Viva

No, not the classic Vauxhall of the 60s and 70s, I mean the Spanish viva, which is a word meaning "shit car", or something. Anyway, congrats to Spain on reaching the World Cup final. In honour of this unprecedented success, here is an extract from the end of chapter 9 of GENTE MUERTA (Spanish version of Deadfolk), translated back into English via google translate. (Regular readers will already be familar with the Russian/googlish version of this passage)...

As I got home, I put my favorite sweatpants pry me watching TV. They were making a movie about a guy who was engaged to kill turkeys, so I went for a can and sat down again. I thought about going to the basement in search of Baz, but it would not help. Or was there or was not. And as he had looked before and it was, was unlikely to find it now. The movie was a bit boring. Whenever the prota pulled the knife and was about to crack an aunt, the scene changed. I found a channel zapping and in which two turkeys were eating the mouth and touching her tits. Was ok. I took it out and I went with the story. As I finished, I felt much more relaxed, but was still made broth. I closed my eyes so my eyes will rest a few seconds. I did not mean to sleep or anything like that. I woke up the phone. Or hit the door. Not sure. Whatever it was, it was nice to wake so, I assure you. I got the rack and stood up, wondering what the hell happened. I opened the front door.