Antonio, ‘the twirler’ Ratonto lay face-down smoking a cigar, naked apart from a towel stretched across his expansive rump, while a barefoot lady stomped on his back.
The young man in the doorway cleared his throat. “Señor Ratonto?”
How long he’d been standing there he wasn’t sure, but it was long enough to feel he’d seen too much already.
“I’m José Saffron, from Letras Libres. I just spoke with your publicist, Señora Domadora? She said I could find you here…”
“Yes, Isabela did mention something.”
The giant head turned to reveal a glittering eye. “I do hope it isn’t too early for such an intimate portrayal?”
“Not at all. Are there any particular injuries you’re working on?” continued José Saffron, regaining his journalistic composure.
At first glance it appeared he was dressed completely in black. Yet upon further inspection, it was all about shades. His corduroy trousers were actually navy blue: his waistcoat indigo, with a deep burgundy shirt beneath. In fact, the only truly black thing was his trained moustache—slightly offsetting his boyish face—curled up at the sides, miraculously balanced on the edge of absurdity. He’d got a mixed reception at the office. Some liked it for the dedication, others for the philosophy: Did a man become his moustache? Was it something you grew, or grew into? One smartass had called him Salvador Dalí’s disappointing grandson. Well, after this was published, he’d surely progress to the title of mediocre…
“Oh, nothing I didn’t deserve probably,” replied Antonio Ratonto. “Malee here is just keeping my loins nice and tender.”
“Tender?” she scowled, “You already half cooked!”
…
“So, who else are you doing while you’re down here?”
“Well, I’m also interviewing Christina Sanchez. I believe you once described her as having ice in her veins, death in her eyes and love in her heart.”
He gave a snort of pleasure. “I can see someone has done their homework. Maybe you’re not just a fancy moustache after all. Indeed, I remember her back when I was chasing drunks through the plaza. In some ways I wish I was still there: no expectations, no pressure, no idea what I was doing—I guess that’s what made it so fun. Oh, but my ambition would never let me get away with a simple life. Thank you, Malee, I think it’s time for my hydrotherapy now.”
He sat up, exposing his thunderous chest.
“I always dreamed of a place like this. Through all the pain and hardship, all those moments I thought about giving up; to just bow down to the darkness, I told myself that one day I’d be here, with a body full of scars and a head full of memories.”
The towel came off—José Saffron discreetly averting his eyes—as Antonio Ratonto eased his massive frame into the ornate brass tub. “Well, as the saying goes: the harder the journey, the sweeter the destination. They import the water from Switzerland, if you were wondering.”
“And now you’ve made it.”
“Yes, it appears I have.”
Malee was taking seaweed from a bucket and draping it over his face.
“And it’s only now I realise that perhaps all I want – all I ever wanted – was to roam the streets as an unknown twirler.”
“That’s where you first gained attention?”
“Yes. While most of my peers were fixated on vengeance, I was more interested in aesthetics: driven not by blind rage, but by a cosmic respect for karma. I knew that power wielded without reason was immoral, a weakness. Thus, I developed a system of spinning participants into the air, landing them quite unhurt already in the recovery position. Style, strength, an innate understanding of anatomy—I had it all. Not only was my approach ethical, it was far more economical due to all those able to attend work as usual on Monday. In fact, I actually stimulated the birth-rate in the long term.”
“How did you manage that?” asked José Saffron, directing his question at the nose, the only part of Señor Ratonto’s face that wasn’t wrapped in seaweed.
“I’ll happily admit it was a combined effort between twirler and twirlee. You see, in our culture, when such a complex motion is performed, the social status of that individual is temporarily raised, whereby they become more desirable to the opposite sex. Naturally, the twirlee must claim that this feat was entirely his own doing, and that he wasn’t simply an unwitting biomass at the time of his launch. I have been reliably informed that many relationships formed and blossomed thanks to my intervention. But listen, aren’t you hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“I know a nice place not far from here, if you’d care to join?”
…
José Saffron was outside smoking a roll-up, enjoying his persona as the hip imposter amongst the blossom trees and luxury cars. He liked to keep his thoughts in constant motion when working on a new piece; the concept like a personal raincloud, ready to shower him with fresh ideas. All he needed to do was to remain calm, confident and carry on creating.
“Now, there’s a rare sight these-days,” exclaimed Antonio Ratonto, trotting down the cool limestone steps in a blue silk shirt with white denim jeans and gold-framed Aviators perched on his nose. “No devices, no distractions: just a man alone with his thoughts.”
A pearly Mercedes pulled into the courtyard, and a bald, stocky driver got out to open the passenger door, giving the journalist a slightly guarded look.
…
Through the chrome-tinted windows the landscape seemed surreally subdued and lucid, drained of its usual passion, like memories whose colour fades and grows cold with time. José Saffron filed this observation away with an elongated blink, before turning to his subject.
“You once likened fame to a siren, luring you further and further away from yourself.”
“I did?”
“Yes, on the El Hormiguero show?”
“Ah, yes. You must forgive my memory—too much sangria and self-reflection, I’m afraid.”
“I wonder then, whether remaining close to your roots was a very conscious decision?”
“I…A-A-AchhhhhUúúÚÚÚÚÚÚ!” Antonio Ratonto sneezed. “Sorry, how beastly of me.”
“No problemo,” replied José Saffron, crossing himself.
“You’re a good sport. Well, we have a saying here: the earth I kick in my youth is the earth I’ll be buried in. My ancestors hail from the Navarra valleys. I can trace them all the way back to the Romans. Of course, I’m grateful that I have the choice and means to leave if I ever wished to. Many of us are not so privileged. Life for me is about knowing where to remain and when to return; that we are the result of the constant existential struggle between– HIJO DE PUTA!!!”
José Saffron, who until then had been gently meditating on this aromatic blend of past and future, jerked back to the present in bug-eyed shock.
“Paparazzi,” said Antonio Ratonto, motioning to two figures behind them on a motorbike.
The driver checked the rear-view, before exchanging a nod with his boss.
“I guess it proves your popularity?” suggested José Saffron, his moustache tingling.
“Popularity? These vultures would rather see me barbecued by the side of the road! Well, we’ll find out how much they really want this story…¡OlÉ!”
“Jesus!” muttered the young journalist, as the car surged forward—his intended question as to where a retired twirler obtained his adrenaline now a redundant blur. Up ahead was a tractor trailing a plough, swaying like a huge squid with its numerous wheels and bladed tentacles.
Creativity, Saffron once wrote, either came from above or below depending on your environment. On a coastal stroll for example, with the high chakras stimulated, enchantment might arrive on the very next wave. Though trapped in a speeding vehicle, it was his entrails which spoke with premonitions of a much darker frequency…
It is easy to mistake these characters for being just like us, as they bask behind gilded bars in carefree luxury. Presented in this perfect form, with their easy smiles and zen-like introspection, they seem, despite their riches, very similar to our own sensibilities.
However, this would be a naïve misunderstanding of who they are behind the civilised mask; the abnormal physical and psychological traits that set them apart, that moulded them into what best we know them for. When it comes to aversion to risk, danger or pain, it is clear that our realities are not the same. In this case, what one might describe as suicidal behaviour, could simply be a country drive to them…
“Oh, ¡Mierda!”
They roared past the tractor, cutting back into lane in time to avoid an oncoming van. “You’ll never appreciate life unless you’re prepared to gamble it occasionally,” chuckled Antonio Ratonto, as the car swerved right at a crossroads.
“You can open your eyes now.”
They were on a lane flanked by poplar trees, gently rising with irresistible aesthetics towards a black iron gate spiralled with gold, which opened automatically to let them pass.
…
“Ahh, Señor Ratonto!” exclaimed a little man in a white suit with red buttons, approaching with a slight limp as they entered the Casa del Toro. “What a pleasure! ¿Cómo está?”
“Much better for seeing you, Francisco. And may I introduce José Saffron: he’s doing a feature on me.”
“Ah, si, si, very good. Please, allow me to show you to your table.”
José Saffron was almost short circuited as he noticed Lionel Messi, thoughtfully spooning soup into his mouth.
…
“I must say I’m feeling rather playful,” said Antonio Ratonto, once they were seated by a large arched window overlooking olive groves and vineyards. “Bring us a bottle of Espada de Vino.”
“Very good, Señor.” The little man scuttled off.
It seemed that wherever José Saffron glanced there was a celebrity lookalike, who this time was in fact the person they resembled, yet simultaneously looking rather less like who they were supposed to, as if they were AI versions of themselves.
“Here legends meet as equals,” said Antonio Ratonto, casually waving over to Penolope Cruz, who knocked back her glass before floating over with a world-healing smile.
“Antonio! It’s been too long!”
Her voice, ripened by a thousand suns, soaked in ancestral spirit, caused José Saffron’s moustache to curl with a nostalgia he thought he had long been dispossessed of.
“Penelope, my dearest, please say you’ve agreed to run away with me,” said Antonio, standing up to exchange kisses.
“It’s so beautiful around here I might have to,” she replied, using a napkin to wipe away the drool from her cheek. “Actually, we were just talking about you.”
“Oh, so it’s we now.” Antonio gave an ironical sigh.
“Yes, Javier is renovating a farmhouse close by. You must come and visit us when it’s finished.”
“Oh, come on, darling! The poor thing probably never wants to see another farm as long as he lives,” exclaimed Javier Bardem, now returned from the toilet, his voice a tide of tranquil melancholy.
“Well, that all depends on the quality of the wine cellar,” said Antonio with a wink. “Oh, and this is José Saffron. He’s writing all about my exploits, my secrets, how I kept myself off the main course.”
Penelope Cruz laughed. “Oh, Antonio, you’re terrible! It’s enough to make me go vegan! I like your moustache by the way,” she said, her hazel eyes catching the light as they fell on him. “Does it help you write?”
“Funny you should mention that,” José replied, “I’ve been asking myself the same thing recently.” He hovered before her like a bee, quite ready to do anything she required.
“Well, we look forward to reading it when it comes out,” said Javier, breaking the trance. “Do please excuse us – I believe our lunch has arrived.”
…
A waiter stepped forward with the wine. “And may I take your order?”
José Saffron held the red velvet menu unsteadily in his hands, staring at all the meat porn. “I…I think I’ll go for the salad, por favor,” he said, trying to ignore the tortured howls from his stomach.
“Not on my account, I hope?” inquired Antonio.
“I thought that, you know…I mean, the last thing I want to do is offend you,” replied José, realising it probably would be the last thing he ever did.
“And the last thing I want to do is deprive you from trying some of the best steak in the world,” said Antonio with a reassuring nod.
“Well, if you’re sure… I’ll think I’ll take the Chuletón de Buey.”
“An excellent choice. And for Señor?”
“I’ll have the baby pumpkins stuffed with peanut butter on a bed of Japanese sea grass.” The waiter nodded and took off once more.
Antonio refilled their glasses. “Listen, I appreciate the sensitivity, but your good intentions could have quite the opposite effect.”
“How so?”
“Perhaps you’ll recall my Ted talk, where I described the usual arguments against our profession: that such barbarism has no place in the modern world, that what we do is, cruel, backwards, absurd; an embarrassment to those who’d rather forget our history, for whom there is only the current year. But I ask you, which is better? To be led dumb and passive along concrete corridors, dispatched by masked strangers in plastic aprons; or to go out with the sun on your back and the crowd in your ear. To dance with death, look him in the eye, achieve glory, even freedom. Yes, we may well meet our maker in the arena, but our memories will bring light long after we are gone…” He motioned to the chandelier, made completely of bones.
“Out there we are given the chance to be who we truly are, perhaps even transcend it! And at the end, even if we don’t make it, we’ll live on as names, not be forgotten as numbers. Waiter! More wine!”
“You mentioned staying off the main course. Obviously, many weren’t so lucky,” said José, nodding up at the horns mounted on the walls, complete with golden plaques. “I’d therefore like to know in more detail what you did differently.”
“Firstly, I always did my research as to who I was facing. From the simplest details: were they right or left-handed? To medical records: hairline fractures, twisted ankles, broken ribs, childhood allergies; even their temperament: were they choleric or empathetic? How many passes were they privy to? Did they relish the final thrust, or did they panic under pressure? Most importantly, could they be bargained with? After all, I could make you look divinely gifted or chronically bad. Want to pull off a chicuelina, dazzle them with a molinete? That can all be arranged, but I want a favour in return. You see, I viewed things differently. Perhaps it was my time as a lowly street twirler that sharpened my senses and taught me to hustle: that unlike those noble fools whose glorious end was predestined, I was determined to return for the encore. Ah, splendid! Our food has arrived…”
The waiters of this fine establishment were of course high in intuition, timing their arrival so as to not interrupt their guests’ speeches, especially one this size.
Meanwhile, José Saffron, who had maintained a measured scepticism regarding his lunch, felt his taste buds erupt in ecstasy.
“How is it?” asked Antonio with a knowing smile.
“It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” he replied, momentarily stunned by the simple truth of his statement.
“Was he… I mean, how did he –”
“With great honour and bravery. I’m told the matador knelt with him in his final moments to pray. I’m sure he’d be proud to know his protein is fuelling the great minds and bodies you see before you.”
“I just hope I can do him justice. Though I wonder if I can ever eat normal food again without crying. This meat just melts in the mouth. It’s hard to imagine that such a colossus animal can be so soft.”
“Well, perhaps there lies the problem.”
“How do you mean?”
“These young bulls out there today. Instead of endorsing cryptocurrencies and betting companies, they should be studying my tutorial on stab-proofing your morrillo—the area between the shoulder blades. I figured, that’s what those handsome devils aim for, so why not condition it? And so, began my journey of self-evolution.
While others spent their free time mooing at heifers through the fence, or mindlessly chewing, I would read, research, train, meditate.
The world became a constant curiosity, my mind a library to be filled.
At night I’d gaze up at the sky, imagining the stars as questions I might one day answer. Was I the unstoppable force, or the immovable object? Or something beyond even physics, rooted deep within the psyche? Finally, I understood that I was everything. A myth, a metaphor, a tonne of raging reality coming right at you! And as I stormed past, skimming their trousers with the tip of my horn, I’d whisper: ‘Oh, yeah! That’s beautiful! What a move! Is that new cologne I smell? Ok, let’s do that one more time, then I’m going to do a lap of the arena and headbutt that barrier before we begin act two, agreed? Let’s get you through this and safely back home to your wife and kids.’
Funny how psychology works, isn’t it? And I should know because I became an expert in it. Through cunning, compromise and cardio— never forget cardio—I managed to make it through. Aware I could write my own script, that I could turn wrong into right, I’d stun the crowd with random acts of compassion. For instance, when one of the picadors collapsed due to heat exhaustion, instead of goring him as my ‘nature’ dictated, I gently helped him back up and onto his horse. We’re still friends to this day.
Earlier, you mentioned Christina Sanchez. Ask her about how we choregraphed one of the greatest spectacles of all time. I was beaten, exhausted, on my knees. There she loomed against the sun: a deadly silhouette, ready to deliver me to the promised meadows. Then suddenly I reared up, twirling her into the air—a perfect somersault—and onto my back! The king himself wept as he granted me my sixty-fourth pardon.”
“So, defying your instincts not only helped you survive but actually flourish… Fascinating. I’d like to move on, if we may, to events after your career. I know that for many athletes the transition can be rather problematic.”
“At the beginning things were great. I really took life by the horns, if you’ll excuse the pun. All the big brands wanted me, from luxury watches to sports cars. I married my second wife, Luna Cremosa –”
“That cow from the ice-cream commercials?”
“Yes, we actually met on the set of a music video. Wherever I grazed, I manifested wealth and abundance. There were talks of movie deals, protein bars, electric scooters, gym franchises. But through a mixture of arrogance, cocaine and eugenics, things started to go wrong. You see, in the meantime, I’d betrayed my roots, surrounded myself with hangers on, yes people: all the worst friends in all the wrong places.
In the arena, I realised, I was safe. There were rules, boundaries, customs to uphold. But out here I was free to charge into anything I desired. Thus, I found myself involved in some questionable ventures, which of course I deeply regret.”
“You’re talking about your sperm bank,” said José, who after four glasses of wine, was looking at the bull with the same hazy inhibition he might an old friend.
Antonio gave an expensive sigh. “Yes, instead of doing it in the fields for random farmers, I decided to go universal, using the miracle of science to populate every continent with little twirlers. Genghis Kahn munch your heart out!”
“Sounds like a money maker.”
“I thought so too. A state-of-the-art implantation centre, where only the best genes were selected—namely mine. Do you know how it feels doing something you love? All day I’d trot around the premises, donating myself into this tube or that, with a team of technicians in tow to ensure not a single drop went to waste. But beware the good times, for that’s when you’ve really got something to lose.
I was having so much fun, I’d forgotten to actually look into the legal aspect until the first child support letter landed on my desk. I used to think flamboyant men with lances were the most dangerous thing you could face, but they never bled me like those wretched lawyers! Soon I was up to my knees in claims. I had survived hell, only to be destroyed by heaven. My life was a shagging joke! Luna left me. My friends deserted me. The brands all dropped me. The tabloids held daily headline orgies: Antonio the Spermer, McTwirler: a million calves fatherless, Señor test-tube…Damn them!
There was nothing left but humiliation and bankruptcy. I therefore decided to escape to Mexico and live out my days wandering the plains as a feral exile. Though as usual, things never work out the way you planned, and fate always wins in the end. A few weeks into my pilgrimage—harassed by coyotes, shot at by peasants—I was bitten by a rattlesnake. For days I wandered, delirious, dying. What a way to go, I thought. The great twirler, ending his days a forgotten carcass in the middle of nowhere.
The hallucinations were truly something to behold. I remember witnessing the toreros from my past. The bandilleros whooping as they stuck me with their flags, the picadores stabbing from up high. Then the final boss: the matador, dressed in green, sword glinting. Antonio. She spoke my name softy, like wind through long grass. Antonio, you have fought a long way. But you cannot fight forever. I sank down, trembling before her. I knew there would be no mercy this time, and I was glad. For my suffering was at an end and soon I would join the greats in grassy paradise. With a great bellow I lunged forward, tears streaming down my cheeks, ready to receive the gift of eternity…
The next thing I knew, I was in a barn, staring up at the sky through a hole in the roof. Two shawled women were by my side and a kindly looking man stood at the foot of the bed, introducing himself as brother Cordero from the church of the flock of hope. He described how while filming a promotional video they had come across me unconscious, with my head half lodged in a cactus.
It was miraculous, you see. Just a week before he’d had a vision that I would be delivered into their loving arms, and the lord had not disappointed.
They plucked out all the cacti spines and nursed me back to health with much devotion. Well, after this kind deed, and with nowhere else to really go, I felt it only polite to accept their invitation to get baptised.
But if I thought my twirling days were over, I was rather mistaken. For brother Cordero’s large congregation, not to mention his collection of sports cars, was due to his fame as a faith healer, and my talents were soon put to use.
One by one, Cordero’s suited ‘shepherds’ led his followers on stage, ready to have their ailments cured by my holy glowing horns: everything from stomach ulcers and arthritis, to ‘conditions of the soul:’ possession, sleep-walking, alcoholism, bad school grades. You name it, I twirled it.
“But did you actually heal anyone?”
“I must have twirled thousands of people over that period. Some people, for example, swore that I was better than a chiropractor. A woman got pregnant with twins after I flung her into the pool of fertility. I’ve knocked the devil out of some, and tipped others out of wheelchairs. Did they walk again? Not really, but at least they got to fly.
Listen, I’m not an expert in these things, but I believe in the mind, the limitless power of thought. If a doctor tells a healthy man he’s got two years to live, he’ll be dead in eighteen months. Likewise, if he tells him he’s fine, he’ll probably die of boredom anyway! HA-HA-HA! I’m just kidding, but anyway…what was my point? Ah, yes—it’s easy to scoff in hindsight, but it’s different when you’re a part of the ritual, amid the drums and flutes, the misty euphoria…Well, you’re the writer here: I’m sure you’ll come up with something. It was strange though. Although I yearned for the soil of my homeland, I knew I couldn’t leave without another sign. Not that brother Cordero would be eager to give my departure his blessing. After all, I was his ‘golden bull’ for a reason—one that had recently paid for his private jet; a fact the cartels had not overlooked either, swooping in with extortion demands.
It's fair to say that the wealthier we get, the less reasonable we become, especially towards those who wish to separate us from our money. In his case, this resulted in purchasing a compound and hiring armed guards. Despite their reputation, the cartels are similar to any other business, with protocols in place for prospective client negotiation. At first, they send polite representatives, armed with nothing more than spreadsheets. Upon initial refusal, they will return with added persuasion; that it really is in your best interests to agree to their terms. Further rejection will remove the ties and briefcase from the equation. Now you’ll be faced with menacing individuals, there to remind you who they are and what they are capable of if you continue down this path. Brother Cordero told them all to go to hell; all the more insulting coming from him.
Perhaps it was the armed guards and high-walls with camera systems, that gave him the idea he could turn them down without consequence. Maybe he thought, that with God on his side, he was untouchable—or perhaps his coca was particularly pure. And after a few months, even I was thinking it had all blown over. Until one evening, when they turned up in a tank and started shelling the compound. Cordero burst into my stall brandishing a Kalashnikov—the stock engraved with a shiny cross. Antonio, you have to get out of here! he cried, throwing me a key to the secret tunnel. I simply nodded, receiving a farewell slap on my hindquarters as I lumbered past.
The tunnel led to a cave, opening onto a riverbank where two cartel members stood with their quadbikes. They were smoking and listening to updates from the fight over their radios. Obviously, this would be no soft twirl job. I stormed into them, tossing one into a boulder and impaling the other through the chest. Then I got on a quadbike and drove off into the night, watching as the compound became a blazing matchhead on the horizon.”
The great Ratonto leant back in his chair. “Well, some call time a great healer. I think it's more like a great comparer; giving others the chance to wonder if your sins were any greater than theirs. I guess that’s why I’ve received such a warm welcome home.”
While undoubtably mesmerised by the drama, something mediocre was nagging José Saffron. He never wanted to admit it, but he knew that he could not simply ignore the modern world, with all its random viral sensations. He checked his watch, then looked at his interviewee, who he knew from experience was pretty much done.
“I wonder, if it’s not too much trouble, whether you could twirl me?”
“Twirl you?!” Antonio chuckled.
“Yes. I mean, just to promote the article—and your biography, of course,” he added.
“Well, in that case, I don’t see why not,” said the bull, rising a little heavily from his seat.
“Okay, let me just get my phone ready,” said José. “Can someone film it, please?”
“Hey, Rafa, be a champ will you, and come and record this twirl,” said Antonio to Rafael Nadal.
“Certainly,” he smiled, popping the last bit of prime steak in his mouth and walking over.
“Right, just relax and think of nothing,” instructed Antonio.
A small crowd had gathered. “I can hardly watch, I’m so excited!” exclaimed Penelope Cruz, hands clasped tightly to her breast, squinting in apprehension: beside her Javier, a picture of stoic calm. Rafael Nadal held the phone steady, his left arm bulging. Lionel Messi had a faraway smile on his face, while the waiters, professional as ever, stood motionless, seeing everything and nothing simultaneously.
“Hi, I’m José Saffron here at the Casa Del Toro, and today I’m getting twirled by none other than Antonio Ratonto. Take it away, Antonio!”
The bull dipped underneath, tilting him onto his side, so that he now lay between its horns. Though he had no time to process the mechanics, before his body exploded in motion, the whole room a kaleidoscope of shapes and colours, the smile on his face growing ever wider until it circumnavigated his head.
An out of body experience you never want to return from – he saw his words written like sparklers across the darkening sky.
“That was…incredible! Thank you so much, Señor,” he sighed, hugging the beautiful animal around its neck. Yet it seemed Antonio was still a little disorientated to respond.
“OH MY GOD!” screamed Penelope Cruz, rushing towards him. José held out his arms for her sweet embrace, but she breezed right past, disappearing into a circle of people.
“Rafael, what’s going on, dude?” he asked, beckoning for the clay court champion to at least return his phone. But Nadal did not hand it back, as he stared straight ahead, ashen faced. Indeed, the only person who noticed him, or indeed made eye contact, was Messi, who gave him a sympathetic smile.
“Antonio! Oh, Antonio! What did you doooo?!” wailed Francisco, to which the bull could only mutely shake his head.
José Saffron walked slowly towards the centre of attention, vibrating with emotion like a beehive. Kneeling on the floor was Penelope, weeping softly while she cradled a motionless man in her arms. He stared at the scene, until it dawned that they shared the same moustache—an extremely odd coincidence…
“But we can’t both be me,” he murmured. “Unless I’m… unless I’m… EXCUSE ME, EVERYONE! MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION, POR FAVOR?”
No one apart from Messi paid him any, but he continued anyway. “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a mistake. I think my soul, or whatever I am currently, might have accidentally fallen out of my body mid-twirl, so I’m going to climb back inside now so that we can all return back to our lunch.”
But whichever way he dived, jumped or dug, he remained locked out.
“Wake up, you idiot, oh, please wake up!” he yelled, beating with weightless fists against his chest.
“His moustache! It just twitched!” cried Penelope Cruz, her silvery tears splashing onto his face.
“That’s just nerves, darling,” explained Javier gently.
“Oh, yeah? And what do you know anyway?! You’re just an actor!” José shouted point blank in his face, to no reaction.
“He’s a very good actor and he’s also completely right,” said a man sitting at the bar with his back to them. “Wait, if you can see me then it means I’m not…dead?”
“I can see you because I am Death.
“And what about Messi? He still sees me.”
“Well, he’s special. Now come and have a shot with me. We’re expected somewhere soon.”
Damn, your writing is so good!