The mouthpiece pamphlet of the brick mafia in Lanzarote has been fueling the island's territorial controversy for weeks. They use foul, false, threatening, intimidating, and stale language. Nothing new when it comes to continuing to defend the privileges and economic interests of those who have made a fortune looting public money from institutions that fall into the hands of bartenders and mediators.
It's about continuing to take advantage of the public at the expense of discrediting those who not only don't deign to share a table with pickpockets but dare not bow to bastards who have become mafiosos in their own land.
Nothing new, nothing that this country doesn't suffer from right and left of the peninsular geography, the only difference is that this is an island, there is no anonymity, we all know about each other. There is no need for them to keep hiring detectives, they can save the tip for the hounds they have unleashed because here we have known each other since we were children.
They use concepts as archaic as "the coffee table", a table that the capo took care of setting up in great detail, but at which, on this occasion, not all the invited parties sat. And those who sat did so on their knees.
The mafia's pamphlet points out and harasses those who did not sit at the capo's table. Fallen at dawn, the fleur-de-lis cut off, with a messenger president so cowardly that he could not hold the pen of his particular portrait, and with the bartender at the gates of the bench, there is nothing to hide. Suitcases full via Las Palmas, trips of bartenders and self-discredited and diminished fifth powers, old men eaten away with defeat drawn on their faces, using the most stupid of the family, strolling through the prosecutor's office to uncork the cork oak. Blessed kidnapping of Carlota.
It is a war that has been going on for years away from the coffee table, the one that stopped respecting the youth's futbito matches. It is a war that they lost last century, but they resist, they resist like cockroaches on their backs aspiring to a new airport, a new PIOL, a new Plan de La Geria... to milk the black pig before the polls become reality, and the bartenders return to being what they have never stopped being, mere instruments as amortized as those who spend their days in the shade.
It is not a coffee table that they have in front of them, the island is a board in which neighborhood thugs no longer have a place and the capo's psychotic anxieties prevent him from playing. Those who believe that anything goes and that everyone is worth it are wrong because, despite the time that has passed and the years sharing the board, they still do not know the value and consistency of those in front of them.
Without valid heirs to allow them to leave peacefully to live the last years of their lives. The ambitious and short-term crow breeds useless and simple crows. We will toast with Stratvs, it is not a personal matter.
