Chereads / The Spanish Spotlight / Chapter 4 - 4. Killing In The Name

Chapter 4 - 4. Killing In The Name

We're on the narrow mountain road alongside the Sierra de las Nieves, a protected natural region. I have to keep one eye on the road, but with the other eye, I spot some wildlife.

"Where are we going now?"

"To Ronda, a beautiful little town. You'll like Ronda, and you'll like what we're going to do there, but don't ask me about it. It's a surprise."

"I like surprises. But I hate not knowing what's coming up. Can't you tell me?"

"That's the fun of surprises: not knowing what's coming up. I don't want to spoil the fun. It would ruin the day if you'd know what to expect. You wouldn't be aware of the beauty of each moment, but only look forward to what's next. Why don't you look around and enjoy the view? The secret of life is nothing but enjoying every minute. The surprise will arrive soon enough."

On the other side of the next corner, near the road sign «El Quinto Pino, 2km», a surprise waits for us. It's not a pleasant surprise; it's an unexpected surprise, and it looks like it will ruin the day.

"What's that?", Chelsea wonders.

I need to stay cool. Fear is a useless emotion, most of all in desperate situations. I stop the car, kill the engine, take a deep breath, and explain: "In Spain, people stop traffic and block the roads only for two reasons: to rob somebody, or to celebrate when Real Madrid won the Champions League."

"Doesn't Real Madrid have millions of fans?"

"They do."

"Just two men block the road."

"Perhaps a small, local football team won the Champions League. They must have beaten Real Madrid in the final."

"Do they play the final of the Champions League in December?"

I'm almost without answers. Almost. The FIFA and the UEFA are greedy enough to organize lots of stupid tournaments to make more money: "They play the World Championship for Clubs in December."

"The World Championship for Clubs? What's that? I've never heard of it."

"Nobody has ever heard of it. That's why only two fans are celebrating."

These two aren't Real Madrid fans. Their white shirts lack the official logo of the club, the official stripes of the brand, the official stars of the league, and all the other official tokens of all the official sponsors that make a 1-euro T-shirt worth a 70-euro price-tag. These are poor people. They're not wearing 70-euro shirts. They're wearing white undershirts because they can't afford to buy even a 1-euro T-shirt. I'm getting nervous. Poor people mean problems, most of all when those poor people want to take all our money, generously giving their poverty problem to us.

Chelsea sees no problem at all: "Why don't they let us pass? Is there a problem with the road? A flooded river? A collapsed bridge?"

"What does it look like, Chelsea? Are we facing two policemen who kindly advise us to take another route?"

"No, of course not. Policemen wear a uniform. These two don't even wear shoes."

"And all the others who wear firearms are…?"

"As you said: people who go to a football match, or shopping, or on a picnic, or they go to school, or to a barbecue with their friends…"

"This is not America, dear. This is Europe. The only ones here with firearms are bandits and policemen. These two are not wearing a uniform. Which makes them?"

While Chelsea solves this complex mathematical problem, I throw a friendly smile at the two armed bandits on the road. Correct that. It's one armed bandit and one one-armed armed bandit. I mean, both are bandits (the old saying «en tiempos de Franco, quién no roba es manco» explains that in the days of the dictator Franco, the ones with one arm didn't steal, but that luxury has disappeared since the dictator died in 1975 and democracy took over), both are armed, and both are up in arms as well, although the short, fat one with two arms only carries one arm, while the tall, lean one with one arm carries two arms, which must have cost him an arm and a leg, I mean… This becomes too complicated. I better find out their names, to avoid confusion, to become friends, have a laugh together, shake hands… Rostov! No bad jokes about hand-icapped… Rostov! Show them I speak the language, we're family, on the same side… In Spain, foreigners and local people walk arm in arm… Rostov! I mean, Spanish people welcome foreigners like Chelsea and me with open arms… Rostov!

"Buenos días, señores. Me llamo…" (Arsenal… somehow doesn't seem the right word to use during an armed robbery…) "Me llamo Arse… ¿Cómo se llaman ustedes?"

What's your name? That's one of the first things I learnt in Spain: if you want something to drink, it helps when you know the name of the waiter. If you shout: "Waiter!", he doesn't listen. In Spain, people don't order drinks. A superior officer orders, where the foot soldiers salute and deliver. Spanish waiters don't accept to be treated like foot soldiers; on the contrary. In Spanish, you say: «pedir una bebida», which can best be translated as «humbly request if the man who is already so busy running around for all the other customers might, perhaps, if it's not too much to ask, have a look if he can find the time to come to our table and ask what we want, and, maybe, if it's convenient, at some later moment, please, go inside, open some bottles, fill some glasses, and escort the drinks to our table». My two new best friends might not have all this grammar in their backpack, but they do welcome my suggestion to solve this situation as good old friends.

The lean, one-armed armed bandit puts the big shotgun in his hand on the ground, so he can take the machete out of his mouth and speak freely. He answers: "Buenos días, señor. My name is Don Quí. This jolly fellow next to me is my good old friend, San Chochó. We have the honour to be the Crema Catalana de la Crema de Calabacín of the local criminals, and we're happy to announce: you are our first victims today, which means we have enough space in our empty pockets for all the booty you have with you. Tell me, are we the first ones who rob you today? That's wonderful. It means you're still loaded. Our guns are loaded too. Are you already familiar with the procedure? Or would you like us to explain it to you briefly?"

"Is there a procedure for being robbed?"

Don Quí looks insulted: "¡Señor! This is not some third world country. This is Spain. We have rules here. Thanks to corruption, our politicians have taken the best prisons for themselves, but we, the unorganised small crime de la crime of this country, have organised ourselves and made our own rules, to avoid that things run out of hand (His words! Not mine!). We do this as follows: you, and the lady too, empty your pockets. You put all your cash, and jewellery, and credit cards, and gold teeth, in the bag my friend San Chochó will give you. You write down the secret numbers that go with the credit cards, so we can plunder your bank accounts. Then you take that hose and that plastic container over there, and you fill it with petrol from the tank of your car. Meanwhile, we fill in the forms for your insurance company. Of course, we'll report twice the amount of everything we steal; as honest, hard-working, professional robbers, we always arrange a commission profit for our victims. After all, stealing from a white-collar criminal insurance company isn't really stealing, isn't it? Is this all clear? Does it suit you if we start now? We have to do three more robberies before lunch."

The robbers and I are talking Spanish together. That's why the tone of our conversation is light, friendly, and businesslike. We can handle this win-win situation in hardly any time, with a mutual benefit. I have my 20 euros in cash in my pocket (the tight LSD budget for today's mission), and Chelsea has no money at all. This unexpected pit stop will cost us ten litres (a small fortune) of petrol, but those expenses are for the owner of the car. One quick transaction, and we're free to go. It's always a pleasure, doing business with Spanish people. Too bad, Chelsea likes to have a little word too. She shouts in Angry American: "Where I come from, it's considered poor education when you speak foreign languages with each other, knowing there are others who don't understand."

Don Quí, who behaved like an officer and a gentleman until now, doesn't like to be spoken to like this. He returns the unfair smash easily with a single-handed backhand (Don't blame me! It's his move!) and answers in flawless English: "Poor education? Where I come from, it's considered excellent education if you speak more than one language, Miss America. I speak Castilliano (Spanish), Catalán, Euskadi, Gallego, Andaluz cateto, Mexican, some French and German and Italian, Oxford English, and on top of that, I'm a licenced translator in sign language, the worldwide accepted language of the hands and the feet (His words! Not mine!). Being poor is not an excuse to be illiterate. Being jobless is a perfect condition to study and improve your chances on the job market. Thanks to my multi-linguistic qualities, they can tell me I'm too old and too expensive in ten different languages."

Chelsea is not in the mood for some quality conversation with a gentleman thief. She stands up, points her finger towards the two Spaniards and shouts at me: "Didn't you tell me you're the son of a butcher? Well? Kill those two pigs!"

I wonder: "Killing in the name of who? Why? Did they harm us?"

"Killing in the name of God, the Devil and the President of the USA, of course. They are the bad ones. We are the good ones. That's reason enough to kill them."

I try to be reasonable: "Aren't the good ones the forgiving kind, and the bad ones the kind that kill?"

But Chelsea doesn't want to hear about right or wrong: "I'm the daughter of the American Secretary of Defense and I ORDER you to kill those bandits!"

San Chochó holds his big belly with laughter: "That's what happens when women get equal rights: she's wearing the badge and you do what she tells you."

I'm losing my good mood and bark at him: "Do you think that's funny? Does Spanish macho behaviour give you a better result? Does your wife do what you tell her?"

Don Quí joins the laughter: "Of course not. He tried it, once, and his wife told him to… have sexual intercourse with himself."

San Chochó doubles his laughter: "And you are better off? Your Dulce Nerea told you to go away as far as you can, and you just do what she told ya, so now you rob people and give the booty to her, so she can spend it on looking pretty for other men while you're away. Ha, ha, ha."

Don Quí laughs back: "Yes, I was lucky with my wife. At least, she allows me to have some quality time with my friends. Imagine you're married with Lady Starstruck over there… You could fly to the moon but she'd soon find a way to be there. You could try to be wise and disguise; it's as if you were bare. You don't know what to do. She'll get it out of you. She's tough, enough. What do you know of fear? Look at this lady here. It's her call, and you fall. She's deadly like a hungry cat, and you're Mickey Mouse; you aren't afraid yet?"

I'm afraid. I know her. Her eyes are spitting fire. I surrender: "You're fully correct, Sir. To help me out of my misery, I suggest you shoot me. Standing in her shadow, I hoped for a chance to shine like she does, but I was wrong: a star like Chelsea shines so brightly that she leaves black holes everywhere. Come on, kill me. You do me a favour. But realise what she'll do with you when I'm no longer alive. This woman needs a replacement killer, and you have all the right qualities…"

San Chochó has the last laugh, which is always the best: "No, thank you. I already have one wife and one mother-in-law. It's more than enough. You can keep her for yourself."

Chelsea tries to keep the upper hand: "You see? Not only are they robbers but also sexist pigs who treat women without respect. Kill them, Arse. Come on!"

I try to be reasonable: "They're the ones with the guns. I'm not even carrying a pocket knife."

Chelsea can't believe it: "You are not armed? What kind of bodyguard are you? Well, fight them with your bare hands. Take a bullet and save my life. That's what bodyguards do."

Amused, Don Quí shakes his grey head. His partner in crime laughs out loud: "The American way to solve problems: fight poverty, kill a beggar."

Now Chelsea gets really mad: "You don't laugh at me! Don't you know who I am? I'm going to call my father and he'll bomb you, and he'll bomb your stupid sister, and he'll bomb your bloody brother, and he'll bomb your mad mother, and he'll bomb your farting father and—"

San Chochó can't stop laughing: "He's going to bomb my father? Does he know who my father is? I don't even know that myself. And also does he know where my mother is? She left us for a plumber when I was six years old, leaving the responsibility to me, for being the oldest, to take care of the rest of our family. Breastfeeding my baby sister was the worst…"

Chelsea isn't done yet: "Then I'm going to send our lawyers, and they'll sue you, and you'll lose the case, and you'll spend the rest of your miserable life in jail, and you'll have to pay millions, no, billions—"

Don Quí looks at his empty pockets and laughs: "And where do you suppose we get those millions-no-billions to pay you with?"

San Chochó thinks Chelsea is the best stand-up comedian ever: "In jail? Ha, ha, ha. A proper room? A bed with clean sheets, and three meals a day? Ho, ho, ho. And free medical care as much as I need? And nothing else to worry about? Ha, ha. And no need to work my ass off every day for not-even-enough to pay the rent? Can your lawyer fix that for me? Ho, ho, ho. That must be a very good lawyer indeed. He won't be cheap, that's for sure. And it won't be me paying him either, ha, ha."

Chelsea doesn't like the success she has with her audience. She can't decide between crying and being angry. She tries to look desperate this time: "Do something, Arse. Take a bullet for me and save my life, and do it fast because it's almost lunchtime and I'm hungry."

I know. I'm a spy. Chelsea is my mission and my responsibility. I have to act here. But… I have my doubts. Slowly, I open the door and step out of the car. The two robbers point their shotguns at me, amused by this superb entertainment. I look at them, almost begging for help: "Isn't there some other way we can handle this?"

Chelsea answers the question: "No, there is not."

"But… What if I die in the attempt?"

"Don't worry. I can drive this car too. I'm not a baby, you know."

"No, I mean… I can only die once. I can't practise a few times. I have to do it right the first time. What if dying doesn't work out? Imagine I take the first bullet for you, and they shoot you with the second one. How can I save your life by giving my life for you? Does your life insurance guarantee that, when I die for you, you'll be safe for the rest of your life? Perhaps it's better if I stay alive."

Chelsea has no idea: "You're not going to die for me? And now what? I have no idea."

Don Quí shakes with laughter: "Do you see what happens when you watch too many American action movies? You stop thinking. You have no idea."

San Chochó doesn't agree: "I don't agree, Don Quí. I watch American movies every day, as I have nothing else to do since I lost my job. Those movies make you really think."

Chelsea knows what he refers to: "Yeah, you're in trouble, so you look at a few American action movies, and they make you think that shooting people and robbing people is the only answer, so you grab a gun and solve your problem. Facing the consequences of copying Hollywood behavior is your own responsibility. Nobody forces you to watch those movies. You have a choice, you know. It's a free country. You can always decide to watch only the commercials and switch to another channel when the movie begins. It's so cheap to blame Hollywood for every bad thing that happens to you."

San Chochó feels hurt: "You don't understand, Miss. I don't watch all that violence. I'm a lover, not a fighter. If you really want to know: I watch porn, and it makes me think «why don't I have a handsome, hot 'n' horny chick like that?»"

Don Quí feels hurt too: "Hollywood isn't responsible for our problems, Miss. It's your President. He started a war and caused a worldwide economic crisis. That's how I lost my job and my house. Your President gave the banks legal permission to cheat, rob, steal, and get away with it; not one banker was arrested, tried, and sentenced. The punishment was for us, the Spanish citizens, who suffered a VAT raise from 16% to 21%, plus 25% of unemployment, over 40% for everyone under 25 years old. But America also showed us the solution: shoot at everything you hate. Since 2008, we serve American Quarter Pounder hamburgers, consisting of one ounce of lead for every ten grams of meat."

Chelsea has the perfect answer to that: "Duh! It's not my fault that you don't have rights here. In America, we have democracy. It means we have equal rights for everyone and we have a law to protect us."

Don Quí gets angry: "… says the girl who goes to Harvard. Equal rights for everyone? Two hundred years ago, your law admitted people of colour to be held as slaves. There were protests, even a war, so they changed the law. Fifty years ago, your law said that black people couldn't take the bus or go to school. There were protests, so they changed the law. Now going to school is so expensive that blacks can't afford it. You change your law, Miss, but your society stays the same. If you're black and you bend your knee, you get fired. Your law protects only the rich white male elite that makes the law, so they can stay where they are: on top of everything."

Chelsea wins the debate easily: "DUH!"

Don Quí has the right to remain silent.

You can't change other people.

You can only change yourself.

It's not a matter of who's right and who's wrong. It's a matter of power: if you have it, you can do what you like. Even President Obama noticed how more and more people were only interested in information that fits their opinion, and it doesn't even matter if that information is correct or not. We don't want justice; we just want to justify ourselves. The new generation enters a world where they have problems with dating, divorce, drinking, drugs, death and other disasters, but they keep stubbornly following the same path as the ones before them, the ones who created all those problems.

We don't solve anything. All we do is talk about it. All we do is tell the others about the problems they give us, and they reply by telling us about the problems we cause to them. America has over 300 million inhabitants. Europe has over 700 million. Every single one of them spends one average hour per day watching the news and/or reading the newspaper. Everyone who lives in a First World country spends one hour per day watching the problems we all create together. What if we switch off the news and instead spend that hour solving problems? What would our world look like when we, together, use those 1.000.000.000 hours per day to solve the problems we create, instead of talking about them? Nobody is interested. Nobody wants to solve problems. We want to see problems. We want to watch the news, to be entertained.

We're getting nowhere like this. I offer a peace treaty: "This car is worth 50 million dollars. You take the car and we take a walk. How about that?"

Wrong. A storm of protest comes from everywhere, all at once.

"Are you crazy? An Italian car? Do you know that FIAT stands for Failing Intentional Accidents Technology? Every week, something breaks, and we'll have to wait for ages until the spare parts arrive…", Don Quí shouts.

"Are you crazy? Do you know how much insurance and road tax and yearly technical control of such a car costs? Do you know how much tax you have to pay for owning something worth 50 million? And how am I going to drive home, ten kilometres of mountain road, with a junker like that? A donkey would be much better than that Italian Stallion of yours…", San Chochó screams.

"Are you crazy? Do you suggest I walk all the way to that bus stop over there? In this heat?", Chelsea shrieks.

"Okay, okay, sorry, I'm just trying to be helpful. And how about I invite you for lunch?"

Silence.

Bingo.

"First plate, second plate, and dessert?", San Chochó wants to know.

"Plus a drink, a salad plate, and bread to go with it.", I assure.

"Do they serve albóndigas?", Don Quí asks, suspiciously.

Albóndigas are little meatballs. I've had them twice last week. They are worth killing for: "Albóndigas with tomato sauce or albóndigas with almonds sauce, whatever you prefer. Arroz con leche or natillas for dessert."

That does it. Arroz con leche, sweet rice with milk, is everyone's favourite dessert. The guns disappear, we shake hands to close the deal, no contracts needed as we're between friends, and we discuss the final details: "Unfortunately, we can't give you a lift to the restaurant. This is a two-seater and an Italian car as well, but the bus will stop here in… about two minutes, so you'll probably arrive there before us."

"Is there any chance you can lend us a few coins for the bus ticket?", San Chochó asks. We all look at the 20-euro bill in my hand. We all know this is Spain. 20 euros will be enough for lunch for two or three people, but it's not enough to buy four lunches plus two bus tickets.

"We can take a few litres of petrol out of the car and sell it to the first one who passes. With the current oil prices, that would solve our problem.", Don Quí suggests.

We look at the car.

I kill the plan: "Nobody has passed since we stopped here. It might take weeks before another car comes by. The bus uses diesel, so…"

Whitney Houston, we have a problem…

What do you do when you have a problem?

The answer comes from an unexpected side: the passenger's side of the Ferrari. Chelsea shakes her golden Princess Plus imPhone and smiles: "HellOO-hoo! Why bother to do all that thinking by yourself if you can easily call someone who can do it for you? We call Helpful Helpdesk Inc. They're available 24/7, and they'll solve all your problems. In America, we use them all the time."

A triple sigh of relief feels like a desert wind over permafrost tundra: "Chelsea, you're wonderful." - "What would we do if we didn't have you?" - "You save the day." - "Helpful Helpdesk Inc.?" - "It must be American." - "You Americans have a solution for everything." - "A professional solution." - "I'm glad we have you around."

Chelsea speed-dials the Helpful Helpdesk and puts the phone on the speaker.

"Helpful Helpdesk Inc, Miranda speaking. What can I do for you?"

"Hello, this is Chelsea. I'm—"

"Are you calling from London? Our automatic location control thinks you're in the south of Spain right now, on the local road between the coast and Ronda. Are you lost?"

"It's not that simple. We have two men here… two friends… and we invited them for lunch but…"

"There is a five-star restaurant about two minutes away from you. If you prefer to eat at home, I can order for you. You can choose between fifty fast-food franchisees. They all deliver within ten minutes."

"No, the restaurant isn't the problem. Our car has only two seats, one for the driver and one for me, so…"

"A taxi is already on its way. It will arrive in approximately 36,5 seconds from now. You can also wait for the bus. It's scheduled to pass your location in about 30 seconds, but, as usual, it's three hours late."

"That's not what I want to ask. Our friends are… not properly dressed to enter a restaurant. In fact, they're not even properly dressed to enter a taxi, or even a bus."

"Our computer has scanned the incoming satellite image from your location. The, eh… king-size man has size 56 and the other man, the senior, has size 48. We have already a tailor on the way to your location with a fine collection of the latest fashion. Right now, I send an emergency alert to the mobile dog wash. They will arrive as soon as possible to liberate the coiffure of both gentlemen from fleas and other domestic animals. Is there something else?"

This is leading nowhere. She's only making it worse. With a gesture, I convince Chelsea to give me her imPhone, so I can correct the mistake: "Sorry, Miss. Please don't interrupt me. Please, listen until you understand the real problem we have here. We're not stupid. We are perfectly capable of calling a taxi or a dog wash or a tailor or a pizza delivery boy because we were also perfectly capable of calling you. You're trying to solve problems that we can easily solve ourselves. We call you to solve a problem that we can't solve ourselves. That problem is… We don't have money to pay for all those solutions you're sending us. Do you understand our problem?"

Silence.

American companies are so successful because they only hire the best of the best of the best. This lady takes her time to use the best tool she has available for solving problems: her brain. She uses it well, for thinking, and she's thinking about her training, her endless training, necessary to get this job, which is only available for the best of the best of the best. She's thinking about how to give me the right answer without saying swear words. Rule one of any company's policies: never ever say swear words when you're on the bloody phone with a freaking customer.

But it's hard. Miss Miranda is in pain. She can't believe her ears. She asks one brief question to confirm her darkest suspicions: "You… You don't have money?"

"That's correct, Miss."

The shock is too much for her. She forgets all her training, all the company's policies, all her mother's moral lessons, and cries out: "Fuck you! You are POOR! How are you going to pay our bill when you don't have the money?"

The mechanical voice of Big Brother interrupts her: "Miss Miranda, this is an official warning. You've just used a swear word while you were speaking on the phone with a customer. We can NOT tolerate this behavior."

Miss Miranda needs a break, to recover from the tremendous shock she just went through. She tries to buy some time, hard to do when you just found out you've been working the last two full minutes without making any money to buy that priceless time with, so she's hoping for some credit: "I'm sorry, but… this client just confessed he's POOR!"

Mechanical Mike doesn't give credit: "This is the second time you say this swear word, the P-word. Fuck you! You're fired."

It would be interesting to follow what's next, but this is an American story, so it ends with a cliffhanger, and if you want to see the next episode, you'll have to pay more. We can't pay more. We can't afford all this bullshit. We only have 20 euros. But we did get a free lesson in Economy from Miss Miranda and Helpful Helpdesk Inc.: If you have a problem, you stick your hand in your wallet; you buy the solution or you hire someone who solves it for you. Problem? No problem. But if you have a problem and you don't have the money to solve it, you don't have one problem; you have two. That's why you should always have money in reserve. Money in your pocket is the best insurance against any problem, and the best guarantee to live happily ever after.

I look at Don Quí and San Chochó: they are so poor, they don't even have hair on their… (sorry, it's against LSD company policy to use certain words). I have only 20 euros. Chelsea's dad is a millionaire. This looks like a piece of cake.

I give her back her imPhone, try to show my cute puppy-dog face and ask: "Chelsea? These two men haven't eaten in weeks, they don't have clothes, they walk barefoot, they sleep in a cave, and they urgently need a shower, but the first rain is forecasted in April. All we need to solve their problems is a bit of your daddy's money. He's a millionaire. Can you make some arrangements?"

Chelsea is not willing to cooperate. She's still mad at those two who laughed at her stand-up comedy show: "Duh. My dad is ONLY a millionaire, you know. Call the President. He's a billionaire. Let him solve the problems of the poor. Or let those poor solve their own problems like we poor millionaires do. All they have to do is find a job."

Don Quí does some immediate research on the job market: "Robbing people isn't a job?"

I have a degree in Economy. His Robin Hood solution is like a pyramid game: "When you rob my money, you will no longer be poor, but you give your poverty to me, which forces me to rob you, which leaves you poor and back where we started. Stealing isn't productive. That's why it's against the law. Having a job, work, means producing something."

San Chochó has a degree in Economy too: "I produce a LOT. Every morning. When I stand up and look behind me…"

I should have been more explicit: "Producing shit is no solution. You need to produce something useful, something that solves other people's problems. In return, they'll give you money, so you can solve your own problems too. That's a win-win situation."

Chelsea has some suggestions: "Yeah. Arse is right. You have to use your hands (ups…). Everybody can use a handyman (uy…). You can give the rich people in your neighbourhood a hand (ay…) so they don't have to do all that hard work by themselves: you can cook for them or wash their car, train their dog, train their kids, cut their lawn, clean their house and their swimming pool… There are opportunities everywhere. All you have to do is look around and take your hands out of your pockets (this is getting embarrassing)."

Good advice is expensive. Like Helpful Helpdesk Inc, I have to stop this because we can't afford so much good advice. What we need here is a little free help from a friend. I activate my spiPhone: "Lovely Sweet Dear. Record message. To: #2, The Nerd. Dear friend. Please reserve lunch for two gentlemen in the dining room of «Los Arqueros - Golf and Country Club». Please arrange a taxi on our current location to transport these two gentlemen over there, but with a D-tour: first to the nearest bathhouse, then to the local barber for a shave and a haircut, and finally to «Suits for Señores» where professionals can dress them properly for the occasion. Right now, I'm short of cash, so please inform these suppliers that the Mayor of Marbella will pay for the costs, and send a message to the Mayor that I, personally, will pay him back the favour… with a 10% bonus. End message. Send message."

Three seconds later a message returns: «Do I pay the costs from your LSD expenses account? You know the latest company policies and the tight budget, don't you?»

With pain in my wallet, I reply: «Recoup the costs against my next salary… (I think of the prices at Suits for Señores) and my end-of-year bonus… (and prices of Golf Club Sandwiches) and my salary for January and February next year…»

I think about the raging success of my current mission and the chance I'll still have a job tomorrow…

«On second thought: send the bills to me. I'll transfer from my savings account.»

«Are you crazy?»

I guess I am.

«It's my job to save the world. Hunger is the biggest problem. I can't feed all the hungry in the world, but at least I can feed the hungry in MY world.»

Don Quí is moved. San Chochó blinks an emotional tear away. Both want to hug me, but I manage to escape their dirty tricks of chemical warfare. They bow to show respect. Don Quí says: "You, Sir, are a caballero, a true gentleman. It's been an honour and a pleasure to rob you."

"It's nothing. Chelsea is right: as long as you don't find a job, your problems will remain."

We mourn in silence, aside from the grave of the working class, murdered by rules and company policies. I try to find the proper word, something like… "A job… doesn't work anymore", no, that's nothing, perhaps… "Work the streets…" No. "Work out?" I can't think of anything.

"Where do you find a helping hand when you need one?", Don Quí sighs.

"That's it!", I say: "You're not able to work with your hands, Don Quí, but you're good with language. You can make a living with that. Walk the country and tell stories. Make people laugh. Write a novel. You'll become famous."

Don Quí shakes his old head: "Such an ingenious noble man-pen-plan might have worked 400 years ago, but those days are over, my friend. Nobody reads novels anymore. Nobody is interested in the stories of el caballero de la figura triste. People don't read anymore. It's best when we stick to crime. Crime pays off."

I shake my head too: "Like Robin Hood? Stealing to move poverty from one pocket to another? Crime doesn't pay off."

"HellOO-ooh!" Chelsea's waving her imPhone again: "Crime doesn't pay? Publish violent videos of happy slapping, and you become rich. Produce endless series about mafia families, and you'll win Oscars. Write books about the time when you robbed everyone, and you'll become the Number One of the New Yoke Times Bestseller list. Write about crime in the newspaper, and you're every day the most read author of your country, with a Pulitzer Prize to hang above your chimney. This is the Twenty-first Century Fox Show, you know. Crime pays off like never before."

We look at Chelsea, standing on the seat of a 50 million Ferrari like she's the Oracle from Ancient Greece. But she's right. Crime does pay off. Everybody is interested in real crime. We read it in the paper, we watch it on the news, and we just can't get enough of it.

Three wise men.

One conclusion.

"Journalism!", San Chochó grins.

"Chelsea, you're AWESOME!", I smile.

"Crime pays off. I knew it!", Don Quí laughs.

"I know the mayor of Marbella. He owns the local boulevard, so he must also own the boulevard press. I'll call him right away. He's at the Golf Club where you two are having lunch, so you can meet him there, good old boys between each other, and close the business.", I say.

"I have at least fifty cousins who we can interview about their work. That's a juicy story for every Saturday edition for the whole upcoming year.", San Chochó adds.

Don Quí gives us a high five: "Handicapped? Nothing is impossible. Just focus on what a handicapped CAN do. Executives type with two fingers. I have three fingers more. What a fantastic idea! You are awesome, Chelsea."

The taxi arrives. We say goodbye. We promise to keep in touch. But it's really time for us to go now. It's nice to help a couple of friends now and then, but we have a mission to save the world, and we don't have all day.