NyLon! - Epilogue

The dawn was sanctifiaed by an aureole. On the horizon of the big apple, the dawn that had chased us from old Europe to the American coast was glorified by an aureole of death, martyrdom and promise of eternal life with the beauty of forty, not just four, very more virgini concubines. In short, the weather was fine, therefore I had no troubles in delicately manouvering the aerodynamic brakes, distributing the reactors’s power till only a hundred feet on the lights of the JFK runway, when in an single triple move I violently withdrew flaps and landing gear, giving back maximum power to the reactors. The 500-tons plane (and as many radicals inside it), was late to respond as I expected, it nearly shaving the runway by a whiff, but everything had been calculated on the flight simulator: for once Microsoft had not made software mistakes. Incredulous and dumbfound, flight controllers in the JFK tower saw flight 911 transform itself in a torpedo bound the hell knew where. But I did know. I had my personal reasons of resentment, besides bin Dupuis’ ideological ones, of which, frankly, I couldn’t care less. What I really wanted was to shoot at a speed of 500 mph towards Roosevelt Island the hatred that I had brooded because of Raffa cheating me with the damned Suttora-Bordini.

The damned Mauro Suttora-Bordini was busy penetrating the MGM on the balcony in the umpteenth attempt to kill her, this time making her burst with a special nuclearanal condom designed to delaying his ejaculation and explode her. Lost time: he could never have been successful, with a cow that size. But in killing them both with the whole Radical party I was about to succed. I already recognized in distance the abominable shapeless mass of the MGM on the fiftheenth floor balcony of the unmistakable highest building in Roosevelt Island. I was aware that they would have been the last istants of my life, that with the all the vladimirove and liubomirove who dad populated it, in a moment reproposed itself in my mind at the accelerated speed of a film in fast forward. Regrets? My thoughts were with Luigi Castaldi, Raffaele De Angelis and Piero Welby in tourist class, for whom I had not been able to find room in this surrealistic story although they had voted me as their preferred forumist in the first ballot of the radical Pulitzer. Fuck them, they didn’t reconfirmed their preference in the second ballot, let them too with the further punishment of dying in tourist class. Too late understanding what was about to happen and paralyzed by terror, beyond the nauseous shapeless mass for an infinitesimal fraction of second Mauro’s eyes crossed mine. Neither in New York, nor in London or elsewhere, we would have seen each other again.