Vanity

That particular day, fishing was of a deplorable mediocrity.  So I decided to pack my bags and with my usual elegance, climb the little hillock where I had parked my motorcycle.

A couple of tourists were picnicking there. The man, nice looking, was napping on an air mattress that had no air (his snoring drowned out the song of the cicadas), from his left hand dangled an empty bottle of a doctored alcohol.

The woman was posing and taking photos, that annoying habit called taking “selfies”.  She was pouting like the copycat Bridget Bardots of the 60’s and posturing, her stout stature rendered her ridiculous and silly.

I don’t know what overcame me at that moment but I addressed her. “My dear madam, I am doing my thesis on the third cycle, the theme is “The elasticity of female breasts”; might I dare request permission to feel your tits?
The shrew, who in the past, must have been a champion of the shot put in the East German team (in any case that’s what I thought!), grew red and showered me with insults… “You fucking, rude bastard, I’ll show you what stuff they’re made of, my breasts!

Nimbly, she seized a rock of considerable size that was at her feet and with a Herculean force threw it at my head. Just as I was taught by Manolette, the great bullfighter, I swirled aside to the right, executing a pass called “Manoletina”, the pass which rendered the grand toreador famous. The rock landed with violence right on the head of her companion; the head immediately ceased to resemble a head and looked more like a pizza of four seasons where the debris of bones served as the mozzarella. More dead than that poor individual would be difficult to imagine.

As for the miserable woman she was paralyzed by the turn of events and babbled incomprehensible phrases, with difficulty one could distinguish words: “my darling… oh, Jean-Francois… I’m so sorry”.

I called emergency and the police on my cell phone and in minutes the cops showed up. With panache I invented a fantastic story where the stone throwing lady had the role of a violent, jealous woman who had just learned that her husband, here with the crushed head, made advances to a mechanic from Montlucon; that she called him a dirty pervert and maliciously smashed his head with the rock, now covered in blood.

“What a tragedy, is it not… officers?

When she entered the police van I approached her and asked: “Dear madam, it goes without saying that you will spend the rest of your days behind bars and before your incarceration, for posterity, I would like a last photo of your charming face.

Well, she took a suggestive pose, pushed up her breasts, smoothed her hair and combed her eyebrows; she furtively wetted her lips with a flick of the tongue, pouted in a lame attempt to resemble a retired Gina Lollobrigida and just before the van doors closed gave me a big smile worthy of a porno star.

“As the proverb goes: A woman who is coquettish for one day, is coquettish forever”.