Here we preview the first adventure of the sheep Fred, bulky figure of my dark subconscious. Obviously Fred is not just an animal stuffed animals but embodies the dream projection of my innermost desires and atavistic meaning of guilt.
I
The old convertible whizzes on the wound of asphalt that cuts through the wide horizon of the desert.
The radio itself leaves behind a trail of heavy metal while Fred empty beer cans and threw them out the window squeezed like lemons.
I'm screaming "Shoot out asshole" but Fred turns the knob to turn up the volume.
E 'at that point that I hear the hissing sound of the siren and the rectangle of the mirror appears to Ford from the long black hood, with all the chrome gleaming.
The man at the wheel we are doing extensive notes with his left hand out the window.
put his car on the side of the road while Fred leads me to press on the gas "you do not have the balls, please guide me."
The policeman gets out, closes the door, throws at us and continues to look grim stare and puts on black leather gloves left on the dashboard.
"If you cared to exceed your limits, you could at least prevent you from achieving," laments Fred, "amateur" fed up with making things worse.
"But I have not exceeded the limit!" I try to giusticarmi with little conviction.
distracted attention from us, the cop leans on the hood of the police car to pick up what now appears to us as clearly The body of a can of beer and still part of the body and windshield.
"Fred fuck you" chew between his teeth while throwing a sidelong glance.
The policeman handling the foreign body with the conservative distrust of a blaster, studies holding it up to his own hand, and muttering something to himself, puts it in a plastic bag transparent, readily extracted from a shirt pocket.
System for your fedora on his head, comes forward to decisive steps towards us. But Fred
burps and smell the breath is a sewer, so do I get out and meet the officer who heard shouting "Be still! Hands behind his head. "
bow my head slightly and saw that indeed there is a gun pointed at me.
The policeman is leaning forward with her legs spread, knees bent and your butt all the way back, like riding a Harley Davidson, close in her hands glistens show the big pistol.
hand rose slowly from the door, which is ajar, and clasping her hands behind her head. Fred
burps again, louder, and this time he also feels the policeman.
"He has problems?" One shouts. There was a moment of silence, a breath of cold wind slapping my face while I am the radiant sun bakes the desert slowly.
"I have to consider how his opinion efficiency of the National Police Service, "resumed the officer, his voice rippling slightly.
I'm like "it was not me ... it was the sheep!" Pointing to his companion with the thumb of his right hand, his hands still behind his head. Fred
spits out the window and chewing a "fuck you".
"Do not make it funny! Be firm and tell your partner to raise your hands. "
The sheep laughs to himself, chewing through clenched teeth" damn fool ".
"The lifting is already" speak.
"Get your cocks" Fred aloud pursues me.
"Let the facts its" echoes the cop and I see him get up on tiptoe to see the outline of the passenger.
close my eyes and start to pray.
II
The police officer approached us and cautious team, when I open my eyes, I myself squarely in the reflection of the large distorting mirror lenses.
The policeman makes a circle around the car and then pulls out a small plastic bag swinging nervously between his thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
"I can explain everything," I try to intervene, but Fred interrupts me, "Shut up" bursts out dry.
"Here," said the policeman, "has not yet reached its time to talk."
The policeman now dedicated team back then looked up at me, stares at me for an interminable moment and returns to Fred. Fred now returns his gaze and takes a chance in a slight nod of her head.
"Favorite of your files, please," continued the policeman, who tries to maintain composure despite the formal and increasingly ill-concealed irritation.
Fred with his paw open the glove compartment door and fall out condoms in the bags and silver cigarette packets open, I try the paper of an accomplice smile turned to the policeman - who obviously does not return, remaining impassive - And turn my head towards the sheep. Moving his lips without uttering any sound punctuates the words properly
"F red damn NOT do it."
I see him digging with his paw between the maps and feel the rivulets of sweat that I trace the veins on his forehead.
With the corner of my eye I see the foot come in contact with the butt of the gun.
At that point, now it's too late for any intervention, the uncertainty about my future, dividing equally between a bored death of lead on the roadside or a death in the electric chair to fry a filthy County Penitentiary. I close my eyes, let myself fall head over heels, and beginning to unravel one of the greatest sins of which beg forgiveness.
III
When he raised his head I have no God before me, but the same policeman who meticulously studied our IDs, I'm still alive, and apparently the gun is remained secure in the glove compartment of the dash.
I'm breathing a sigh of relief when a flash as I remember the picture on the passport of Fred, the damn pictures of sheep with rasta braids held back by the pink glasses, unshaven, puffy eyes and bags, " dick "I say to myself," he go again. "
It is in that exact moment, in fact, that puts the engine flooded the cop finds himself in the place of the lungs.
I whirled toward the sheep to scan in a low voice, "you are an asshole ..." when Fred laconic replies to me without any attention to moderate the tone, looking dejected, leaning on a indefinite horizon.
"Look what is your driver's license in his hand."
Meanwhile, the policeman stopped to suppress the tremor of the jaw and is gradually abandoning the frantic drives the body.
Read the fear that is about to explode in a fit of homicidal rage mention an "agent Excuse me ..." but this has been folded on his stomach pointing a hand on his knee while with the other hand continues to hold the passport photo of the license before my eyes. It
just in time to exclaim "What a wanker ..." before collapsing on the floor.
my head out the window and I see it thrown on the ground that gasps between sand and asphalt falls prey to hysterical laughter, like a snake covered by an electric current, like a goldfish aquarium dropped out, like a dog in heat prey a seizure: arches his back, he turns on himself, beating his fists on the floor and shakes his legs, uttering a cry all next of kin of coughing and hiccups of the safety rather than laughter.
And 'This is one of those times when my dignity commute with my own existence.
I dare not even support the view of Fred el'adirato between the bored, flying to do with sore paw on the door.
He stopped to light a cigarette only collected from those scattered on the mat, and he offers to another policeman, who painstakingly recovered effort coughing while standing up again, raising dust from the handful shirt and pants.
This rests on the side of our car, the documents collected from the ground and throws them in the back seat, make a gesture as if to remove something, he lifted his sunglasses on his forehead and - closer to the two cross-eyed muzzle of the sheep - asks timidly, "grass?"
What follows, it happens before I have time to give a look into the terrified Pecorone.
The old convertible whizzes on the strip of asphalt that separates the desert as the march of Moses divided the Red Sea.
The radio gives voice to Bob Marley, by my side the sheep Fred pulls a joint and then rearranges the police officer's hat on his head, too large for its size - "puttanaaa goat!" - Continues to muzzle cadergli .
