And you ask me, Lady, why didn’t you write anything in April? Why?! Why?!
This is the story, stranger than fiction, that the man who wrote Generation Swine, in his own words, had to say about it. It may or may not be true. But it happened.
I was sitting in my office with the window shades drawn, staring at my computer screen like a blank canvas waiting to be splattered with the vivid, colorful, at times incoherent ravings of the literary madman that I am. I was waiting for inspiration to strike me like a bolt of lightning, or a coked up heavyweight champion with a thirst for destruction.
That's when the Argentine personality known as Lady Astor stormed into my office like a hurricane, ranting and raving like a wild animal on the prowl. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair was unkempt, and she looked like she hadn't slept in days.
"I need your help," she growled, her voice dripping with contempt.
I raised my eyebrow in a quizzical manner, wondering what could get the usually unshakable Lady to this point of desperation.
"It's those damn football mafias," she muttered, her voice almost a whisper.
I leaned in closer, intrigued at the prospect of untangling the web of corruption that surrounded the world of South American football.
"What about them?"
"They won't leave me alone," she cried, tears streaming down her face.
I sat back in my chair, rubbing my chin in deep contemplation. This was a sticky situation, one that required my full attention and expertise.
"Tell me more," I said, my voice the calm in the chaotic storm that were the Lady's emotions.
She took a deep breath, recomposing herself before launching into her story.
"I wanted to write on my Substack during April. I had so many ideas for thought-provoking, insightful pieces that would make the readers think and feel. But every time I sat down to write, I was bombarded with messages, calls, and emails from these soccer aficionados. They were demanding my attention, threatening me, offering me bribes. I couldn't focus on anything else."
I listened intently, feeling my blood boil with a righteous anger. These people thought they could bully and intimidate one of the most prominent voices in the literary world? They had another thing coming.
"I'll take care of it," I said, my voice as steady as a rock.
Lady A looked at me with a mixture of relief and gratitude.
"Thank you."
I stood up from my chair, adjusting my sunglasses as I headed towards the door.
"I'll make sure they regret ever crossing you."
And with that, I set out to take on the football mafias.
I dived into the murky underworld of football, unafraid of the bloodthirsty sharks that swam in these waters. I spoke to informants, bribed officials, and hacked into email accounts.
It wasn't easy. They were powerful, with the ability to reach into every corner of the world. They had connections that went deep, and they were willing to do whatever it took to protect their interests.
But I had something they didn't.
I had a fierce determination, a relentless drive to see justice served. I was a man on a mission, and nothing would stand in my way.
I exposed their secrets, outed their shady deals, and left them scrambling for cover. I made sure they knew that the Lady was off-limits, that they could never touch her again.
And as I sat in my office, a glass of whiskey in hand, I felt a sense of satisfaction wash over me. I had helped a friend, fought against the corrupt forces that lurked in the shadows, and made the world just a little bit safer.
Lady Astor and I celebrated, toasting to a job well done. We laughed at the absurdity of it all, at the craziness that had brought us together.
But beneath it all, we both knew that this was just the tip of the iceberg. There were a hundred more lurking in the darkness.
But we also knew that we were lions, fearless and unyielding. That we were warriors, battling against the forces of evil, defending what was right and just.
And we knew that as long as we were around, those shady football mafias would never stand a chance.