The poster on the wall

After a long day in the grey office that smelled like ink and flatus and masculine crotch, Othoniel Miele picked his blue suitcase and marched out, to the world:

the invigorating street air of Hendaye in June at 5:12 PM brought aroma of fugazzetta from a pizzeria, and Miele walked in that direction:

"Pizzeria Polaris".


I'm not sure, but I could swear that Miele didn't realize that his blue sunglasses shone reflected on the window of a closed candy store while he walked

"Confiserie Albisbeascoechea, fermé pour vacances".


The pizzeria consisted of an ample hall, decorated with a poster of the actor George Maharis on a scene of the TV series "Journey to the Unknown" (because the celebrity visited this pizzeria accidentally in 1971, no one knows well why, so the owner renamed it to "Pizzeria Polaris, la pizzeria de George Maharis"):


Miele passed beside the poster, and, in a weird, compulsive and automatic attitude, stretched his left arm and touched the portrait:
the paper was rugose and it was covered by a patina of dust.

Slightly nervous without knowing why, Miele sat on a metallic chair, then, and ordered three portions of fugazzetta and a glass of cold moscato.



After the succulent and generous portions of fugassetta, in the best Banchero fashion, Miele ordered a flan condulceleche

-it's actually flan con (with) dulce de leche, and NOT flan de (of) dulce de leche. I always -all my life- knew it as flan con dulce de leche: a normal flan, with dulce de leche on top, end of the story.
The first time I heard the fatidical, ignoble, insupportable, miserable, barbarous, sick phrase flan DE dulce de leche, was during a Topo Gigio's TV show, and I recommend you, if someone gives you flan DE dulce de leche, send it to the trash in his face, because the flan's are not made of dulce de leche, just are made of flan, WITH dulce de leche on top-.

While sucking his flan, Othoniel Miele started reading an article on the Wikipedia using his microlaptop, it was an article or page about a Judge of Israel from the Old Testament, called Jair.
As it seems this biblical personage was buried in a city or town called Kamón or Camón (come on), fact which caught the eyes of Othoniel Miele with nervous magnetism, for some unknown reason.








After paying his fugazzettas and flan, Miele walked toward the door of the pizzeria "Polaris" with his head full of anomalous thinkings:

behind his head, George Maharis smiled from the poster, yellow for the years, full of dust.

Miele crossed through Hendaye with fast pace, the town is small, so one doesn't need a taxi or a bus... when Miele was at 300 metres of distance from his home he is bestially run over by a Renault Twingo while crossing the street: Miele died in the act like a mosquito.

The funeral was paid by the company "Coqueluche, societé en commandite par actions", for which Miele worked for the last 18 years, because he lived alone and was single, and his parents were dead , and he never had sibling in the world
and he was buried into a strange coffin that reminded of something Egyptian or Catholic.
Like a small and flat popemobile without wheels.

It was in fact a repellent light blue sarcophagus

a sarcophagus

and Miele woke up suddenly into it:

yes, woke up, interred

because he wasn't dead, because he woke up:

an inenarrable scream of horreur escaped from the internal respiratory tubes of Othoniel Miele, who saw himself trapped into that funereal box, six feet under the world

desperate and abandoned to the anguish Miele started kicking and punching the box that couldn't be opened, scratching himself to death, death that was reinforced by a gradual asphyxia:
the most monstruous of the deceases.

Inexplicably (for Miele, and for me), in a catatonic spasm Miele woke up over again into his death, and he always was in the coffin or ataúd, yes, because... elevating his stare to that sky that never existed, he just found the box

yes, yes, ha ha, CLARO! Because he realized that -even into his death- he still was trapped in the coffin, squeezed by the internal walls of the repugnant light blue coffin... but now, a new figure presided the narrow sepulchre: the illuminated face of George Maharis laughing out loud from the celluloid of "Journey to the Unknown", smoking a 43/70 like a cunt, laughing, laughing at him, at Miele! At Miele in the sepulchre alive forever... to live forever, forever! AAAAAAHA HA HAHAHAHAHAHA!

The smell of rancid humidity was excessive when you woke up yesterday, although you don't remember it [but I do]


that echo of distant screams coming from somewhere down under got immediately dissolved in your vigil
then, you welcomed yourself to another day of beloved sameness, as the nocturnal horrors fell in the excellent oblivion.

Because the morning is safe, like the good people




sugar or saccharine?