[A pressure-induced post. Skip this one because I honestly think this would be a waste of anybody's time, mine included. I just wanted my sidebar to look longer. Believe me, believe me, believe me.]
I love la mia vita falsa. Is that the right way of terming my false life? I was drafting a casual story with somebody I would disintegrate into a tiny piece of reprobate nonsense without and we tackled Italy in the early 20th century. You'd say it's childish. Yada-yada. At least I'm not maligning my friends.
So, in our little Italian venture, my friend, Puzzo, gets shot in the leg by one of the La Satanas boys as some sort of drunk gesture while they par-tayed with a couple of Notria Damne Bastardias in some infinite liquor pub named Legno Orientale (Eastwood in English) at midnight. Puzzo and I apologize for mixing up French, Spanish, and Italian, by the way. I don't know how Puzzo came up with that but Pegorino, or yours truly, enters the next scene in a motorbike (Did they have those in the 1910's?) and guns down the La Satanas and the Notria Damne Bastardias à la Scarface with a fully-loaded Fedorov Avtomat for revenge. The La Satanas were all guilty of income-tax evasion anyway. The Notria Damne Bastardias were just stupid enough to not run away and think their multi-layered evening gowns would save their sinful skin. As an additional scene, one of the Bastardias survives the gun wound. She isn't overlooked by Pegorino, however. He walks over to her with the rifle aimed to her makeup-laden forehead. She's stammering out a plea or whatever but Pegorino cuts her off, saying, "Non capisco, amica."
The hero Pegorino clicks on the trigger. She overdramatically drops and hits her head on the glass shards of some cheap wine bottle, much to the horror of the pub bartender.
Boo-hoo.
Pegorino would then haul Puzzo's body to the motorbike nonchalantly with a cigar on his mouth or something, and they would drive off to their headquarters, which is some fancy bricked building in the middle of town named Casa Del Serendra located in front of the largest gun store in Italy, Completamente Caricato (Fully Loaded in English). They would disappear into the darkness of the Sicillian streets and the camera zooms to the full moon. It's a low budget foreign flick all of a sudden. I was carried away by speed-writing. Another disorganized post is better than none, in my twisted way of thinking. Some of my friends are just dousing my brain with malicious stuff and hate is very contagious. See what we came up with? Totale merda with loads of symbolisms and poorly translated terms.
This wouldn't be the last of the Bastardias. Once people complain to me about things again, the Bastardias would probably resurface out of my frustration. I do not, not, not (triple negatives negatives equate to one negative) care but some people are making me.
I think it's time for breakfast.
I love la mia vita falsa. Is that the right way of terming my false life? I was drafting a casual story with somebody I would disintegrate into a tiny piece of reprobate nonsense without and we tackled Italy in the early 20th century. You'd say it's childish. Yada-yada. At least I'm not maligning my friends.
So, in our little Italian venture, my friend, Puzzo, gets shot in the leg by one of the La Satanas boys as some sort of drunk gesture while they par-tayed with a couple of Notria Damne Bastardias in some infinite liquor pub named Legno Orientale (Eastwood in English) at midnight. Puzzo and I apologize for mixing up French, Spanish, and Italian, by the way. I don't know how Puzzo came up with that but Pegorino, or yours truly, enters the next scene in a motorbike (Did they have those in the 1910's?) and guns down the La Satanas and the Notria Damne Bastardias à la Scarface with a fully-loaded Fedorov Avtomat for revenge. The La Satanas were all guilty of income-tax evasion anyway. The Notria Damne Bastardias were just stupid enough to not run away and think their multi-layered evening gowns would save their sinful skin. As an additional scene, one of the Bastardias survives the gun wound. She isn't overlooked by Pegorino, however. He walks over to her with the rifle aimed to her makeup-laden forehead. She's stammering out a plea or whatever but Pegorino cuts her off, saying, "Non capisco, amica."
The hero Pegorino clicks on the trigger. She overdramatically drops and hits her head on the glass shards of some cheap wine bottle, much to the horror of the pub bartender.
Boo-hoo.
Pegorino would then haul Puzzo's body to the motorbike nonchalantly with a cigar on his mouth or something, and they would drive off to their headquarters, which is some fancy bricked building in the middle of town named Casa Del Serendra located in front of the largest gun store in Italy, Completamente Caricato (Fully Loaded in English). They would disappear into the darkness of the Sicillian streets and the camera zooms to the full moon. It's a low budget foreign flick all of a sudden. I was carried away by speed-writing. Another disorganized post is better than none, in my twisted way of thinking. Some of my friends are just dousing my brain with malicious stuff and hate is very contagious. See what we came up with? Totale merda with loads of symbolisms and poorly translated terms.
This wouldn't be the last of the Bastardias. Once people complain to me about things again, the Bastardias would probably resurface out of my frustration. I do not, not, not (triple negatives negatives equate to one negative) care but some people are making me.
I think it's time for breakfast.
