026 III. Nowhere, Marrakech, April 2019. The floating body could be twelve or sixty years old. He is just wearing a black tunic embroidered with golden pebbles. I can make out his shiny testicles and plump thighs while he descends upon me as if propelled by an engine on his ass. I see his double chin and chubby fingers. His mouth is thin and his voice sounds like Greta Garbo’s filtered by a broken synthesiser when he says: “Selby is gone.” My insides turn and phonetics fail to engage with the end of onomatopoeia. I could refill all the oceans in the world with just one teardrop and this SCREAM. Nothing feels real except the absence of my life, as I knew it 48 hours ago. I’m mumbling and crying rivers thicker than all the poisoned water on the planet. He extends his left hand, makes the universal shush sign and rubs my temples with his awkward fingers. My pupil’s roll and my mouth opens. I get freeze for a moment and then my cracked voice says: “S-e-l-b-y.” and “Nooooooooooo.” “Murder and his men got him while you were travelling. I did my best to save you all, but they are many and very organised. Overall, they are not who you think they are. The bigger picture is as nasty as it gets. I’m so sorry for your losses,” says the floating being. “I’m afraid I can’t see any picture bigger than Selby’s and Nora’s passing. What about the escorts that helped me escape?” He shakes his bizarre head. “I will explain at the right time, don’t worry, but for the time being I can keep you away from Murder and his beasts and help you track down Alex. We all want revenge, but only some of us must fight for it.” “Selby said that I should only deal with Khaled once in Marrakesh.” “I’m Khaled. And yes, you are right, we have a deal: I can keep you away from your hunters. But if you want to get out there, you might need a new face.” “I’m sick of all this. What do you freakin’ mean?” “I can arrange your face surgery and let you go once our deal is done. But as you know, nothing comes for free.” “Selby already paid you a crazy amount of money, that I remember.” “Since he is gone and you are here, the deal shall be rearranged. I hear you are a very accomplished writer.” “What? I could barely get printed in the worse Spanish newspapers when tabloids were alive. I’m not a writer; I just worked as a journalist for a shameful while.” “That I remember, yes. It was embarrassing. But then again, you are lying.” My face before surgery becomes a puzzled emoji. I can’t help but wonder. “Did I ever interview you?” He smirks. “Fuck me. Are you the former singer of ADF?” “Fuck you indeed.” Hell Hound, Bcn 1995. I get off the subway at 4:15pm. There are two Spanish hairy dwarfs in dark blue uniforms outside the metal barriers. They are both taller than me. I take out my fake pass, and before the smart one realises I jump the fence behind them. The least smart releases their hellhound and I run for my virgin-journalist life. I avoid the fangs of Satan by sneaking into the lift before its doors shut. I get out five stories above the hellhound and keep on running towards the hotel where the band is waiting. I scan the blinders of all the closed shops that could sell batteries, a perfect 100 per cent of them. That is something I knew before I started magical thinking about opened shops in Barcelona on siesta fucking o’clock on a fucking Saturday of 19 fucking 95. I often swear, but rarely sweat. Brand new ghost.
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