

To get her through, I had to get off and I didn’t even have the time to smell something that the mob is on top of me. Zanna swore because the car had decided not to leave; Fangio didn’t ask what happened, but showed his ass from behind the window making them more and more angry; I tried not to cry when someone grabbed me by the ankles and literally bangged me like a tablecloth; Moobs messed up.

We couldn’t give up, so Zanna punched the dashboard while there were already about ten out there keeping an eye on my white ass that didn’t give up.

"Moobs, kindly, wouldn't you give me a hand?" I hanged on to the door with every ounce of strength.

"You are already too many for my taste!"

"You have no taste: if they have a heartbeat, you can do them even with a beard!"

Fangio contested, catching me. Now I was upside down on the mat, but at least I was safe. The car, however, still didn’t start: it sparked but did not turn on for real.

Hairy arms and dirty nails tried to grab us from every crevice.

"If you have a magic touch to get this thing going, now it’s the time to get it out!" I said as a dead hippo drooled on me.

"Should I get out?" Moobs was shiny again.

"I'm trying!" Zanna was desperate.

"Spanky, while you're there, ask if they give us a push!" played down Fangio.

Said and done: locked in the car, we heard one of those asking for space. The waters opened as if by a prodigy. I don't know if the guy was called Moses, but he had a stick.

He began to beat up in the grip of a delusion of omnipotence. The doors resisted no more than three or four ignorant whips and then crumpled; the mirror on my side jumped off like a cannon, the rear window was a web of fragments.

When the troll decided it was time to move to the trunk, Fangio joked:

"The eggs, there are some eggs, young man!! Be careful! "

At the umpteenth shovel, Zanna managed to make the 127 think.

We move!! Goodbye losers! GOOOOO!!!!

I don't know about you, but I've never seen putting the turn signal on in a chase. Oh well, it's Zanna.

"Listen, what's wrong with you?" the glow of the torches and pitchforks was now far away.

"Moobs is our friend: only we can call him a "fagot", he replied, annoyed by the fact that he had the audacity to ask him.

"Look, no one has called it that. Fracci, she was a dancer."

"Ah… no? Sure? He had seemed to me something. I apologize."

What do you tell him then? Nothing. You just watch it.

"But was that the waitress?" I dissolved the doubt.

"Yep." Fangio with an applause of humility.

Vlady Jones's Locker

For the reading of this episode, we recommend: Five long years - Colin James

Four men in a locker - YO-OH-OH! - and a Rum-colored box.

They plowed through a stormy highway, threatened by terrible fore winds that made the battered hull of a 127 that resisted only by common will.

In reality, they are stern currents, but if I say stern then Moobs would never stop laughing. It rained as thin as silk, drawing a pattern on the windshield that deceives the eyes of the most astute lookout. We proceeded at a walking pace as the twilight recedes, illuminating the last night.

It rained on deck. No, it's not a nautical metaphor, it's the blanket that Fangio used to harness the maid. There was a crack in the roof and the water that infiltrated fell in a rivulet. The rear window that no longer closed didn’t help.

The adrenaline of the fight kept us awake. If Moobs started running, he would pull the car at 15 km/h faster than we were going at the moment. God, not that it takes long to get it to walk, it has such a powerful engine that a man with pleurisy could fuel her with a cough.

We decided not to stop anymore, to set the route and explain the accelerator to Verona, Corso Garibaldi 16, Petrini house, apartment 5. Get this over with.

For the moment, we gave to the crocodile Moobs’ clothes and the bodywork of the 127. He will have to look over his shoulders until the end of his days. The crocodile, not Moobs.

Zanna never left the box. We accidentally bumped it and something moved. There was something inside. Something heavy.

Let's hope we haven't woken him up.

If it were an egg, the first imprinting would have been given to him by Fangio, sure, screaming while doing that peppered siren of a girl.

"Her body was screaming sex, boy... I couldn't control it!"

"The instinct to mate?"

"The talent of breaking the heart of a poor lover who got tachycardia for life in order to be there with him?" I said annoyed. If I have to take sides, even if I frequent a bunch of sexual spoiled maniacs, even if I am the founder of an association that has as a warning to ensnare and deceive sentimentally, for Zum-zum purposes, a large number of Exchange students and, I don't pay, but I educate a crew of incapable ones in the subtle science of Flirting, I side for love. Always. In any case, season, situation.

I am one of those convinced that Duckie deserved a chance with Molly Ringwald, that Lancelot could not help but bend those bars and sneak into the queen's cell, that Rick should not let that plane take off, that no one can put Baby in a corner.

And that guy hurt in that suburban bar will probably get over the whole thing, the fact that the first asshole who came by was able to take his dream girl away, do what he wouldn't be able to accomplish in a million more years. Maybe his love and his dedication will be strong enough to put him on his feet with more drive than he had before, to bite the bullet and get it right. Maybe one day he will discover that he was not so in love with them, not because the grapes were sour but because the hangover from the infatuation had passed.

However, that doesn't stop me from having the lump in my throat thinking of him now.

When you leave your heart at the pawnshop and get it back because you lent it to the wrong person, it comes back to you with a few scratches and a few dents that it didn't have before. These are the rules of the game.

The rudeness of time makes it more precious, more expensive and less and less you will lend it to the first beautiful smile you meet by mistake. Worn out and small, over the years, it will hide more and more in the bottom of your pockets, it will get confused with the buttons of your coat and will get out of hand when out of boredom or desperation you want to play with it a bit.

Who knows if the mistakes that are made during life, while looking for the right person, do not really serve to smooth the heart to the point that when the time comes, it will have reached the size of the stone of a ring?

5:31 a.m. theories. Take them for what they are.

"No, the Kraken!" Fangio enthusiastically replies "I was not able to hold him back! I had to give him the spring (unleash him. Ndr) "

"And how was she?"

“A wild cat, a lynx running wild! She has stripped me! "

“The best scars. An eight and a half." Moobs graded.

“No, at least a nine. She made things to me that if I could I’d build a bulletin board and put them in it. A professional! "

"Like?"

"Like... Zanna cover your ears." when the command is done, Fangio continued.

At the end of the story, Moobs and I had our jaws touching the floor. Of course, if I find someone who gives me a job like that, I'll marry her.

"Land! Land!" shouted Zanna. The boy must have identified too much in the pirate atmosphere.

"Be good! I'm still trying to imagine this great Saint, don't spoil the moment! " Moobs took it back. Fangio now rejoiced; we were foaming with envy.

"Land!" he insisted but we continued not to care.

"But you think… it should be required by law! What a pioneer! "

"Land! Land!" a hand sticked out from behind.

"Oh Zanna, what the hell... will you stop saying land? It's not... FUCK! " Fangio stepped on the brake.

In front of us there was a truck that had scattered its contents in the middle of the highway. Manure, not land.

The steering wheel of the 127 vibrated violently when the wheels met the first pieces of mud scattered on the wet asphalt. The poop wall was getting closer and closer, and the eyes were quick to calculate that we would not be able to stop in time. We held our breath and clinged to anything. The car was uncontrollable: the wheels stopped and skidded on the veil of rain.

"Come on, GASSSS!" Moobs suggested in the last moments."What is it, you want to use the pile of manure as a ramp and land safely on the other side, where the road still exists?”

Fangio made the wheels creak while the handbrake threw us to the limit of overturning on the opposite side, crushing me on the glass handle, Zanna with his elbows on Moobs’ balls and Moobs with his head out the faulty window.

The 127, however, responded greatly, it has a Rally heart, and discarded the wall of shit and straw before it was too late to say: "With my last breath, I curse Zoidberg!”.

The flow of bovine shit only touched the right side of the car but, since with all that water that was pouring, it is now diarrhea, we slipped away like soap.

There was only one BLUARGH! Strange, we weren't expecting to hear that.

"I HATE MANURE!" Moobs spitted out balls of poop and putted his head back inside the cockpit. All those Gs produced by Fangio's maneuver to save our lives were fecal… er… fatal. Smeared on a wall of organic waste, it looked like a lollypop of shit.

Amidst the laughter, I pulled Fangio over: that vision has turned me into a vomit hydrant.

"Who are you?"

A woman opened the door, a lady in her sixties with raven hair and eyes of a rare green.

"We want to sell you an encyclopedia, madam!" Fangio answered smiling.

"No!" I tugged it. We should have left him in the hall as well as Moobs. We didn't want to scare her: Moobs was wearing only a pair of blue jeans and cow shit."We have something to give you, if we don't disturb you!"

Zanna breathless: she just squeezed the box tightly. Her fingers and whitish knuckles.

At that sight, that is us, most of the people of Mrs. Petrini's age would have slammed the door so quickly that they did not get to pronounce ARTHRITIS