The man who fed the pigeons // STORY
Lisbon, December 3rd. A sturdy man left the newspaper on the table and asked the waiter at the bakery for the bill. He was a somewhat disheveled man, but he radiated happiness. He meticulously picked up the crumbs from the delicious cake he had just eaten. He kept them in a small paper bag that he took out of his pocket. He took one last sip of the coffee with milk, took out some bills, left them on the bill, and said goodbye with a wide smile. The young waiter was satisfied with the generous tip.
He walked off to the commercial square, he loved that city. The postponement brought back fond memories of his childhood, when his parents took him for a walk. He opened the paper bag with the crumbs from the cake and proceeded to feed the pigeons. He did this many times as a child. The pigeons surrounded him. The pleasant moment was interrupted by the sound of his mobile phone. As he checked the screen, he frowned. It was an international call. For a few seconds he stared at the number, until he finally answered. The only thing I heard was a buzzing noise that lasted twenty seconds. The call was cut off.
The face of the man who was feeding the pigeons changed immediately. The smile that had been on for only a few minutes disappeared. He dropped the last crumbs and left the place in a hurry. The pigeons took flight, while the Portuguese looked worriedly in all directions. He was sweating, the call made him nervous. When he got home, he locked all the doors and secured the windows. He spent the next twenty-four hours watching all the people who passed in front of the house. With binoculars, he checked that the vehicles parked around were unoccupied. Any noise put him on alert. At midnight on December 4th the mobile phone rang again. I check the screen, it was the same number. He answered the call. Again the same buzzing sound. This time it lasted thirty seconds. The call ended and the man went to the closet, took out an old suitcase and started packing clothes.
Caracas, December 5th. The Portuguese man descends from Flight 1437. The trip was exhausting. The tiredness was on his face. After passing through the immigration area, he went to have a coffee. A mysterious woman in military uniform approaches him from the side. He doesn't look at her, he stands still. The woman slides one over the cafeteria table. She grabs it and puts it away quickly. The stranger withdraws without a word. An hour later he arrives at a low-rent hotel in an area called Quinta Crespo. She opened the envelope and checked inside, there was a small key and a map with instructions. He studied it carefully, then took out a lighter and proceeded to destroy it with fire.
He got up with renewed energy, put on his sunglasses and left for Avila. Her parents migrated from Portugal and settled in Caracas many years ago. She knew it very well and liked the women of that city, which many portray as the capital of hell. After a long walk in the Ävila, she stops at a campsite. He counted the steps until he stopped in front of a rock stained with paint. She made sure no one was watching. With his hands, he dug up the earth and dug up a metal box. With the small key they gave him in the envelope, he opened it. A slight smile spread across his face, and inside the metal box was a 40-caliber Glock.
He looked at himself in the mirror at the hairdresser's. He took off the long beard he had been wearing for months. Paying with Euros, he had not had time to change for the country's money. He was walking around the Plaza Altamira Center. He was attentive to any facts that might be suspicious. He watched people's faces, wanted to make sure no one was following him. Next to the cinemas there was an internet café. He went in, ordered a coffee and rented a computer. He checked out a web address, it was an online classifieds site. He stopped at one that said they were soliciting a janitor for a building near Miraflores. He wrote down the number. I buy a phone card, find a pay phone, dial the number on the ad. When they answered the call, I heard the same buzzing sound again, this time lasting 40 seconds.
The Square was full of people. The Portuguese was overwhelmed by the noise of the people. A few minutes earlier, they had announced that the national strike against the regime of the dictator who was ruling the country would be extended. It was the hope of an entire people who wanted an end to the regime of the tyrant. The government was threatening more radical measures against the freedoms of its citizens. The fireworks were rumbling. The man had a bitter expression. An inexplicable rage took hold of his mind. He was no longer the man who fed the pigeons in Lisbon. It was time to take action. He had to fulfill his goal.
A burst of gunfire turned the cries of joy into cries of terror. Hope disappeared and gave way to sadness. More shots were heard. Confusion surrounded the place. More screams and cries were the soundtrack of the terror images being broadcast on television. A man with a broken soul held them in his arms, the body of his daughter of twelve years of age. He was desperately asking for help. A hundred and eighty year old man was shot and a woman in her eighties was taking her to a clinic, where her life could not be saved. Officially twenty-five people were shot and the hopes of all the country were silenced by the horror.
Story inspired by real events
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