When I was a large child we would hear concerts at the Palace of Music. We would see people like Paco Ibañez sing, and we would make fun of them later the same night for being too serious.
But we would only do this in private because we knew all too well that people could still be garroted, probably in our city. The police were shooting rubber bullets at us and everyone, and we did not know who would be tortured to death in Carabanchel or elsewhere after we went home.
At this time that Blackguard was still a Falangist child. And on Thursday that fucking Blackguard called me a “Puritan” for not receiving his silly telephone communications to my home at 11:59 PM and later.
And I told him he was a manipulative, lying Blackguard. And that I, personally, would like a colleague. Not a 16 year old macho man son I did not raise or a 12 year old gossiping daughter I did not raise, either. And that I had plenty of comadres in my barrio, but that at my workplace I would like to see a professor.
“You have insulted my honor,” said he. Que nunca tuvo. Ni qué carajo.