TORTURE IN ED

IS MADRID RED AND CHEKA FEUDARIES AGAIN? HERE IS A STORY THAT SEEMS REAL IS THE STORY OF FATHER ALEJO THE CRUCIFIXION OF Fr. ALEJO ON BLACK FRIDAY He was an epileptic like Dostoevsky. He bore with resignation that disease they call coral gout, a disease of gods and writers. According to Tácito, César Augusto was affected, which did not prevent him from passing the Rubicon, but he took other pills for other afflictions (prostatitis, arrhythmia, fluid retention, depression and neuralgia, skin cancer that caused unbearable itching in the perineum region and the testicles and an enlarged heart) total that he was made a Christ, but as the veteran legionaries he served as chaplain said in the Tercio: - Seven shots in the body, my lieutenant and moving on - shouted those brides of death, those who, even exhausted, never gave up. His stay in the Legion reaffirmed his faith in Christ and his homeland, but he liked wine and canteens. His veneration for Franco also increased. To top it off, he had to hang up his cassock when the new post-conciliar norms emerged because of his fondness for skirts and his theological disagreements with the bishop. He lived in a zaquizamí on Leganitos Street with an image of Franco on his bedside and a photo of the Virgen del Pilar. That afternoon, Don Alejo did not know that the Black Friday in honor of Frankinstein would become a Good Friday. He went out to the street, he was bored. The radio did not stop repeating the statistics of those killed by the plague and the Internet faced a courtyard of monopodia where all the most boring and venal sycophants sat. The itch from his skin disease was ravaging his perineum and he was just itching. Black butterflies flew over the room waving the arrogant devils' words “Satan has glanders, devil crabs, Lucifer nit. glanders, nits and crabs his wife removes them with tweezers. When these illnesses got worse, he went to the gin and tonic. We couldn't call the ex-soldier chaplain a drunk. only an intermittent drinker affected by coral gout, although his epilepsy had not visited him in many years. That Black Friday afternoon, the memories weighed heavily on him. He began to read a book by Gogol, which he soon threw away because the novel had a disturbing image on the cover that looked at him with devilish eyes. He muttered Archangel Michael's prayer, but the slippered Goofy was still looking at him. He had come to think that the farm near a police station was possessed, and at night the cellphone sirens and the voices of poor citizens who had been victims of pickpockets never stopped sounding. A no less discouraging phrase had Gogol's novel as a dedicatory epigraph to those who give the elbow: - "God will eternally forgive drunkards, but not men." He was referring to himself and his condition as an epileptic and drunk. He took to the streets, running from himself and his obsession with being defeated in life. He wandered the streets around Puerta del Sol in and out of old bars that were bright and busy in their early years and now shut down. Eriphos the sinister god with loud voices called to him. He had to get rid of that itch that filled his pores with despondency and was worse than the pain. Meanwhile, he had several gin and tonics on pilgrimage through the slums. At first it left the poor old man itching in his parts. Perhaps he assumed the medicine was worse than the disease. Spain never forgives drunks. They are more hated than prostitutes and drunks. He thought of Dylan Thomas who had died of alcohol in New York's Lowery. That Welsh poet, one of the finest in British literature, would always carry such a stigma. I'm not, he told himself, I'm an epileptic. A good drink is the best anesthetic against pain.” Trying to justify. Near Moncloa, due to the effects of his six drinks of gin or because of the pills, one of his epileptic attacks came, he lost consciousness and woke up in Jiménez Diaz's emergency bed. His hands and feet were handled like the mules to which the master ties his legs to prevent them from eating the wheat of another neighbor. Surrounded by goon-looking orderlies, he thought he heard voices and laughter. Was it the demons? He couldn't move, but one of the nurses was squeezing his neck, he saw homicidal intent in her eyes, but mysteriously stopped squeezing, terrified of the cross of Angels he wore around his neck. Another minute and he would have drowned. Another said: "Now he's scared." There were five or six characters in white coats. The one on the left, who must have been the doctor on duty, sent a sinister nurse with a hairy horse, her hair was the snakes on Medusa's head, ordered: — Pinchele and let Fr come