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Chalino was an idol and idols who kill deserve the shit that even a cockroach.
Total I took the fusca and with it, I thought, would kill Buchi Prieto. I do use the fusca, they say that if a story appears a gun should be used and I was going to use.
3
Prieto came to the fence together with a nose that deserved a second look. And even a third. Was one of those culichis cream: lot buttock, leg and little good Chichi. There I learned that one can not concentrate on Shoot a bath so viejorrón. And let me slap Buchi. I pulled the Chalino Berettea and pointed. Bastard, did you see how a gun gets cock balls?, You did your time .... Ya, ya, ya, you bastard, you sound like the movie hermmanos Almada, Buchi said Prieto and then asked, "Where did you get the pistol of Chalino Sanchez? Ah, you bastard, and this dude how he knew the gun. You know, he said, my uncle sent to kill to go to chile Chalino ball with the old, the anger is that we never knew where to put the gun because we Drops Bala died. Drops Bala, he said, was my grandfather. "Net? Simon. That old priest was a pity that he committed suicide. And yes, I could not stand the drain, killing the Chalino, re singing well that dude was energetic, idol and troublemakers. Total, in the end, Buchi Prieto asked me the gun and this was settled the million dollars he owed. Say thank you to your grandfather, said. The truth is not the gave: my grandfather was an old miser who in life always overcharged.
Epilogue:
killed yesterday Buchi Prieto. He went to Palenque with the morra that it was well good. She threw me the wave, net. As it seemed a waste cogieran only once a week. Buchi Prieto watched was the roll and pulled out the Beretta's Chalino. When fired, let go of the rooster. The red slit his shot the buchi and gave the owner of the fence. La Morra said, Pelata. Not that I have blamed, what happens is that sometimes you have to choose between life and value. And here I am, telling the mother that I wish I had written the Bef because this dude does know typing. But either way, the pinchi Alexander proved to be the first dude as in typing and doing very tense and here say they already acbó time, post or modes. Bef safe one day tell the story of the revenge of Chalino.
the net, just not beating them, but I assure you it is a fart be here before you, they deserve my respect and admiration for being here, instead of be at home doing better things. Thanks, really
"Put them in the store of potatoes," he said, and bury them under a pile of potatoes.
"Do not be sucker, click Spaniard," I said, here are called fries.
"Well, I better mother - retorted the belt, when he should speak in Mexico - bury it under the potatoes and prick.
Let me introduce myself, my name is ...
How can they be called?
... Ignacio, and as will be clear, I am dedicated to disappears from corpses. Well, now that I think need not be clear.
Gabriel Zaid said that Mexico's literary life is possible without writing a single line, attending cocktails snake colleagues. So go out shortly. It is the first time I have both at the same time. I continue with the story.
called The Spaniard Gerardo Lamas. Click name. We tell the Ticas. Or the mobs. Always at their backs.
The fact is that we were in the midst of a chambita midnight. A bomberazo, who also have. The guy was Judah and had angered someone. Crackling and then gave us we had to pass the buck. Literally.
All writers are full of rituals at the time of writing. I like to do on a laptop. If I have a near zero coca, the better.
In this business (Have you noticed how people filled the mouth saying "in the business" when they go to say something about the crappy job they do?) there are categories. In the basement there are those who encobijan bodies. The slag, of course.
More arribita come pozole. Do not think that there is only one. Are legion, the bastards. But I'm scared or burned with acid soda.
And of course there are those who fanned the bodies to the sausage factory or chilorio. Never buy chilorio of Sinaloa. Never buy chilorio. Do not go out a fingernail of a hitman.
The fact is that the Lamas and I pride ourselves in being artists. Aristocrats of the disappearance of bodies. Something like extreme installers. Does not sound bitchen little?
I like that in Berlin or Los Angeles and I should have exhibited in various galleries and cult figures would be. As Paul McCarthy, or the Witkin that. But no, we were born in Nacolandia. Well, I, the Lamas was Gijón. Click grocer.
But was not that bad. Every time we tried to surprise the customer. Once got a whole family that broke a cartel hit men in a car Constance got into a scrap metal shredder. I wanted to put the piece something like sardines, like the Radiohead song. Lamas suggested Rhapsody in Blue because the car was blue. What a dude.
The client earned mother.
It lasts the life of an artist.
now experimenting with sustainable and organic materials. Like Potatoes. The idea was to bury it in a potato warehouse and the rats would realize the luncheon.
But as always, do not have the complications of the case. The guy was pretty big load and when Lamas was re-dude. No way to refuse. It was that or leave the body right there.
And you have a reputation to maintain.
hardly write music. I found I make more mistakes with the distraction. The problem is that it is a bit boring.
already choked me, any ideas?
In order for this piece thought drizzle of ketchup, making an ironic comment on society and junk food consumption. But it was a fight loaded with fifteen gallons of catsup to lucieran, so I threw it out.
Total, barely enough to cover the luncheon with a few potatoes. Have you tried to load one hundred kilos of potatoes at a time? And leave it there.
We went to dinner at the department of Lamas, who lives near Viaduct and Tlalpan.
- Do you want an omelette? He asked, solicitous.
I do not know, dude, like you do not fancy me. I do not know why.
"Besides, I thought," here called popes, click gachupín sucker. "
Finale
Thank race.
Thank you all for coming. Sorry. See you next time!!
On Monday 
Fragment Danny Escoto
Contrary to what we imagined reading the rave of the sixteenth century parchments tortuous stories of maimed and wailing, atavistic rituals, libertine Abbesses, Angry-life monks in the town was quiet, almost dull by comparison with the expectations of our troubled imagination.
Slowly we had to get rid of such conjecture, and adjust to life sect, based in a wilderness of Germania, in idyllic retreat from struggles between East and West, Arians and Orthodox and iconoclastic iconophiles.
Breakfast time. Neither too early nor too late, after ablutions in the stream that surrounds the fort. Milk, bread, confit, honey, goat cheese, jelly of those times. It was not, in any way, lean and tasteless breakfast we imagine when reading the ancient books on the High Middle Ages.
At noon, the work and routines. Here you make a chair out there other melt the iron to our disappointment, not to torture devices, but to make a simple, rustic garden pot, in a midwife teaches children the fundamentals of rhetoric and combinatorial art. Each activity as a cog in the social machine, working properly, although not perfect, in the communal life of the fort, similar to our contemporary theorists describe as the "body without organs." We walk from here to there, taking notes, occasionally asking questions, we answer kindly.
