It was a terrible day for grazing

David knew, he had it marked on the calendar with a fat red cross. The afternoon was about to leave and began to darken. The full moon was appearing, it was similar to a goat cheese, and seemed to smile at him perniciously like a street whore asking to be fucked.

Those days of the month were always touchy. They were as stressful as the period in women. Every month they had that demonic week in which they bleed from the pussy and that hardship was very similar to his martyrdom. On the nights of the full moon, David turned into a wolf. In a large, black wolf, even larger than a usual canis lupus.


It was fair to assume that this millennium had already vaccine to that curse, science has invented almost everything: transgenic sheep with six members (the same as he pastored), dogs with brain implants, teleportation, cold fusion, apes charioteers, large sea horses that pulled underwater capsules to transport people across oceans.

"God bless us, every one!"

A new don

Era quinta-feira, chovia fortemente em Lisboa. Pairava no ar um cheiro maroto, resultante das primeiras chuvas do Outono que limpavam as ruas e elevavam aqueles vapores pestilentos misturados com a humidade. O vento também não dava descanso e tornava a chuva ainda mais desagradável e algo dolorosa. Já era madrugada mas à conta das nuvens carregadas o sol nem se via, parecia ainda noite que alguns exageradamente classificavam como apocalítica. Os relógios marcavam sete e mais alguns minutos, a maior parte das pessoas dormia enquanto outras estendiam o sono até estarem efetivamente atrasadas para que compromisso fosse, outras aproveitavam as condições atmosféricas para se inspirarem à frente de um computador, chorando baba e ranho, escrevendo o pseudo-romance do século, magicando uma qualquer frase célebre que ficasse para a história da literatura. Por último haviam aqueles que enfrentavam a chuva sem medos e já se achavam no martírio dos transportes públicos para irem trabalhar. 

El Patronito o Ardina