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A normal day at San Castellino

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ATTENTION : In "A normal day at San Castellino", I plan to post small stories occasionally, often with very little to do with geopolitics, and usually set in San Castellino (although some posts may take place in New Lyria). So, yes, the concept is totally pumped on Stories from Seylos but I liked the concept so here it is. Thank you to have read this little disclaimer and enjoy !

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(Here some music to put you in the mood : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YnGgGIlnlNI )


Asmavie, the beautiful, the great, the glorious, was magnificently illuminated by its formidable neon lights. The retro-futurism, in the honor since the 90's, composed from now on almost all the city center. Only a small nucleus of old, at the level of the old port and the town hall, had remained thanks to the veto of the party. In the light of neon lights, the moon and the twelve strokes of midnight, the city that foreigners called "Funky Town" was stirring and waking up to make its inhabitants dance and sing. Thousands of nightclubs populated the downtown area, so that there was at least one on every street. Ismael de la Plata got out of his purple Tosca Zelph (see photo below), a car so big (8 meters long and 2 meters wide) that Tosca had to ask the municipalities to enlarge the parking spaces - which was accepted after some bribes. The young man's jacket, pink with a few white stripes and a fluorescent yellow scorpion drawn on the back, and his bright purple sunglasses with branches in the shape of a lightning bolt, would normally have given him a particularly unusual look. But in Asmavia, after the twelve strokes of midnight, this style of dress become the norm. Ismael walked quickly to his favorite nightclub, one of the only ones that closed the eyes of the gendarmerie on acts qualified as homosexual by the "Anti-Luxury" law, the most famous and the most posh of all... the 666LFT (or 666 "Let's F#ck Tonight" of its full name). His friend Theodoros was waiting for him in front of the entrance, looking at the queue with an amused look; it was easily two hundred meters long.

- "Hey, Ismael! What's up, che?"
- "Hey, Theo. Fine, I'm pretty fine. You know what ? I asked my uncle to have some hollydays and I had one week!"
- "Jeez, that's freaking great, che!"
- "Oh man, I wanted so long for that."

Ismael and Theodoros throw themselves into each other's arms and hug. They look into each other's eyes for a few seconds and Theodoros tries to kiss Ismael but Ismael stops him.

- "Not now, Theo: the 666LFT can't corrupt all the avenue."
- "Yeah, yeah, that's true. Sorry, che."
- "No problem, Theo. No problem. This law will never change anything between us."
- "Thanks, che."

Ismael answers him by a tenderized smile and the two lovers present each their card of the party to the security guard, thus allowing them to pass by the VIP entrance, and are happily caught by the Asmavian fever of the electro.


The Tosca Zelph of 1959

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  • 1 month later...

The sun was looking so big that you could have sworn on San Constantino's head that it was going to smash into the desert, or rather smash the desert. Look up - a guarantee of being blinded - was considered a great imprudence by the local population, so no one ever looked up to the sky. The sky - let's talk about it, the sky - the sky, as the Castie chicos says, is bigger there than anywhere else. A beautiful blue sky; purely infinite and infinitely pure. The road, hurt by the rare appearance of cars - arrogant devourers of kilometres despising the region with their chrome rims - was crossing the desert like a desperate old turtle. On both sides of this road, the landscape was decorated with sand as far as the eye could see and only a few giant and vigorous cactuses transcended the monotony of the landscape. It is here in the Mariachi desert, this great country looking like the end of the wurld, hated by its inhabitants, envied by its foreigners, that our story takes place.

With his hair waving in the burning caresses of the wind, Augusto was parading triumphantly in his gleaming red Tosca Midclassio. He was part of the new, prosperous middle class, locking himself up six days a week in cramped offices in exchange for a few too-short holidays a year and the ultimate, sickly goal of succeeding in life. Life is good, he thought as he took a deep breath of fresh air. This air, almost pure, seemed to him diametrically opposed to the filthy and opaque smoke of the big cities of the South, which is only air in name. He did not regret visiting the region. In the distance, Augusto saw a young man of almost fifty hitching a ride. The left sleeve of his shirt was torn and his trousers were dirty from the dust of the road. He seemed to be dying of thirst. Of course, Augusto simply ignored him and wondered why the government still hadn't made a law against these hitchhikers. Indeed, these damned slackers openly take advantage of society and high virtue will triumph over them thanks to men of good sense like Augusto who, far from disgracing the nation, will ensure such a distiguished rank for san castellinos society in the 21st century, not least through various more than honest means. Here, let the parasite die of thirst.


The canis latrans mariacha, or Mariachi coyote, is a species endemic to the Mariachi desert. This animal of the canidae family feeds on small rodents (mainly kangaroo rats and gerbils) and sometimes on cactus fruits when they are close to the ground. Their coat, with its beige and light brown hues perfect for camouflaging in piles of stones and dead bushes, is particularly recognisable. The species has been listed as endangered since 1997 but no specimens have been reported since 2016.

A few kilometres further on (or perhaps a hundred), the elegant Tosca(R) Midclassio stops in front of a petrol station for all too obvious reasons. It's more deserted than the area and two western bushes are duelling. He pushed open the glass door, not without difficulty, swept his eyes over the abandoned shelves covered with a fine dust and slipped into his pocket a packet of long Quembouhi cigarettes tasting of kance-heir (an aromatic herb related to mint). This saved him 650 san castellinos pesetas. Augusto sees through the broken window a dog perched on his car. He gets out quickly and stops, noticing that, contrary to what he thought, it is not a dog but a coyote; a Mariachi coyote. The animal stares at him with dignity and what, strange as it may seem to him, looks very much like a sneer of mockery and cunning. Augusto closes his eyes, shakes his head and rubs his eyelids: after ten seconds of blindness, the beautiful animal has disappeared, and Augusto thinks he has regained his mind. He blames it on the warmth, it suits him and reassures him, and he is probably not wrong. His Tosca Midclassio refuses to start, he grumbles, gets angry, strikes, and doesn't notice the canine smell in his car. Augusto slams the door with sudden violence and sits on the bonnet. Has God punished him? No, of course not," he exclaims. I didn't do anything wrong," he adds, less and less convinced. I must resign myself, he says to himself, staring at the road, and continue on foot. So our virtuous man walks along the snake of tarmac like a lone cowboy without a horse, without a Stetson, without a gun and without charisma.


He has been dragging his feet on the hot asphalt for an hour and the sun has reached its highest point. The horizon, under the effect of the heat, shakes more than the teeth of the political opponent in front of the guillotine of the Plazza de la Libertad. The giant cactuses gesticulating from left to right remind Augusto vaguely of the strippers in the san castellinos telenovelas on the national adult entertainment channel (the most watched channel on the coast). In short, our dear southerner is living his best life.
- Here we go, the mirages are starting... he thinks to himself as he sees a man sweeping the roadside in the distance. Augusto, convinced that he has gone mad and that he will die soon, faints. He is awakened by the sweeper who, being real, gives him a drink of water. The townsman is stunned and examines him from top to bottom. Although the sweeper's sombrero casts its shadow on the face of its owner, there is no doubt about the sweeper's advanced age. His back bent with age and effort, he was more miserable than anything else and, most surprisingly to Augusto, he was holding on to his broom so tightly that he seemed to care more about it than his life.
- Are you all right, señor?" asked the sweeper.
- Um... yes. Thank you, I am fine. But why did you help me?
- Heh, why wouldn't I help you, señor?
His accent, husky and rougher than that of the South, gave him an even more rustic air.
- But at what do you gain?
- Nothing, señor. Except perhaps your friendliness or your respect.
At the sweeper's reply, Augusto suddenly burst out laughing with a mixture of contempt and deep disbelief.
- Don't be ridiculous! Friendship is worthless and respect cannot be sold. So what do you really want? he said, insisting on the word "really". Money? How much? 500 pesetas? 1,000? 10,000 maybe?
- I'll stop you right there, señor.It's exactly to avoid your kind of people that I became a sweeper.It's exactly to avoid your kind of people that I became a sweeper. Nobody goes down this road because people take the train for over twenty years. You can cram more poor people on a train. So it suits them well. Now go away, señor. I have to talk with my broom: he's more evolved than most of the people...
Augusto, shocked by the sweeper's philosophy, regarded him with even more disbelief. How could such a poor, miserable, insignificant man try to lecture him?
- Well, go away, you old mad.
- I'm not crazy, señor, only Manichean.
And the sweeper resumed his work, bravely taking care of the road with his trusty broom. He had to hurry if he wanted to get his 50 pesetas a day: it was already one o'clock and a bit, and he had 113 km left, not counting the other side.


Edited by San Castellino
A detail. (see edit history)
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