At the end of the eleventh century, the young crusader Mr. Ababol of Manchester City, crossed the green meadows of the French brittany, climbed the infinite peaks of the Pyrenees to dismount on the banks of the Alcoraz River. There, he watched in amazement as St. George of Cappadocia, also known as “the dragon,” helped the Christian faithful in their conquest of the territories dominated by the infidels.
Such was his perplexity at such an appearance that he tripped over a rock, fell on his ass on a fat ball of spikes, which made him jump and fall into the river that dragged him to the Monegro’s desert.
There he woke up while a sheep licked his left cheek and god realized that he had lost his sword without which he could not continue his journey as a crusader for the world. Set to cross, crossed the alfalfa field to ask a good man if he had seen his sword. The gentle man with the leafy brow pointed to a field of wild ababoles …
What were those incarnated flowers that happened to be called like him? Would it be destiny? Since when does the Alcoraz flow into the Monegros? Why Santa Marta has a train but does not have a tram? What does Belloch think of such a circumstance? Where is Jerusalem? It will be zone B of taxi? … too many questions crowded in his head, shook them all of a sneeze and entered brave and gallant among the flowers.
From here your destination is on your fingers. Lead him through the gloomy little corners of Monegrils, help him collect the necessary ababoles and recover his sword to continue the road to Jerusalem. Amen. Jesus.