Chronogamemnon

The hell's election.

— I don't believe in them, they are like children... or flies... I don't know...

A natural gesture of uncomfortable error, the continuous and cheerful mistake, the habit of saying things that seemed as idiotic as they were, Marisvela was once sought after as a wife, now she would be elevated to the presidency in a few hours — she had another habit of imperceptibly sniffing, a trained, refined, attenuated stimming. However, not so transparent, the Dragon was sensitive and the reading he made of the future president evoked in his soul pure hatred, and by a particular norm, he hated a hooked nose.

The Chameleon arrived dressed in extravagant green stripes, a hard synthetic jacket with nothing underneath, tight pants on her muscular body, boots with spiky metals, fragrant like a drugstore in the busy city center. Her voice was... well, her speech was... sweet misery.

— Unfeeling little creature! A small, diminutive diarrhea. A drop of fetid matter... — She began a graceful, pert head movement just above her long neck, her earrings lost in her mysterious tattoos that rose like hands grabbing her head.

The way the Chameleon sewed the words together as she advanced in her diction left the men excited and with a kind of revenge stuck in their bodies. Not all of them. The Dragon loved her, and the hardening of his organs - the Dragon was equipped with two - manifested genuinely with procreative intentions.

Two counters full of campaign materials, arranged with class and good taste, were surrounded by supporters. Marisvela crossed the hall to issue a warning to her fellow party members holding brochures with her photo on the cover, receptive smiles on their faces. A young man cut her off, touched her, kissed her like most people did, and said she was already president because she was beautiful.

— You already preside over my life! Don't worry because it's you, I swear... believe me. It's you! You're already the one!

The young man insisted that Marisvela shouldn't worry about anything because she would be elected president. The sincere and intense way he spoke seemed correct, believable, and truly relaxing. After a few minutes, she had to disentangle herself because the insistence and fixed gaze had no end. Belzebu appeared, entering in front of the young man and guiding her to another side.

— I'm holding the Dragon, Maris... don't worry... I have a plan.

Belzebu took Marisvela to where his wife, Altavista, was twirling the colored strand that hung from her black bangs around her fingers and analyzing the next move on the board. It was a day when no one thought about how Altavista cuckolded her husband. And if deep down Belzebu still loved Marisvela. Because in secret, Altavista had made contacts to ensure that Marisvela would not even be eligible for candidacy. However, in her husband's view, it was another matter. Behind his back, not only she, but most people said bad things about him. That Belzebu was this, that, that he came from the seas and not the earth and brought with him clouds of flies. And that all over the world the flies smiled at him.

Afterwards, Belzebu looked for someone to accompany him in a dilemma. With gestures, he sent secret commands to hidden allies among the different groups and tables. He approached the strongest man among them all, who never let go of his cigar. As if he were restarting an insistent subject, but resenting a new approach, because a slight slip, a wrong word, a different intonation, could break the delicate thread of insistence, Belzebu looked at the Dragon, begging for attention:

— I know Camaleoa's secret, man...

A very fat man immediately caused a seismic shift in the table. To find a place where his belly could fit, the tabletop was moved, the pieces rolled, and the game seemed to lose itself, spilling the cosmos instantiated by the players. No one helped anyone, and the fat man's face was one of self-condescension, stoicism, avoiding eye contact and showing no facial or eye expression changes. Only Camaleoa had the charm of time, and this was her true secret. Her moves were from the past. She was a woman from the past. The spilled cosmos would be perfect for her to show off her skills, undress in front of everyone, and leave... leaving the men grunting and the women with twisted lips. But she was too proud and wanted votes first, not just votes, which was too little. She wanted praise and deification just for being among them, mere mortals.

— She has... there's always a piece on the body... you understand? You understand... on the body? Man... — Belzebu still tried to invade Dragon's defenses. He said a lot of things because it was all or nothing. The voting time was closing.

This time, something touched the strong man's depraved imagination. For some reason, a bishop had the same probability as one of those anal plugs with a bright ruby at the base. He had impulses to leave Belzebu talking alone and pull Camaleoa into a hidden corner and grope her. Many believed he was quite capable of doing so.

At that moment, in all the groups except the few where players were facing each other, whispered and current speeches were engaged in adding bones to one's skull or another's. It was normal, but especially that day, things were intense. In the group surrounding Camaleoa, where the Dragon had been looking since Belzebu's revelation, the subject was precisely that red-eyed observer who seemed to be tearful and salivating, the cigar delivered to the slightest automatic and unconscious movements.

The collector with his hands gloved in pure white discreetly approached the Dragon, who without taking his eyes off Camaleoa's butt, delivered the vote with the relevant ceremony. What he wanted for himself could not be shared with others.

— They say he killed a person, but before that he killed a cat.

People opened their mouths wider when the cat was mentioned. In the next moment, the vote was declared over and Marisvela's name was shouted. Attention shifted abruptly from the horror just described to the strange euphoria of the new president and her team. Everyone cheered the winners. When the noise subsided and sporadic whistles echoed here and there, the Camaleoa's voice was heard:

— Actually, the cat opened the doors.

The highlight of Marisvela's victory celebration was the young man who had fallen in love with her and who was actually the only one to calm her down, preventing her from wasting one or two votes with her hysterical speeches. The young man congratulated her, hugged her, kissed her again, and said she was as beautiful as a little bird.

— And look what I did to honor... your beauty... my love... you! — He handed her the campaign prospectus with her face cut out in polygonal lines and the head of a blue jay stuck behind it.

Marisvela looked at the young man's loving gaze, and the seriousness of the situation made her burst into laughter. In a mixture of euphoria and directed discord, she began to tell the story to everyone, showing them the paper, reinforcing the ridiculousness of the young man with her gestures. They laughed and looked for the young man with their eyes to continue laughing. He seemed untouched by the insult, still in love with Marisvela, unable to stop looking at her the same way, loving the little bird.

The Camaleoa was the only one who wasn't smiling.

— Cynics! Doesn't anyone look directly at her nose? If the big-nosed one laughs any more, her own laughter will turn into crows. Because she has a beak on her face. She's only missing wings to become a damn bird.

{end}