(Fake Game. Serial novel by Martin Cid)
NY. JFK Airport. December 22, 2011.
My fifth trip to USA, my fifth interrogatory. Police men ask always the most stupid questions you can imagine: What do you think about Islam? Or… what’s your opinion about Republican meeting? Someday, even they asked me about catholic pedophile priests. Of course, I didn’t know the answer they wanted. After 30 minutes, or even more, of unwise questions, I show them my proud journalist card and they leave me.
When I am picking up my belongings, one of the police men gives me something.
‘I think this is for you, journalist’
One new notation, but this time a key was included in the envelope:
I decide to show the note to the police man.
‘Do you know what a hell is this?’
The police man took a look and with no doubt says:
‘Sure, man! It’s the number of a locker! It’s your lucky day; I can show it!’
It’s funny to go through the airport guarding by a police man. People look at you and you can read on their faces the phrase ‘look, sweet, he is a terrorist’. The police man says me goodbye near the locker. No trail about the vampires. I introduce the key and everything is fine: the locker opens and a light and black briefcase appears. I take it, but I decide to wait until I stay in the hotel.
It’s raining in NY.
At last, I can smoke a cigarette outside. People look at me and wince with pain. I like the feeling of being a devil with the simple gesture of inhaling smoke.
I give the taxi driver the address of my hotel. Somewhere in Manhattan.
John Mirror’s blog post. November 2011.
One of the most peculiar things about the flu is its total ability to adapt to the body. Flu won’t ever do a mortal attack, determining itself the force of the attack it can use. Even if we are talking about an ancient or a baby, flu won’t kill. Flu will stay in the body until it suddenly changes into a silent part of the organism, restructuring itself into a new silent entity.
Somewhere in Manhattan.
Finally, I arrive at the hotel. I open the windows. There’s a black bellboy called Tim who helps me with the bags. No money for him, he smiles, I really like people with humor sense.
I open the briefcase and I call Loraine, my blonde dream. Maybe this time I may be lucky but I know the truth: maybe not. She is coming. Maybe I will hide the content of the briefcase to her. Journalists always are the best bed mates, but they are never the best friends. I hide the briefcase under the bed and I smoke again. I’m feeling worst and I need to take a rest.
I go to bed.
Martin Cid: http://www.martincid.com