BLOGGER ESCAPES CAGAPALO

I was sitting at the bar in Terras when Pancracio Bocafuerte, a political nemesis, took a seat beside me. I didn't greet him. Bocafuerte remained quiet for a few minutes, but he couldn't contain himself and finally broke the silence.

"I don't see you hanging around with Ben Neece anymore?"
"Fuck you, asshole!"
"When was the last time you shared a bottle of wine at Cobbleheads with Rene Oliveria?"
"Up your ass, puto!"
"Has Jesse Lucio given you any golf lessons lately?"
"Chinga tu madre, buey!"
"Is Ruben Herrera still slipping you bucks to keep your worthless blog afloat?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if your mother is sucking a black dick right now, shithead!"
"Have you had a beer with Carlos Cascos at the Palm lately?"
"I hear el lechero claims you are his son, cocksucker?"
"Whose playing at George Ramirez's jazz festival this year?"
"Why don't you eat a mound of mierda?"
"There are things that are out of our hands. That's why we have to keep our faith in God."
"He's dead, too, culero."
I called for my bill, paid and left for a bar around the corner. A game of pool and a few beers would eliminate this motherfucker from my mind.

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