NyLon! - chapter 27

Concubine Silvietta was the only one to perceive a vague restlessness that could have led her to suspect something: wouldn’t it be covered by the long beard, she could have recognized a remarkable likeness between the erection of unknown passenger seating next to her and that of the playboy actor Gabriele Sessarego in of the catastrophic films in which he interpreted her old great love bin Dupuis. Looking closely, beside the beard it was the entire passenger to look like, to gesture, smell and and spray-ejaculate spray like that party secretary who had loved her so much and then repudiated for the jihad against the infidels. But Silvietta was to shy and embarassed to launch the alarm, that however wouldn’t have obtained any effect. In fact all the other passengers, joyful for that tourist excursion in which they were getting ready to give another mandate to Crapazzoni, were euphoric as in a boy-scout trip, whose motto

- Estoti parati! Estoti parati!

raved dancing in first class with Maria Cristina the eminent unifaggot Publisher. This Titanic orchestra atmosphere had been created thanks to our other two agents, Gary and the Turka, for all the duration of the flight hidden in in the toilets incessantly inhaling cannabis and expiring its vapors in the conditioned air system of the cabin, where all the happily inebriated passengers they enjoyed wonderful dreamy fantasies. Daniel Crapazzoni dreamt of being able to finally free himself of Marco Cappato’s flabby aspect in order to incarnate the granitic ones of bionic vice-president Dick Cheney and thus to succeed Bush in 2008. The less pretentious Rita Bernardini dreamt of being able truly to become the Lib-Dem treasurer Janine, who besides belonging to a more serious and less serioso party, would have guaranteed her a decorous pension of free double shots of single malt. And about Scotland, Abigail had had the most improbable dream of a weekend to Glasgow without rain. Instead, candid Hindu-orobic tycoon John Patel dreamt to perform a test drive on the concubines in order to verify if he could raise them from the disaster to serve Crapazzoni and hire them, in the socially role more profitable role of flight attendants for its company, in consideration that Raffa and Maria Cristina were getting older and in his entrepreneurial wisdom he to begin to think to a new generation. Architectopitecus Hotel Licheri always and only dreamt in Esperant and therefore he couldn’t but dream the night he met the Esperantist popstar and falled in love at first sight. After a sad evening of debate with the Lib-Dem on the Australian electoral system, he dragged himself to an Irish pub in order to further depress himself drowning his displeasures and devastating loneliness in an umpteenth Thursday night of vomitevole Polish dysko-musik, in the same Acton watering hole suggested to him by Crapazzoni after his visit to London. He was at the fifth pint when the attractive Polish public notary Agnyeska Rostropova begun to sing in Esperanto, Waiting for her working papers she lived singing in pubs with the stage name of Sara Piccardo. Her soft blond hair, the green big eyes and the little mouth of rose, but above all her 18-y-o little butt and aquiline Armenian-Judaic-Greek-Roman nose sent him in ectsasy. When her performance was over, surprised himself of his daring, Hotel offered to accompany her home. As often happens in these cases, it was a dark stormy night a violent hurricane burst in fact and Hotel dragged Sara to shelter them soaked in a telephone booth

- Now what kabbageon we do here insido untilké enda el tempestoj atmosferiko?

Scared by thunders and lightnings asked the Piccardo-Rostropova in perfect Esperanto. Having graduated in the faculty of architectury with a thesis on the quantum theory of the telephone booth kisses, in order to put it in practice Hotel Licheri had been waiting for ages that question as much as a Newyorker cab driver would expect any moment James Bond directing him to chase a colleague’s taxi carrying the bad guys. Both unzipping their overcoats, Licheri insinuated his hands to warm her arms in an apparently friendly way, then protectingly descending down to her right flank and rising the other hand to instert it a and caress her shoulder still numb with cold by the cold and the pale neck of swan up to that little lump on the nape, mark of every intelligent Esperantist popstar, their glances cross-eyd and fading into each other’s, their tongues passionately meeting even before their lips. The beautiful dream of love was interrupted by the hateful DJ, the paedophile and bird-eating priest don Domenico Spena, actually himself a invidioso Polish public notary envious of her compatriot’s success and jealous that she preferred Hotel to him.