Even when Miss Sandra hold otherwise, I do not think I'm crazy.
I must admit that my notions about the insanity are too basic. However, I dare say I'm not crazy and that it is false that it has been since childhood. Although a child I loved war.
There are things that definitely do not understand Miss Sandra.
But I do strongly assert that this time I went crazy. Freaked out even though I always loved war.
I am not the author or the narrator of this story. Or am I the author and the narrator mean: I have the mediation of a fearless journalist. The jerk is quite rare, but loves boxing. Is old as to be my father. And he has learned to speak clearly: I have been told that, asshole, I dragged myself to a hell from which exit costs.
My name is Carlos. I have twenty-eight and a couple of months. For some convoluted reason, I always loved war. I believed in the sublime dimension of war. Since the eight years I began to believe that life makes sense: I saw Arturo Prat emulating. Prat Not that I woke up a special admiration or to have been able to assess the historical dimension of his exploits, but I was interested to emulate as a mere character of an act of war. At that point I knew empirically what is the adrenaline. In my nights of poor child, when I imagined I was in combat in the harbor of Iquique, my pupils dilated to better see all the incidents of that beautiful military confrontation. And my child's heart galloped jumping when I saw the cover of Huascar. At that point, swimming in adrenaline, I was beginning to fall asleep while savoring the glory of my death in combat. The smell of gunpowder is simply wonderful.
however, was never violent and I am now (in these pathetic and unexpected circumstances in which I am).
At fifteen, I started boxing with boxing gloves. In the ring and all of the law. I learned to love the sport, the happy and full of brutality regulated sport. My mentor was a Temuco popular professional boxer, whose identity sacred reserve just for me. For his dignified and manly through, I got to know that boxing is the most famous master of the sports metaphor, manly art of war. Because the war is also a masterly controlled brutality.
(Do not think that I am able to speculations of this kind: they are things of the reporter, he has said, the dynamics of many gatherings sad, he believes in a good way to interpret the troubles that I have trusted this place. And I think this is so: the journalist grips me and encouraged me. And I said to incubate no grudges, I said that women are inevitably so. And I said that my problem is the huevonería).
I'm not a man of letters or lights, I'm rather of the heap. My school is bordered by the last two years of secondary education, which I passed a few years ago while serving in the military in the Regiment "Tucapel" of Temuco and was consecrated as a boxer and champion of champions.
thing I liked the military. Well, I had always liked. But maybe if I liked it especially when appointed as second book out, by my very clear military merit, was crowned boxing champion military. My category was middleweight, weighed almost exactly 70 kilos. My style boxeril was considered elegant. Divisional seat was in the Army in Valdivia. It was my first year of military service. How can we forget that the atmosphere of that time, the Austral University Gymnasium, was the glorious smell of burnt gunpowder? Is that what boxeril were fully twinned with the military. We had brought together more than fifty military fighters of all regiments of the Fourth Army Division. And I was champion of champions.
A little further, since I became a conscript army, had I been made to the selection of boxing Tucapel Regiment. The corporals and sergeants cacharon soon that my physical (and my poise boxeril clear, I think) of those days were unbeatable. I'm a rooster without vices, which I am sure I owe the noble sport of boxing and my love for war. I have always said I have no bad facade. Speak little. No smoke or snuff or grass: I have never experimented with marijuana or other similar things (like, as a relation of resemblance between different things.) Only on occasion drink beer and think clearly smaller quantities. That
time it went crazy, had drunk too much whiskey and was drunk, I was sailing through waves of burning gunpowder, the smell of gunpowder is simply unavoidable, and adrenaline, and did what I did. The journalist assured me that there would mad if you had smoked before prudently yerbita of God and, therefore, the outcome of all would have been different. A less invasive final. Yes, I think it might be possible, but I was a warrior and a fighter fan, although I was offered several times, I always refused to smoke marijuana. I thought it queer thing, and of course, a boxer will always refuse to be a fag (I have to point out that the journalist, I have repeated that while in Chile there are no known boxers queers, it is possible to find non-negligible quantity in Argentina).
Well, I do not stun any of you with my stories boxeriles; swear I'll be economical about it. I mean
is that this time I lost the sense of boxeril. Mad. I first felt the need to kill. In boxing, that never happens. Sure, it happened in my dreams warriors, but were just that: pure dreams (daydreams pure).
fed the thing I liked the military. I applied to the Army Officers School, I was accepted. I kept boxing, I gained more and more scrolls. After two years, graduated as I went out second floor of the Army of Chile, in the infantry weapon.
All went well. I did well in everything. I was considered a military instructor of emergency. I had the luxury of money to help my mom and I was starting to think of marrying the White. But he came to my regiment for the Motorized Infantry Regiment No. 1 "Buin" Lieutenant Santiago-Martínez (I miss the advice of my attorney, your name or other characteristics that enable their identification.) The man had spent four years in the Regiment "Chacabuco" in Concepción, and reached the "Buin" famous for being an excellent officer. Lieutenant had the look of a English film actor. Antonio Banderas. (Actually, this started guessing the reporter when I asked her to describe the physique of Martinez. Every time I did, journalist commented that he shared Lieutenant biotype Antonio Banderas. I do not know anything about Antonio Banderas, nothing at all. But when the reporter got out Mardones with Internet access and over thirty showed me pictures of Antonio Banderas, I can not say that Martínez lieutenant was exactly like the English actor, which, as we shall see, has in the This story greater importance and terminal).
Three years after the second grade, I was accepted for Command Course. Since I started to bond with the military thing, it seemed the most worthy of the desideratum get to look over my head the black beret that adorns the bloody and always wet neck of the commands and see the world with particular ferocity. Or at least, with a special style (as in boxing). I always suspected that the Command Course is like the climax of the logic of war, that sense of the things I wanted to live, and I lived deliriously, with adrenaline and gunpowder, including a child.
My lieutenant Martinez was also accepted for Command Course, but with a much lower score than mine. The man had an excellent pint and was quite canchero, but lacked to be a boxer like me. And, as we shall see, he needed to be properly a warrior (the journalist has informed me that Nietzsche spoke of the abysmal differences between the military and warriors).
We had prepared together for Commands for more than six months. Trotábamos almost every evening over fifteen kilometers around the Parque Metropolitano de Santiago, with the steel helmet on his head, carrying the backpack full of gravel assault and carrying a rifle and Sig-Famae all shippers. We did countless uprisings in the bar, both pronation and supination; esmerábamos us with all abs and dozens of push-ups from the ground. We swam in the pool dressed in the regiment. I started to admire his princely poise. The journalist told me that that was the beginning of the end.
In one of those, sharing a few beers (not the regiment, by the way), Lieutenant Martinez said that after hours service will treat you, that I did not problem with that. I said it was for me an honor that he asked me. (It did not seem relevant to my boxing temuquense monitor I've said many times that, as in the ring, in life you care to know the distances.)
In another of those, a month before going to the Command Course, I told the White Lieutenant, my girlfriend of several years, wanted to meet. He replied that he would be a great honor. At the White I talked about my lieutenant Martinez told I was very gentleman, very elegant, very good talker, rebién painted. I admired him. And, of course, that was my friend (the journalist told me that I am very fatherly amply jerk).
I must point out that I felt bloated with that friendship was no longer to be nothing more than preparing together for Army Commands Chile, what question was that we were friends, incidentally, is an almost impossible achievement in the Chilean military thing, silently class and discriminatory. Besides, I admired his masculine beauty.
We are in a unique pub in Providence (my lawyer advised me that does not identify). Martinez had me peremptorily that he would be with the financing of the invitation. I dutifully comply.
At three in the afternoon of that fateful day Saturday, we got off the Metro to the White and walked a few blocks to the pub. Martinez and was elegantly installed. Sitting on a sofa, one leg over the other, drinking white wine in a crystal goblet, ate ham sandwiches (I later learned that the wine was from the exclusive brand Beronia and fermented in barrel) and seemed to amuse himself with a suitably distant music classic.
I knew from the beginning that this environment was not for White or for me, may be inferred from what has been said that I did not I can be an expensive tastes, I am a person of modest social complexion. For me, reality is that my modest social origins: born and raised in the Santa Rosa de Temuco. From childhood I learned about hardship and lack of a father. Martinez was wearing
convincing panache. I learned later that its complete was taken from the famous brand Giorgio Armani, which, according to journalist implied that, had I not been so asshole, he could begin to know that my friend Lieutenant was not trustworthy. (Do not you realize, Carlitos, a lieutenant of the Army can not fund his salary or Giorgio Armani dress and the white wine fermented in oak barrels Beronia?-Me repeatedly asked the reporter, "How the hell could not catching that this jerk was a chanter and a pimp?)
immediately, Martinez rose style sofa was occupied and walked unhurriedly to us.
- "Miss White? "I told my girlfriend, on par with the scanned, kissed her cheek, he looked at her breasts and took her by both arms. I gave no importance, I did not like to kiss her but I knew it was a matter linked to the environment and circumstances.
The White looked great. I remember I felt as superfluous: it was clothed for that environment. I had my newest jeans and a black shirt adorned with sporting reasons. My shoes were not all bad (they were Nike), but nothing could with the elegance of Giorgio Armani who wore moccasins Lieutenant Martinez, who, incidentally, was a good looking guy tired (I think I talked to Antonio Banderas .) La Blanca, however, looked like a queen and not out for anything or the environment or circumstance. I had asked the manager of the supermarket where he works as a cashier to lend him pilchas elegant. The head, which is the same size as the White, he spent it all: something like a white hat that framed her face perfectly good girl, a white shirt, made of same material cap, with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline is not too bold. (I preferred to speak of a neck not too bold, the journalist wanted to write "a daring neckline that showed bias with the delicious hint of her breasts." Well, I refused because, as serious as has been everything that happened, not I forget that my first boxing monitor always taught me to respect women proverbial. Although they are whores and traitors, I said).
I felt superfluous. The environment and, in particular the circumstances were still appropriate for the White but not for me. Martinez, with the panache of Antonio Banderas, he put his arms around my shoulders and asked: "You
, Carlitos, I have to say what they offer for us to provide this opportunity.
I did not know you had to offer, I was very upset. I felt superfluous. So I thought back to treat you.
"No ... you just decide it," she said breathlessly.
Lieutenant spoke at some length to the benefits of White embarricado Beronia Blanco, what do I know ... that fermentation in barrel, ensuring freshness and fruitiness together with vanilla, toast and body, is to join the fruit and youth in contrast represent the feelings most complex and smooth. (Actually, I do not know what the hell I remember that). La Blanca, which no cache at all these explanations abstruse, "he said with sly smile I wanted to try that wine. When I got to talk to me, I was clearly second fiddle, "I said I preferred a whiskey, as he liked to don Arturo Godoy, Chile grand champion (even though I knew that Don Arturo went to hell in 1940, in his second bout with Joe Louis, by eating wild whiskey, which gained him the gangster of American boxing to lose his noble excellence and boxeril Iquique). Martínez
the waiter ordered a bottle of Johnnie Walker twelve. He asked if I preferred the whiskey with ice, I said no, que así nomás, a lo mero macho.
Bueno, parece preferible ahorrar detalles. Nos sentamos los tres en derredor de una mesa finamente enmantelada y flanqueada por columnas. Los asientos eran forrados en cuero café y como curules romanos. Sobre la mesa había un candelabro de bronce con tres velas finas encendidas. Había una música ambiental que era –obviamente, alguien me lo tuvo que decir– de Johan Julius Christian Sibelius. Claro, toda esa huevada no era para mí, razón por la cual me puse a tomar güisqui solo vaso tras vaso y dejé que mis pensamientos divagaran, mientras el teniente Martínez se dedicaba a palabrear a la Blanca. A mí el gargüero se me puso como al rojo: era la primera vez que drank whiskey. I did not participate in what they said, in fact, what my friend Martinez spoke, my companion in the glorious future Command Course (the truth is that I could not remember what this asshole said to him I was already half cured. Also, I got up several times to take long and placid pee in the bathroom most fragrant, elegant and gigantic that it is possible to imagine). What I found is that the White clarito, was very excited, too, was something the White Beronia cured.
do not know what time it happened. I suppose that White told Martinez he needed to go to the bathroom. I also suppose that he told her he was with her. What is clear is that both disappeared from there. I remember I stopped wandering and started to see everything in red, remember that the atmosphere suddenly became impregnated with the smell of burning gunpowder. However, there was something - the adrenaline? - It smelled badly wrong. With some difficulty, I rose from my seat, I blew the candles strong, went out. And I walked almost dark and uncertain, not knowing where was the ladies room. I asked a waiter calmly that I had come futile:
-Excuse me sir, where is the urinal of the gossips?
The man, in his elegant formal attire servant looked at me with pity (I jarred in that environment): "I'll go
... señooor.
do not know where I was. Suddenly, I found the White and Martinez. A lieutenant and White. This jerk had it embraced, she no longer had the white hat and shoulder straps of her blouse were not in place. It was a dimly lit hallway where there was rare statues of marble, with walls full of wallpaper and curtains, leading to the ladies room. From the broad chest Lieutenant Martinez, covered by Giorgio Armani pilchas, green eyes of the White nailed me with an expression of supreme anguish.
Journalist is determined to repeat that this was horrible, but I could have been minimized by the mediation of the green weed holy God. And I ended up thinking that it did, I was faced with the supreme and invincible horror of that guilty look and it took me the first time, the paroxysm of the madness:
felt for the first time, the need to kill! Ah, if I knew smoked marijuana in my dreams, none of this would have happened, and this time I would not be here!
Martinez also learned that this was a supreme horror. Without saying a word, the lieutenant dropped without any sensitivity to the White and faced me in the pose of fighting the karate. And I knew immediately that this scenario of a very elegant, dimly lit hallway inside an exclusive pub Providence had become a hellish atypical ring: there would not be regulated brutality. But I got in the noble attitude boxeril I was taught to fifteen years in Temuco, the left foot slightly forward and pointing towards the opponent, the right shifted at an angle of almost ninety degrees to the left foot slightly flexed knees , the upper body gently loaded on the right (but with my eyes fixed on the front of the Lieutenant Martinez, in the exact middle of the equilateral triangle formed by the line of their eyes as the basis and emerging upward from the forehead. My first instructor of boxing, when I was fifteen, taught me that the fighter must master to rival the look (the journalist has taught me that trick has roots in the gestural semiotics). In short, my arms and my hands clenched stoutly arranged so that they could protect either the stomach, the parties costal and especially the face.
Martínez, much less drunk than I wanted to deal it a low kick (kick) in the testes to let me out of action immediately. But failed to materialize: when I, as a direct function of my insight boxeril that the lieutenant was going to throw a kick to my balls, I began to surround him, dancing around him.
I must point out that, even insane and almost drunk, not crossed my mind to use their feet to neutralize Lieutenant Martínez: boxers use your feet only to sustain and to dance to the opponent. The journalist explained to me that chivalry prevents boxeril hit with his feet. He told me that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote in several of his novels that the arms are meant by the Demiurge as combat arms and feet were designed to dance and move (and never to go back).
I was half drunk and very clouded by the fumes of burning gunpowder, but I'm sure it desmerecí as a boxer. The smell of gunpowder not made me dizzy. Martinez, however, did not need to smell gunpowder (I think also that she never loved the smell of gunpowder was never a warrior. Yes I am): dizzy by the prior ingestion of White Beronia with my dancing and ruthlessly stabbing my eyes with his forehead.
I take the ball about three minutes until the time came. Martinez showed a rictus (fixed or transitory aspect of the face which is given the manifestation of a certain state of mind) of loss of combat alert. I was so dizzy.
What feint twice with a left jab and he hums away a powerful right cross to his mouth elegant and treacherous of Antonio Banderas.
That was it. La Blanca was hysterical. Since I found hugging (I suspect it had been kissed because then I remember that White's neck was red), the poor did nothing but sob incoherently. I knew I had screwed up with Martinez. It is possible that the error was mine: I should not talk about my lieutenant and I spoke (the journalist has come to tell me that in every man lies a beast, but for every woman, and a beast, there is also a bitch. Now, "he adds, is the heritage of us huevonería men).
Martinez fell backwards and hit his head against the penis of a horrific marble Faun. The White ran towards anywhere. Was lost among the statues.
- killed him, Carlos! You killed him! "To shout, beside himself, several times, before being lost among the white marble statues.
In reality, the lieutenant took a few minutes to die. To me, the healer is frightened me as if by magic, I knew that Martinez was looking at me with an expression coil. Bleeding profusely from the back of his head, penetrated by the Faun justly white. I held the view, it was still looking mercilessly in the middle of his front-Antonio Banderas and I was not at all troubled.
-Carlos ... I ask you ... forgive me! "I managed to say with difficulty Lieutenant pitiful.
- What advancement to forgive? "I answered briefly and the best of indolence-Total, no longer commands can be me or you!
While all unleashed a vicious pub paraphernalia, I, very serene, I managed to get me a phone and I advised the Regiment "Buin" what had happened.
Everything else is almost obvious. Guarantee the judge put me on the injunction on remand. The public defender told me that I risk three years and one day quasi prison for murder. You see what he can do, but the story is nothing, nothing easy.
The army supported me at all: my great resume, full of congratulations military avail. Neither served any comments that raised my military job performance: he was an instructor of emergency, which would be the best of the Commandos, who was a distinguished fighter, who knows how many more such crap. And the reason seems clear: it was established that the late Lt. Martinez had been the lover in Designing a Brazilian millionaire, wife of a mysterious arms dealer Norwegian who made great efforts to FAMAE of Chile will assist in the triangulation of moving a huge part of minor and major weapons of war, whose fate almost certainly were absolutely Colombia's FARC guerrilla group or a Mapuche who was training in Bolivia. Martinez had been intended, at the request of the Directorate of Military Intelligence, from Concepcion to Santiago, to serve as a liaison and reporting on a possible transaction with the Norwegian FAMAE. He was a man of expensive tastes. The Brazilian, merciless butt-sexy fifties, was providing the four credit cards in my deputy. How could you not catching shit that asshole was a chanter and a pimp?, I repeatedly asked the reporter.
In fact, I do not feel too sad. I dare say I'm not crazy. Although war has always loved. And while I was champion of champions. The journalist is jailed
trial for the alleged crime of defaming a senator of the UDI (only said that fag personero is stubborn; postponed say that is a pedophile). He risks a sentence succulent. Here we
he and I, in company of thirty-two first-time offenders (many of which eerily dangerous). But thanks to his old friendship with Cape Gerardo Mardones, Gendarmerie, journalist manages to him and I can get together to discuss drinking mate in the library of Corrections Compliance Center. That privacy is possible.
This man is fond of me. I believe this to be the father I never had. It's a weird cock. Ardently advocates the responsible consumption of marijuana, which connects their own experiences. I think I'm fond of him. He tells me that horror, that I lost it, could have been minimized if I would have handled the story of my life with God's green weed. And he said that, asshole, I was sent to hell homosexuality.
I also said I'd better forget the White, that women are morally irresponsible. Understand that every woman looks a whore.
The truth is that I sleep well, is that I sleep with great placidity. I have told that I was never violent. I delayed in telling the journalist what persistent dream that I am loved by Antonio Banderas.
To Miss Sandra, psychologist Gendarmerie, which I visit almost every day at the express request of public defender assisting me, I've also had my recurring dream and asked me details. I had to tell you that I enjoy when Banderas ardently kisses that mouth that I smashed my cross. Miss Sandra
says I've always been crazy. She does not speak of madness but (quote) "a mutation sustained - since childhood! - several aspects of their mental functioning, Don Carlos, mainly from the consciousness of reality, resulting in significant social dysfunction. " For my part, I think there are things that, definitely, Miss Sandra, the psychologist, do not understand. A child does not understand that I knew of deprivation and lack of a father.
The journalist is a man of the world who knows everything (he does not say so, but I cacho that it is). He told me that my relationship with Martinez started to trigger in me a latent homosexuality that was always and I dressed in warrior dreams. I also said try to dissociate the Lieutenant Martínez de Antonio Banderas (which strikes me as very difficult). But I still say that there is still time. I also said I did not know really measure the distance between Martinez and me that by accepting tutearlo failed as a boxer, which came together in my huevonería fatally and clouded my mariconas trends.
What I think for me this time is that only mad. Despite having been a boxer! And I'll get rid of this hell well: even though I'm still a boxer, do not rule out going to the green weed of God.
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