Siete minutos, Ismael Camacho Arango [read with me TXT] 📗

Homer got ready to leave the shop, thinking of his speech to convince the people to part with their money for his cause.
“Look for the shadows, Uncle Homer,” Amelia said.
“What shadows?”


The banquet
“We were waiting for you,” a young woman said in the town hall.
As she took him along the aisle, Homer felt the public’s eyes following his journey to the podium. He needed the money even though he wanted to go back to his shop.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the governor said. “This is the apostle of the poor."
“Hurrah to Homer,” people said.
Homer waited for the applause to die down, before looking at an old bible Miguel had given him that morning. God had filled the land and sky with water in just seven days, a miracle he had to replicate once more.
“Our father who art in heaven,” Homer said. “Hollowed be thy name.”
“Thy kingdom will come,” the governor said.
“Give us our daily bread,” people said.
Homer felt lost amidst the public, hungry for his words. Then the sky left him in darkness and lost amidst the jungle.
“Mister Homer,” someone said.
Homer saw the girl, holding a handkerchief full of cologne on his nose.
“You fainted,” she said.
“It must be the excitement,” he said.
Homer remained in his seat with the handkerchief by his nose, while a few señoritas served the food to the crowd. The beauty queen of Colombia, the queen of the potato, the yucca, the corn, the banana, the peas, the pumpkin, the yucca bread, the tamales, the guarapo, and a hundred more beauties left a bowl of boiling water and cold bread for the sum of thousands of pesos in front of each one of the guests. Mingling with the journalists and other celebrities, rich people hoped that God would absolve their past sins and those still to come.
“Are you feeling better?” the governor asked.
“I think so,” Homer said.
“You must eat with us.”
He took him to one of the tables, where the other guests enjoyed the banquet. One of the girls balanced a tray in her hands, before giving him a bowl of hot water with a few things floating in it. Homer hated the food.
“Enjoy your lunch, Mr. Homer,” she said.
“Why don’t you sit with me?” he asked.
“I’m busy.”
Jaramillo- looking smart in his suit - had come to celebrate the widow’s day.
“The food is awful,” he said.
“I know.”
“Why are you eating it?”
“I need the money,” Homer said.
A young woman, dressed in a golden gown stopped by their side. She had nice teats, and her long hair was tied with a ribbon.
“I love you,” she said.
“Thank you,” Homer said.
As she kissed his hands, Homer felt her teats through her blouse and her vagina
through her pants.
“I’m the curuba queen,” she said.
“That is nice,” Homer said.
She left a sweet taste in his lips and by the time the pineapple queen sat in his lap, he had forgotten his mission on earth. She had a mini skirt, making it easy for him to feel around her body.
“I have to attend a beauty pageant tonight,” she said.
“I’ll make you win.”
“Thank you.”
Feeling her cunt through her pants, he wanted to take her to a dark corner of the room.
“I’ll give you money,” Homer said.
“How much?” she asked.
“Lots of it.”
She kept on moving her bottom until the world dissolved in the colours of his pleasure, and the semen wet his trousers in the most important day of his life.
“It’s my turn now,” the coffee queen said, her breasts trembling under her gown.
“Are you a virgin?” Homer asked.
“Of course I am,” the girl said.
“You must prove it tonight.”
“We have collected ten million pesos,” a voice interrupted the conversation.
“Hurrah to Homer,” everyone said.
People in the restaurant sobbed, radio audiences cried as the newspaper readers would cry the next day and the widows wept. Homer had to be a genius.
He had made enough cash to build a city filled with widows but he needed the money for his projects. Five more huts joined the others while some young and pretty widows who liked the bishop, went to live there. Homer had never earned so much and so quickly but he had to think of himself first.


Tragedy
Jealousy reigned in the heavens and as they heard of Homer’s good work, bad angels opened the gates of rain over the city. A few widows and orphans drowned but the newspapers called it a calamity of nature. God takes away innocent lives, the headlines said as the victims’ pictures appeared under the titles, exalting the women’s bravery on confronting the elements in their homes. The wooden coffins would be lowered into the ground later that day without any ceremony.
Homer had been barking the night before and on hearing someone knocking at the door, he thought Miguel had forgotten his keys or the coca delivery had arrived. Jaramillo held the morning paper in his hands.
“It rained last night,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“The river burst its banks.”
Homer sat on his bed, too traumatised to talk, while blaming nature for their misfortune at the hands of the weather. The devil must have done it on purpose.
“They were so full of life,” Homer said.
Jaramillo showed him the papers, talking of the drama during the night.
“They didn’t escape,” Homer said.
Jaramillo shrugged. “It was impossible.”
Homer read of the survivors looking for their children in the mud amidst their screams.
“The place is a mess,” Jaramillo said. “The rest of the families are in the church at the moment.”
“That is a relief.”
Father Ricardo’s picture had been displayed in the papers, as Homer remembered the day when the orchestra had played and the semen wet his pants. He signed a check, on the table.
“You must help me,” he said.
Homer had to help the survivors of the tragedy God had entrusted to his care. He had touched their bodies, wearing cheap bras and pants before they found their death in the mud.
“Can you drive me to the builders?” Homer asked.
He had to build more houses for the families, punished by the weather in a terrible way. Clutching his wallet, he followed Jaramillo to his car as the city awoke to the news and bell of the church tolled forever.
“It must be Armageddon,” Homer said.


Alicia
A woman came to se Homer the next day.
“I’m Alicia,” she said.
Homer shook hands with the stranger.
“You have been nominated for a medal,” she said. “The ceremony will take place in the library.”
“Thank you.”
Homer watched her breasts trembling under her dress.
“The rains killed the widows,” he said.
She must have read the papers blaming the weather for the tragedy that had shaken the nation. Holding her handbag, she stepped around the mess on the floor.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Homer asked.
“Thank you,” she said.
Alicia showed him a bit of her hips, looking like one of those Hollywood stars he had seen in the local cinema.
“This tragedy is killing me,” he said.