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David Wealthy GuerreroStrict
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David Wealthy GuerreroIt's him! It's coming!
A storm of screams
broke from the hallway. In half a second
we saw the big heads of the Beast and
the Hyena, Chocochevere, Salitas and
Pecas, many, enter the room in a pack.
They sat down at their desks, sweating,
fascinated and terrified. Cuchilla's voice
was heard. Like a whip. --Look out,
sheep! I make you expelled! When his
dark figure made his entrance, Not a fly
buzzed in the living room. Just the hearts,
boom, boom. Cuchilla was the history
teacher, and we were his youngest
students: first year of high school, Santo
Tomas school. Cuchilla dictated history to
the rest of the high school students. It
made one fear. It was his voice. His
gesture. His sharp way of making fun of
you, at the least expected moment, at
you, at your ears, your bottle breath and
your crooked legs, lowly dwarf, clumsy,
clumsy, when will you learn to think?
Asshole, idiot, scarecrow, that's what he
told us. , shouting. The nickname that
Cuchilla invented for you was definitive:
a precise nickname, for your entire life.
And how difficult it is to get on the board
with him. Answer your questions: dusty
names, dates and dates. Way of dressing
of already dead people. Documents.
Encounters and disagreements. Treaties.
Endless war. THE story that Cuchilla
explained to us was the eternal war: our
country. We feared him, gentlemen, like
Satan. Oh, Cuchilla was Cuchilla. Even
the big hairy seniors ran away from him,
like teapots.