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William Kergroach
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A 21st-century Author
A 21st-century Author

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Sortie de "Edouard, de la Blancarde", sur Amazon.

""Édouard regarda les vieux meubles du salon dans lequel il se tenait. Le balcon de l’appartement donnait sur les rails de la gare de la Blancarde. Il y avait une nappe en plastique, hideuse, sur la table, quatre chaises en bois, avec une pièce de tissu pour protéger l’assise en paille. Devant lui, un tableau de style réaliste représentait un script égyptien en train de guérir un malade. Des prêtres rasés semblaient psalmodier des prières. Sous l’illustration, il y avait une légende en anglais et en arabe.
Édouard avait toujours connu ce tableau accroché au mur, il se rappelait toujours l’avoir vu là. Il y avait d’autres tableaux « égyptiens » dans l’appartement, des papyrus avec des hiéroglyphes, des trucs comme ça. La mère d’Édouard avait dû visiter l’Égypte à une époque, mais Édouard n’avait pas fait partie du voyage.
Il y avait tellement de choses que sa mère avait fait sans lui. Elle avait été une aventurière. Elle avait vécu et travaillé dans plusieurs pays, toujours sans lui. Il y avait des lettres, en espagnol et en anglais, dans les tiroirs. Plusieurs amis avaient correspondu avec elle pendant des années. Elle n’avait jamais pris la peine de lui en parler, persuadée qu’il n’y comprendrait rien. Édouard, lui, n’avait rien demandé, il s’en fichait.
Sa mère avait quitté son père quand Édouard était encore jeune. Cela l’avait perturbé à l’époque, il avait commencé à ne pas bien aller. Quelque chose avait cessé de fonctionner dans son cerveau.
Avant ce drame familial, il avait été bon élève, paraissait-il. Tout d’un coup, il avait eu des difficultés d’apprentissage, des blocages, des crises, des troubles du comportement.
A peu près à la même période, il avait eu un accident de voiture, un choc au cerveau, un traumatisme peut-être.
A l’époque, on ne prenait pas les choses avec légèreté. On avait décrété qu’il était handicapé et on l’avait mis sous tutelle juridique. C’était un handicapé mental.
Édouard n’était pas débile, un peu décalé parfois, mais pas totalement perché non plus. Ce qui lui arrivait était peut-être ..."

Merci de votre intérêt, vous pouvez acheter mon livre sur Amazon https://www.amazon.fr/dp/B07FMC5SK3
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Marseille Film Festival 2018 : the Guédiguian curse

Would Marcello Fonte, only a year ago, have received an invitation to the FID, Marseille Film Festival? The question will remain unanswered, but I think so. Fonte would have been invited because the FID since Robert Guédiguian enjoys broken souls, unemployed, marginals. Beyond the Marseille festival and its professionals, it is the entire cinema circles who loves misery. Marcello Fonte, the settler of the Nuovo Cinema Palazzo has even reached Cannes. He is the new monster, the comet of a « dîner de cons » that has been going on for decades. Marcello Fonte, with his soul damaged by a childhood in the waste of Calabria, is one of those dietary supplements that the film world knows how to swallow when the hunger for dramas is too strong.
What? Did you think that the cinema only fed on lovely young people, perfect silhouettes, and limousines? No, it's just confectionery. Confectionery does not feed, it makes you forget hunger, they make your dream, sir.
The cinematographic creation, repeat professionals, feeds only on neuroses, addictions, dramas and child frustrations. The cinema, the real one, has Marcello’s face. And the Marcello-types, we find them in festivals like the one in Marseille.

At the time when desperados like me could obtain accreditation to MIPTV, the international market of television programs, where cinema funds are, and where Cannes festival is discreetly made, I had, young Monegasque digital journalist received permission to walk there for only a few hours. I had spied the discreet ballet of the influential buyers of television programs from all over the world who watched, in private, behind private cabins curtains, the films that would win the audience of their countries.
I had been able to spy on a world that was not mine, the world of movie bankers.
I had, of course, interviewed some obscure and passionate directors, funded by European funds to make figuration. These outcasts of the 7th art had explained to me their poor trade, their tears to beg grants. What have they become? Nothing, of course, but what mattered is that they had legitimized the Hollywood bankers blockbusters.


What an abundant magical comedy was the MIPTV, with its hostesses ready to marry distributing to jaded professionals hundreds of brochures, advertisements, and useless gadgets! I was not fatigued, I took everything with gratitude.
I returned from MIPTV with star-studded eyes, weighted with several bags filled with paper treasures and promotional plastic boasting synopses that had fed my dreamy soul for several months.
It had been only a dream, the promise of a magical world that had gently ignored me for a few hours on the edge of its thick carpets. I could not hope to enter any evening, I had not bothered anyone important. I was delighted, cuckold and happy.


It was with the hope of the Piazza dei Sanniti settler that I contacted the FID press service to interview filmmakers from around the world and to discover the diamonds and gems of their art. Alas, from the accreditation form, the direction of the film required a press card or articles to justify the title of "journalist." I never had a press card. I have done a thousand jobs to live since I left my school of journalism. As I have the annoying habit of crushing my text files and not keeping the written press articles in books, this prerequisite condemns me to stay at the door of the festival, among the unworthy and the downgraded.
As I write these lines, I no longer expect FID management approval to be tolerated on the edges of their carpets, I understood. Oh, I do not blame them, they have their share of parasites, mythomaniacs begging to enjoy a free-meal or caress gratis the shadow of a second-hand movie star. I am a thousand light-years away from that, I am only interested in the fecund souls, famous or not, who murmur.

And then, what an idea not to have become the journalist that I should have been, what an idea to have wanted to travel the world like a dead leaf, to have failed so many times in interim occupations! On the other hand, by observing the gummy, elegant and self-assured pretenders who claim to find in the linear experience of their inherited professional life the ferment of genius, I say to myself that I still have a chance. I say to myself that the springs of a creative life are made in pain and difficulties. By the yard of my only misery, I should probably become an author, even a filmmaker, finding in my story, jostled and improbable, the inspiration and determination that do the works. You can smile, I understand. Please, give me the service to smile.

Not being admitted to the FID, I can only inspire me with some elements of the full press kit available online to try to imagine the event.
Let's start with Isabelle Huppert's master class. This great lady is the daughter of a safe manufacturer and the wife of a producer, it is not anecdotal. But at the same time, Isabelle Huppert bears the elegance of her upper-class circles in Île-de-France, nurtured by her mother's piano lessons and British literature. Isabelle is an artwork signed by Beau, her mother name, designed in the elegant villas of Ville-d'Avray.
This great lady is born easy and distinguished. The money has also been used to make films without a budget, offering art for art with the simplicity of a bourgeois who does her charity work. Isabelle will, therefore, express herself with the same relaxed look she has always had. We will not learn anything. Isabelle Huppert will answer, I know, questions with that air of Ville-d'Avray that made her career.
Behind the great actress, there is a crowd of anonymous people. For the general public, who will not rush to the doors of this FID that television has not yet taught them to worship, the names of most of the 150 artists, filmmakers, and writers who came to the festival don’t ring a bell. Because the magic of the cinema remains in the projectors. I even dare say that without the spotlights of Cannes, Venice or Los Angeles, Isabelle Huppert, the great Isabelle Huppert, would be nobody, except in Ville-d'Avray.

Marseille, a major city of second-rate cinema, has a huge cinematographic and literary deposit, well beyond its "sensitive" neighborhoods. Dogman's characters exist, of course, in Marseille. But it still remains to tell the stories of people the Corniche, of the Prado, of historic districts, universities and elsewhere. Marseille could have become the French capital of cinema, at the time of Pagnol which evoked a world much wider than that of today's bad neighborhoods. Pagnol's cinema raked much wider and found the general public.
Marseille is a big city. Yet its cinema still shows only its sensitive neighborhoods and its Marcellos. At this rate, Marseille will never have a major festival, there will always be Robert Guédiguian choices, Besson will only make Taxi-style films, choosing actors without gratitude, ephemeral and scandalous fireflies.

The jury of the 29th edition of this international film festival in Marseille, composed of professionals unknown to the general public, will again this year give intrinsic rewards to filmmakers ignored by the spotlight. They will recognize the work, the originality, the sensitivity of these real proletarians of the 7th art.
Among the crowd of competitors, there are many talents to reward. The misery, the frustration and the violence of all the continents will inspire beautiful and poor souls who will have done a patient and meticulous work of therapy to move this jury of professionals comforted by their beautiful feelings.
This is how the "cinéma d’auteur" this small public cinema, is financially supported by sterilizing state subsidies. Let's face it, this poor quality cinema bores prodigiously crowds, French like others, formatted to Hollywood standards.
There is "the profession" and the public, the two have not met for a long time.


To reboot the great adventure of cinema, and recover public audience, it would be necessary to realize in Marseille comedy films, adventure, works of anticipation. It should be made of mainstream cinema that uses a different register than the characters of Jean-Claude Izzo.
That would bring to Marseille the bankers, the powerful, the Harvey Weinstein dare I say, to commercialize (sorry) the flame of a creation well positioned in the spotlight.
I doubt that city officials are aware of, or sensitive, to this sociological problem. They rely on a caste of professionals, people of the seraglio, who do what they want. They select boring people like them, put together their grant files, host them in artist residencies, and so on. The system is in place.
We, therefore, continue to see Marseille (and France) as a second-rate town for the movie industry, a sulky cinema genre for main public but a delight for the self-supported professionals.

How will the profession accept this marginal opinion? A hostile silence will follow this article. There will be resentment, smiles heard before silence, the abyssal silence of oblivion.






FID Marseille 2018 : la malédiction des Guédiguian


Le Marcello Fonte d’il y a seulement un an aurait-il reçu une invitation au FID ? La question restera sans réponse formelle, mais je pense que oui. Fonte se serait frayé un chemin, car le FID Marseille, depuis Robert Guédiguian aime les gueules cassées, les chômeurs, les marginaux. Au-delà du festival marseillais et de ses jurys de professionnels, c’est toute la profession du cinéma qui raffole de la misère. Marcello Fonte, le squatter du Nuovo Cinema Palazzo n’est-il pas même parvenu jusqu’aux marches de Cannes ? Il en est le nouveau monstre, la nouvelle vedette passagère d’un dîner de cons qui perdure depuis des décennies. Marcello Fonte, avec son âme abîmée par une enfance dans les déchetteries de Calabre, est un de ces compléments alimentaires dont le monde du cinéma sait se nourrir quand il a trop faim de drames.
Quoi ? Vous pensiez que le cinéma se nourrissait seulement de jeunes gens très beaux, de silhouettes impeccables et de limousines ? Non, ce sont seulement des confiseries. Les confiseries ne nourrissent pas, elles font oublier la faim, elles font rêver, monsieur. La création cinématographique, nous répètent les professionnels, se nourrit uniquement de névroses, d’addictions, de drames et de frustrations d’enfant. Le cinéma, le vrai, a la gueule de Marcello. Et les Marcello, on les trouve dans des festivals comme celui de Marseille.

A l’époque où les desperados pouvaient obtenir une accréditation au MIPTV, le marché international des programmes de télévision, là où se trouve l’argent du cinéma, là où se fait discrètement le festival de Cannes, j’avais, jeune journaliste digital monégasque, reçu l’autorisation de m’y balader quelques heures seulement. J’avais épié le ballet discret des puissants acheteurs de programmes de télévision venus du monde entier pour visionner en exclusivité, bien à l’abri dans des cabines privées, les films qui gagneraient l’audience de leurs pays. J’avais pu espionner un monde qui n’était pas le mien, le monde des banquiers du cinéma.
J’avais, bien sûr, interviewé quelques réalisateurs obscurs et passionnés, financés par les fonds européens pour faire figuration. Ces zonards du 7e art m’avaient expliqué leur métier, leurs additions de bout de ficelle et leurs larmes pour quémander des subventions. Que sont-ils devenus ? Rien, bien sûr, mais qu’importe ils avaient légitimé les blockbusters des banquiers d’Hollywood.

Quel univers foisonnant, magique, comique, que le MIPTV, avec ses hôtesses prêtes à marier distribuant à des professionnels blasés des centaines de brochures, de publicités et de gadgets inutiles ! Moi, je n’étais pas blasé, je prenais tout avec gratitude !
J’étais revenu du MIPTV, les yeux pleins d’étoiles, lesté de plusieurs sacs remplis de trésors de papier et de plastique promotionnel qui vantaient des synopsis qui avaient nourri mon âme de rêveur pendant plusieurs mois.
Car cela n’avait été qu’un rêve, la promesse d’un monde magique qui m’avait gentiment ignoré quelques heures sur le bord de ses moquettes épaisses. Je n’avais pas pu espérer entrer dans aucune soirée, je n’avais dérangé personne d’important. Moi, j’étais ravi, cocu et content.

C’est donc avec l’espoir d’un squatteur de la Piazza dei Sanniti que j’ai contacté le service presse du FID pour pouvoir interviewer les cinéastes venus du monde entier et faire découvrir les diamants et les gemmes de leur art. Hélas, dès le formulaire d’accréditation, la direction du film exigeait une carte de presse ou des articles pour justifier le titre de « journaliste ». Je n’ai jamais eu de carte de presse. J’ai fait mille métiers pour vivre depuis que je suis sorti de mon école de journalisme. Comme j’ai la fâcheuse manie d’écraser mes fichiers textes et de ne pas conserver les articles de presse écrits, cette condition préalable me condamne à rester à la porte du festival, parmi les indignes et les déclassés.
Au moment où j’écris ces lignes, je n’attends plus l’approbation de la direction du FID pour obtenir d’être toléré sur les bords de leurs moquettes, j’ai compris. Oh, je ne leur en veut pas, ils ont leur lot de parasites, de mythomanes et de pique-assiettes venus profiter d’un gueuleton ou caresser gratis l’ombre d’une vedette cinématographique. Je suis à mille années-lumière de cela, je ne m’intéresse qu’aux âmes fécondes, célèbres ou non, qui murmurent.
Et puis, quelle idée de ne pas être devenu le journaliste que j’aurais dû être, quelle idée d’avoir voulu parcourir le monde tel une feuille morte, de m’être échoué tant de fois en intérim ! D’un autre côté, en observant les gommeux, les vains élégants et assurés qui prétendent trouver dans l’expérience linéaire de leur vie professionnelle héritée le ferment du génie, je me dis que j’ai une chance, que les ressorts d’une vie créative se fabriquent dans la peine et les difficultés. A l’aune de ma seule misère, je devrais sans doute devenir un auteur, un cinéaste même, trouvant dans mon histoire bousculée et improbable l’inspiration et la détermination qui font les œuvres. On peut en sourire, je comprends. S’il vous plaît, rendez-moi le service d’en sourire.

N’étant pas sur les allées du FID, je ne peux donc que m’inspirer de quelques éléments du volumineux dossier de presse pour tenter d’imaginer l’événement. Commençons par la master class d’Isabelle Huppert. Cette grande dame du cinéma est la fille d’un industriel du coffre-fort, l’épouse d’un producteur, ce n’est pas anecdotique. Mais Isabelle Huppert porte en même temps l’élégance de son milieu bourgeois d’Île-de-France, des cours de piano et de littérature d’outre-manche de sa mère. Isabelle est une œuvre signée Beau, du nom de sa mère, conçue dans les villas élégantes de Ville-d’Avray.
Cette grande dame est née aisée et distinguée. L’argent lui a servi à faire également des films sans budget, s’offrant l’art pour l’art avec la simplicité d’une bourgeoise qui fait ses œuvres. Isabelle s’exprimera donc avec le même regard lavé qu’elle a toujours eu. On n’y apprendra rien. Isabelle Huppert répondra, je le sais, aux questions avec cet air de Ville-d’Avray qui a fait sa carrière.
Derrière la grande actrice, il y a une foule d’anonymes. Pour le grand public, celui qui ne se pressera pas aux portes du FID que la télévision ne lui a pas encore appris à adorer, les noms de la plupart des 150 artistes, cinéastes et écrivains qui sont venus au FID ne veulent pas dire grand chose. Car, la magie du cinéma reste le projecteur. J’ose même dire que sans les projecteurs de Cannes, de Venise ou de Los Angeles, Isabelle Huppert, la grande isabelle Huppert, ne serait personne, sauf à Ville-d’Avray.
Marseille, grande ville du cinéma de second plan possède un immense gisement cinématographique et littéraire, bien au-delà de ses quartiers « sensibles ». Les personnages de Dogman existent, bien sûr, à Marseille. Mais il reste encore à évoquer ceux de la Corniche, du Prado, des quartiers historiques, des universités et d’ailleurs. Marseille a failli être la capitale française du cinéma, du temps de Pagnol qui évoquait un monde bien plus large que celui des cités d’aujourd’hui. Le cinéma de Pagnol a ratissé bien plus large et a trouvé le grand public.
Marseille est une grande ville. Pourtant, son cinéma ne montre encore que ses quartiers sensibles, ses cités, ses Marcello. A ce rythme-là, Marseille n’aura jamais de festival de premier plan, il y aura encore et toujours du Robert Guédiguian, du Besson faisant du Taxi, des acteurs sans gratitude, des lucioles éphémères et scandaleuses, des zonards de la toile.

Le jury de la 29e édition de ce festival international du cinéma de Marseille, composé de professionnels inconnus du grand public, donnera encore cette année des récompenses honnêtes à des cinéastes ignorés des projecteurs. On reconnaîtra le travail, l’originalité, la sensibilité de ces vrais prolétaires du 7e art. Parmi la foule de compétiteurs, il y aura bien des talents à récompenser. La misère, la frustration et la violence de tous les continents auront, soyez-en sûrs, inspiré de belles et pauvres âmes qui auront fait un travail de thérapie patient et méticuleux pour émouvoir ce jury de professionnels confortés par leurs beaux sentiments. C’est ainsi que marche le « cinéma d’auteurs », ce cinéma petit public dont on se targue à coups de subventions stérilisantes.
Disons-le, ce cinéma ennuie prodigieusement les foules formatée aux standards d’Hollywood. Il y a « la profession » et le public, les deux ne se rencontrent plus depuis longtemps.

Pour faire venir le cinéma des palmes, et le public, il faudrait réaliser à Marseille des films de comédie, d’aventure, des œuvres d’anticipation. Il faudrait y faire du cinéma grand public qui utilise un autre registre que celui des personnages de Jean-Claude Izzo. Cela ferait venir à Marseille les banquiers, les puissants, les Harvey Weinstein oserais-je dire, pour mettre en valeur commerciale (pardon) la flamme d’une création universellement bien positionnée sous les projecteurs.

Je doute que les édiles de la ville soient conscients, ni sensibles, à ce problème sociologique. Ils se reposent sur une caste de professionnels, de gens du sérail, qui fait ce qu’elle veut. Ces derniers sélectionnent donc les dossiers de gens qui leur ressemblent, montent leurs dossiers de subventions, les accueillent en résidences d’artistes, etc.
Le système est en place. Nous continuons donc de faire à Marseille un cinéma de second plan, un cinéma de genre que le grand public boude mais qui ravit la profession.

Comment la profession accueillera-t-elle cette opinion qui lui est marginale ? Nous le saurons au silence hostile qui suivra la réception de cet article. Il y aura de l’indignation, des sourires entendus avant le silence, abyssal, de l’oubli.




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An international bastard, released on Amazon


It’s difficult to explain my job. I am specialized in money laundering. My clients are criminals, people from cartels, killers, pimps; scums but rich.
What is even more challenging to explain is that I love my job and my clients have often become my only friends.

My office is officially located in London, but I never go there. I travel, most of the time, in clientele, on all the continents, everywhere where billions are gained illegally.
My office colleagues hardly know me but are jealous. I am the only employee in the company who does not report on his schedule and does not even appear on the employee register. My bosses always receive me in secret committees and speak to me with infinite precautions. The others suspect that I earn a lot of money. It's true, my salary is astronomical, I own several companies, luxurious villas where I do not live and rare cars that stay in the garage. I do not have children, no wife, I spend my time with bad boys.

My colleagues are jealous of me, but none of these thick carpet branch wimps could take my place. Because I work with people for whom the life of a man is not worth much. My clients entrust me with their money, for which they risk death or life imprisonment. I often had a gun on my head. This job, where professional mistakes are punished severely, requires a lot of composure.

Cold blood, I have some. Since my childhood, I have always been a loner, a little scary I guess. In the playground, even the bullies were looking at me with caution. I was not aggressive, not physically impressive, but there was something in my eyes that worried them. Once, a big fool thought he could racket me. I took out a knife and planted in his belly. He was lucky to get by, I was aiming for the heart.
Fortunately, my parents belonged to the dominant social classes of the country. Thanks to their connections, they were able to avoid me juvenile detention centers by having me undergo therapy with a reputable analyst.
This has not changed anything. I started again, four years and twelve days ago. This time, I killed the guys. There were no witnesses, no evidence against me. The perfect crime ultimately requires a little luck, a lot of coolness and a good knowledge of police mentalities.



I was able to follow good studies in international finance, while always gathering with thugs of my hometown. I have always enjoyed criminal circles. As I do not judge them, I'm not afraid, and I’m not competing with their activities, it's going pretty well. Some have become real friends, my only friends.


I have been practicing martial arts since I was a teenager. My parents let me do it in the hope that it would channel "the violence that was in me," according to my analyst. I quickly turned to the most extreme disciplines, those where you learn to kill. I keep training regularly with the most skilled trainers, in case …
You guessed it, I am a psychopath, but a psychopath without a criminal record, rich and very popular in my field.


After my studies in finance, I committed for a few years in the army commandos of my country. It was not bad, but it paid nothing, and then we had too many rules. It was by participating in a humanitarian mission that I realized that I preferred the opposite camp, the "rebels" who raped, looted and did not respect any article of international law.
At the end of my contract in the army, I targeted the bank where I wanted to work. I already knew that I wanted to advise Mafiosi, warlords, outlaws, terrorists. I introduced myself to one of the directors of the bank and asked for a meeting. He received me, I explained my motivations. He listened to me for a long time without saying anything. Then he asked me to excuse him for a moment. He phoned someone in another room. Two days later, I was again invited to submit my candidacy to the bosses of the bank, in secret committee. I was searched to make sure I did not have a microphone hidden on me. They made me talk, I had to demonstrate my knowledge of the mechanisms of money laundering and explained my career, my time in the army, my missions, my training, my motivations. They quickly realized that I was the ideal candidate.


To test me, they sent me to meet an old godfather of Saigon. The man was devious. The interview was inconclusive.
I guessed the old man was no longer so influential. I discovered the name of the guy who had ousted him, Nam Cam. I went directly to his home to meet him. Before I could see him, I was beaten by his henchmen. He had feared I could be a nosy journalist.
Two days later, quite early in the morning, I was quietly sitting at the foot of his bed, in his room. I had neutralized his bodyguard and the girl who was in his bed. I let Nam Cam wake up. When he saw me, he turned pale. The gangster thought I was coming to eliminate him. He looked for his Tokarev TT33 under his pillow, but the weapon was already in my hand...
I exposed him, smiling, in Vietnamese, the object of my visit. It should be noted that I speak twelve languages ​​fluently and master fairly a good thirty more. We did business. My career at the bank was launched.



I have, of course, worked a lot in Southern Italy, with all the families. The Sicilian Cosa Nostra has more than 5000 members, divided into some 190 families, the Coscas, each headed by a "Capo di Famiglia" or "Rappresentante." Around these "men of honor" gravitate more than 150,000 people (families, accomplices, protected). The "coscas" usually have about twenty members who control territory, a "Borgata" in the rural areas or a district in the cities. I personally know only ten people, the most important ones.
There were some delicate moments, as the Sicilian Mafia became increasingly subject of police investigations in the late 1970s, after the scandals and assassinations that attracted journalists attention and scandalized public opinion. My activities in Italy were, then, more and more watched. I was summoned several times by the police, who were astonished to see a well-dressed stranger wander with impunity in the most wicked quarters of Palermo, and received as a friend by godfathers.
They never got anything from me. On the other hand, I collaborated fully with the Sicilian families, whom I taught as best I could in the fight against judicial investigations. I was very cautious, and I tried to meet prospects among the new generation of capos that succeeded the older generation. I had attractive investments to offer them, new financial products adapted to the time. The old godfathers had no interest for me, with their outdated old rules and their smell of dung. These old men did not understand anything about international finance and imagined that they could continue to hide their fortunes under their mattresses and escape the police by hiding in their pigsty when the weather was stormy. At the time, members of the Cosa Nostra were still, in principle, Catholic, Sicilian and from "honorably known" families. Coscas excluded not only alcoholics, drug addicts, children of magistrates and police, which could be understood, but also children of divorced parents, women of "bad reputation," pimps. It was tartuffery, these dinosaurs thought they belonged to the salt of the earth. They hated atheistic Communists and were attending church every Sunday. It was hard for me to imagine Jesus welcoming them with open arms, whether they had been shot to death or ended their lives on their deathbed, surrounded by the village elders. I never really liked those hypocrites who killed their victims, signing themselves and burning a candle afterward.

I helped my Sicilian friends find the traitors who swayed them to the police. I was responsible for the liquidation of a family in Palermo in 1980. This cosca was infiltrated by dubious elements, guys who had been returned by the judges and asked me odd questions. I alerted my contacts. The "Cupola," the sort of council of elders of the time, finally decided to clean the group. I know that a good part of them ended up in the cement of Sicilian roads. They had not had much choice, but, well, it was the rules of the game.

The individuals who joined the Sicilian mafia before were forced to do a whole show to try to justify their life as bad boys. They pricked their finger, poured a few drops on a divine image by pronouncing an oath in a chapel or a place of worship of a saint. But they were crammed with rules that had soon become...


Thank you for your interest in my book, please purchase my book on Amazon. Kind regardsrd
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360°


James Comey, the former FBI director, fired by current president Donald Trump, is releasing a book in which he accuses the current White House host of being, in the main, a schemer. Of course, Trump, like Hillary Clinton and all their predecessors, is a schemer, a cheater, a liar, no one doubts it. That's exactly how you become president in the United States. The president of the United States writes in return a Twitter in which he accuses the former director of the FBI to have been one of the worst directors in the history of the FBI. All that could have made you laugh. We live in a sick, muddy world, in which everyone allows himself to vomit on the other. Often the planet is splashed, and no one believes in anything anymore. I am not sure that even the supporters of a candidate still believe in what is promised. There is more of a desire to get involved, to bond with a group, to be important, to find compensation than a deep conviction.
Admittedly, the president with the crazy wick is importunate to this level of political corruption that is the club of Washington. He played and abused it with Machiavellianism, he succeeded. He is, however, utterly representative of these champions of the ego, these profiles out of limits that America produces galore. The man is rich, not only millions inherited from his father, but his adventures as a megalomaniac entrepreneur, his constant onslaught against the limits to his power and the fortress of notoriety. With a remarkable ambition and a cheek, man possesses things, people, women, even prostitutes. It is, in fact, a dirty kid devoid of principle. The White House is his last toy.
James Comey, smooth, impeccable, was named by Barack Obama, the previous liar at the White House. The FBI is a tool at the service of the deep state, the American military-industrial complex that controls America; the same who put Barack Obama in place. James Comey is the last servant mandated for the New York adventurer who managed to break into the White House for the last time.
This shabby business is dangerous for America as well as for the world. The current tenant of Washington is going to seek the military adventure and the international war to keep the hand. Men, women, and children will die in this fight between the American president and his enemies.

NBC News investigated the city of Elgin, Illinois, the town that inspired the environment of the television series Roseanne, a favorite show that takes place in a family of the American middle class. This show describes average Americans: fat eternally slumped on their couch in front of the television. The assumed vulgarity of the series and its characters is fascinating. This family of nice big badly frumped is so different from the tanned creatures and peroxidized, which constitute the habitual flock of all the American series exported in the world. So that's America. Behind the ruthless financial power, behind the policeman of the world, behind the academic elites and scientific discoveries lies an ocean of pachyderms lovers of beers and silly jokes. This America, warm and imperfect, still hopes in America. The American people thought of voting for someone flawed, warm and idiot like them; she was deceived as usual. Elgin has become Latin, whatever, nothing has changed. Whites or browns, the Americans who inspire the television series are always vulgar, obese, ignorant even if endowed with a robust common sense. They will remain, like their country cousins, the eternal cuckolds of America.


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Make Hazzard great again!

Daisy Duke was more than fed up with the chaotic, boring chases in General Lee's backseat. She was tired of smiling at the stupid jokes of her two crazy idiots cousins. Bo and Luke were cute, but their only ambition in life was to shout "Yeeeee-Haaa," take off their car in the air and then putting all their money to repair car accidents. Their only business plan was moonshine smuggling.
When she talked to them about the future, they laughed. They were laughing all the time, anyway. They weren’t brilliant. Of course, they thought they were going to take over the Dukes' farm, leave it as it was until it crumbled. They did not even realize that without money, they would have to sell it one day. What had they accomplished? They already had a criminal record, already spotted as the usual suspects by all the cops in the area. It was not that they were terrible, oh that, no, they were harmless, indeed, but they were brainless.
Luke, at the limit, could make the illusion. He had served in the Marines, but he had not come back a general either. The little savvy Her cousin had withdrawn from his military service was vanishing in the damp heat of Hazzard. He had a dark side, too. She did not know how he would evolve. She did not want to know.
As for Bo, the blonde twink, with his cajoling smiles and a leek IQ, it was not hard to guess he would not go far.

Daisy had other ambitions. At « Boar's Nest,» the saloon where she worked as a waitress, she met from time to time travelers, strangers who stopped there by chance to quench their thirst. They were less limited than the guys from Hazzard County.
The Hazzard guys let's talk about it! Most of them were hicks, boys who had no diplomas, or shy nerds, misfits like Enos Strate. In this basket of morons and bugs, Uncle Jesse and Boss Hogg necessarily passed for skyrockets.
Boss Hogg, what a caricature of a pervert. He had the twisted idea of accoutring Daisy with these ridiculous denim shorts and tight-fitting t-shirts. She was young, and she saw men's eyes on her, it amused her. But then she understood that she was not going to spend her life posing like a bimbo. It was not going anywhere.
She had thought for a while, about writing songs or becoming a press reporter, but it did pay much. In this world of machos, she would gain power and respect only by being rich and powerful.

She told Uncle Jesse about it. His eyes had lit up. He had been caring for his nephews for years, and he had devoted his life to these kids. He was desperate to get something out of it. He told her : "You may be the only one who has a brain in the band. Listen to me, the campaigns here will change. Family farming is a thing of the past, DIY, contraband; it was true in my day. For you, your cousins and you, you need diplomas, you have to know the laws. I encourage you to go elsewhere, not just in Atlanta, but elsewhere in the country: New York, Washington, Los Angeles, Seattle. In these places, they are modeling the America of tomorrow. It does not help, at your age, to cultivate nostalgia for the country you did not know. It's barely good for old people like me. But if you move away from here, you will remain an uprooted peasant woman from Georgia. It's better for you to go to universities, understand, learn, and come back here to win. I noticed that you put money aside, that's the secret. Keep making smiles for everyone and gradually drop your shorts and t-shirts to get dressed properly, get elected, start businesses, make money. It is also necessary that, gradually, you acquire a respected status; if only to find you a more interesting husband, a man who will not have known you like Daisy, the Boar's Nest waitress, but as a serious professional. » Daisy had listened and kept the advice of wise Uncle Jesse.

She had studied in depth the business of Boss Jefferson Davis "J.D." Hogg, the current mighty man of Hazzard. She had taken advantage of the Sadie Hogg Day in Hazzard County, to read the files, consult the accounts, with the cooperation of Emery Potter, the bank teller, and Boss employee. Emery was a good man, and he hated Hogg dirty business. He had given the files to Daisy to take revenge on Boss Hogg who humiliated him. 
Lulu Hogg, Boss's wife, and Sheriff Rosco's sister were also friends with Daisy. Lulu was delighted to talk to Daisy, and she revealed to Daisy all her little husband tricks, the dirty little secrets of Boss Hogg. Lulu was burning to see the women of Hazzard take their place in the county. Maybe she also thought that her husband's schemes would end badly and that it would always be good to get closer to the young people who, like Daisy, were going to be in charge one day. She truly loved Daisy as her daughter and supported her ambitions the best she could. 
Daisy was also close to Cooter Davenport, the Hazzard mechanic. Behind his slightly rough side, Daisy knew the man had ambitions and was not stupid. "I might be crazy, but I'm not dumb," he always said. The man was much more than that. Cooter had the sense of business and politics. He introduced him to public life and business circles. He also encouraged her to go to college. 

So, methodically, she had collected everything that could be useful. She was suspicious of Myrtle-Mabel Tillingham, Lulu had warned her about Boss Hogg's cousin. Myrtle was still poking her nose everywhere. This one also had ambitions. She was jealous of Daisy. Had not she competed in Miss competitions as well? Daisy was still suspicious of her like a plague. 
Another one Daisy was suspicious of was Hughie Hogg, the Boss nephew. This one was a potential heir and a real danger. Even though he was stupid like the moon, he was mean, and one day he might inherit his uncle's fortune. 
Dr. Henry "Doc" Petticord and the Postmistress of the Hazzard Post Office, Miz Tisdale, also a reporter for the Hazzard Gazette, were too valuable allies. Both knew all the stories, all secret agreements, and confidences. They finished introducing Daisy to everything she needed to know about Hazzard. 
Daisy wanted to earn diplomas, but she knew that money remained the sinews of the war. Hazzard had capital circulating. Daisy endeavored to collect, whenever possible, some of what would enable her to build her immense fortune. She started to gather illegal slot machines she quietly sold back to Chicago, during the "One Armed Bandits" episode, when Cooter discovered that Sheriff Rosco Coltrane's patrol car was full of illegal slot machines. Then Daisy arranged to get and resell the material from Lester Starr's recording studio, in compensation for the piece of music she had written for him and sold to a star of the song without compensation. Daisy had also seized some of the money from Atlanta gangster named Quint McQuade, had grabbed part of Molly's smuggled weapons to resell them for her profit, recovered a big chunk of the $ 1,000,000 in old bills meant for destruction that Boss wanted to keep for himself. 
Daisy had also been able to recover a significant amount of the eighteen-wheeler profits. The eighteen wheeler was an illegal casino on wheels. She managed to get her part. 
Who also recovered the treasure of Hazzard, Civil War payroll that buried before the Battle of Hazzard? Daisy, of course! 
Daisy sold the precious vase of Emma Partridge, retrieved part of the sum stolen by Boss Hogg. She also kept some diamonds hidden in the soft toys of Bugs Bunny and the paintings from the famous artist Artie Bender, the friend of the Duke family. The young woman gradually gathered a nice sum. 
Since Daisy knew Boss's accounts and questionable business, she invested a portion of her fortune to buy back debts that many had made to Boss Hogg. She quietly spent by buying or becoming a major shareholder in several companies in the region and used the rest to study at the University of Georgia School of Law in Athens and then at the Department of Economics.
 She graduated with higher degrees in law and management, worked for a while at The Olson Law Office and the Trinity Accounting Group in the city to gain hands-on experience, and then returned to Hazzard to achieve her ambitions. 

She made a quiet political campaign, using the sympathy of the county's population for the Duke family, developing new alliances. People realized that the young Daisy had acquired stature and owned much of the country's economy. With her sharp knowledge, she improved the competitiveness of the companies she held. She gradually gained others. 
When she was ready, with the help of Cooter Davenport, who had since become a prominent member of the United States House of Representatives, she went on several administrative warrants and set up a chain of stores that covered the entire continent. When Uncle Jesse died, Bo and Luke discovered that the Dukes' farm belonged to Daisy, that their uncle had left a tractor for Luke and the farm animals for Bo. The latter loved animals very much. He became a decent man, militant of the animal cause. Daisy has completely restored the Dukes' farm, equipped it with a state-of-the-art above-ground facility, one of the most modern in the country.

The times have changed, Hazzard, under Daisy’s supervision, has become a very prosperous county, with the nations lowest unemployment rate. Daisy made Hazzard greater it had never been. Finally, Daisy is the most significant owner of Moonshine Breweries in the country, in the memory of Uncle Jesse. Moonshine has had, since 2010, become a right spirit in the country.


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Zuckerberg est un génie, ça nous ennuie, mais c'est comme ça. Merci Facebook.
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13001, roman marseillais ( travail en cours)

Les vieux chibanis s’appuient sur les gardes-corps du cours Belsunce pour discuter. Les rambardes en métal sont destinées à empêcher les distraits de finir écrasés sous le tramway, elles "modernisent" le quartier. On s’est voulu européen, berlinois, bostonien peut-être. Or, on est à Marseille, ville de la Mare Nostrum latine. Comme on a « oublié » de mettre des bancs, à l’Américaine, les bavards du quartier s’appuient sur les meubles qu’on leur donne. Malgré la façade ennuyeuse du bâtiment de la Société Marseillaise de Crédit et la verrue architecturale du centre commercial « Centre Bourse », le quartier conserve son caractère méridional grâce aux piétons qui s’obstinent à marcher sur les dalles rectangulaires posées il y a quelques années pour tenter d’effacer le caractère misérable du quartier. Certains font même le louable effort de s’asseoir par terre, à l’Africaine, quand il fait chaud. Malgré les tours et les HLM hideux, malgré le « mobilier urbain », froidement fonctionnel, que le siècle impose, le quartier continue de survivre magnifiquement dans la déglingue. 

Bien sûr, le cours Belsunce doit encore son nom à Monseigneur Henri François-Xavier de Belsunce-Castelmoron, l’évêque de Marseille au 18e siècle. Mais, si son siècle lui fit des funérailles grandioses, en souvenir de son dévouement lors de la Peste de 1720, si Victor Hugo convenait qu’il fallait se prosterner devant cet évêque parmi les pestiférés, le 20e siècle lut Albert Camus qui rapportait que Belsunce s’enferma finalement dans sa maison, attirant la colère de ses ouailles, qui jetèrent des cadavres dans son jardin pour s’assurer qu’il serait également infecté. 
Pour notre époque, Belsunce est le sujet du Belsunce Breakdown du rappeur Frédéric Guerlain, opportunément rebaptisé Bouga, et de son collègue Malek Brahimi, surnommé Freeman, pour le refrain. Un extrait de la chanson illustre au mieux l’ambiance du quartier : « Coincés entre la gare et le vieux port, on n´est pas les plus à plaindre. À domicile comme à l´extérieur, on sévit sur les cafards comme le Baygon. » Ce n'est pas du génie, ça ! 
Malgré ses immeubles remplis de vermines, ses ruelles puantes, le quartier conserve une vitalité humaine qu’il faudrait enfin songer à exploiter un jour. Il me paraît dommage que l’énergie que la jeunesse marseillaise a mise dans des initiatives culturelles comme CoscaTV et autres « collectifs » n’ait pas été exploitée pour monter des entreprises et se lancer à l’assaut du monde. Marseille, avec l’énergie et l’astuce qu’elle met à ses trafics devrait être la ville la plus riche du monde. Celui, celle, qui apprend le business à la Marseillaise est un dieu des affaires sur toute la planète. On nous répète à l’envie qu’il faut exploiter l’énergie renouvelable. Il n’y a pas de pétrole ni de gaz à Marseille, mais il y a une sacrée aptitude à la débrouille. Il y a autre chose, également : l’Algérie, la Tunisie et le Maroc en face, le Liban et l’Egypte au fond, l’entrée vers l’Afrique et le Moyen-Orient. Qu’est-ce qu’on attend, comme des cons frissonnants, que des millions de migrants du sud-Sahara débarquent ? Mais, allons-y, développons-le le marché vers le sud ! Comment croyez-vous que la ville a gagné sa prospérité ? Évidemment, quand on confie son avenir à des fonds de pension canadiens, on est dans une autre analyse...

 
Un peu plus haut que Belsunce, « le Chapitre » est le quartier que l’on dit coincé entre la Canebière et la gare Saint-Charles. C’est probablement un des quartiers les plus vivants de la ville, avec plein de communautés ethniques qui en ont fait leur QG en restant ignorées des édiles. Il n’est pas évident, à première vue, d’entrer dans ces cafés où les gens qui s’assoient à l’entrée paraissent plus en défendre l’accès que prendre le frais. Mais, c’est à première vue. Un immigrant qui débarque dans un pays, comme Marseille, songe à une seule chose : réussir sa vie, trouver une opportunité de s’en sortir. C’est dans les quartiers et parmi les communautés ethniques que se fera le renouveau de Marseille. C’est juste une analyse différente, une ouverture d’esprit à acquérir.
 Le Chapitre fait allusion aux réunions quotidiennes qui se tenaient dans une communauté de moines, on y lisait un chapitre de la règle de Saint-Benoît et l’on discutait des problèmes du jour. C’était un autre temps.
Mais, on lit encore autour du kiosque à musique. L’association Art Book Collectif a installé Zarafa, la girafe en métal, et Marcel, son girafon sur le trottoir à côté de l’immonde bâtiment de la mairie. Dans les flancs des girafes traînent quelques livres. Les bobos, les intellos et les étudiants du quartier viennent prendre et déposer des bouquins. Pas sûr que tout le monde comprenne l’intérêt du bookcrossing, mais un livre offert est toujours une opportunité de vie et de carrière, un passeport du possible. Il est remarquable que l’association ait reconstruit Zarafa en métal, après que la première version en bois et en livres ait été brûlée, en 2010, par des abrutis éméchés un soir de victoire de l’OM. Le feu a toujours fait partie de la fête, les abrutis éméchés également. Gardons en tête que Marseille abrite dans ces quartiers pleins de charme des tas de « bobos ». Les bourgeois-bohèmes, tolérants et esthètes, sont la bénédiction des villes. Ils propagent une décontraction, une ouverture d’esprit, une ambition de vie qui fait du bien à tout le monde. Ils ne sont pas simplement inoffensifs, ils réintroduisent, par le haut, une mixité sociale indispensable. Il faut encourager les bobos à se multiplier, à croître, à répandre leur religion. La France, Marseille comprise, n’est plus catholique. Mais, l’optimisme des poètes a quelque chose sur lequel on ne devrait pas rire. Il est un peu idiot de ricaner quand le bobo se fait agresser, qu’on lui dévalise son appartement. Sans ces bobos desquels on se gausse, que resterait-il de ces centre-villes pouilleux, qui dessinerait des fresques autres que des signaux de guerre, qui mettrait des fleurs aux balcons et des plantes vertes au pied des immeubles.
Le square de la Rotonde est fermé, il abritait trop de toxicos, trop de prostituées. Ce sont les bobos qui le réinvestissent, y plantent des jardins, y achètent des légumes, y organisent des fêtes.
Car, le Chapitre est malheureusement toujours un quartier de toxicos et de prostituées, la nuit tombée. La rue n’est pas rendue moins sûre par les femmes qui font le trottoir, mais par les souteneurs, les clients en maraude, les travestis trop maquillés et les drogués. Pour les prostituées, la faute à Marthe Richard, elles sont à la rue. La prostitution, plus vieux métier du monde, est aussi un service social regrettable mais réel. C’est moralement difficilement défendable et certainement pas enviable comme métier, mais cela existe. Espérons qu’un jour en France le pragmatisme et le bon sens prévaudront ; la charité et la bienveillance envers ces filles également. Il serait assez sensé que les prostituées puissent un jour exercer leur métier chez elles, au chaud, en sécurité ; qu’elles soient fiscalement déclarées, assistées par les services sanitaires pour le bien de tous. Il serait enviable que ces filles puissent retrouver le statut des courtisanes antiques, après tant d’années d’obscurantisme et d’hypocrisie. Les proxénètes, eux, pourront être éradiqués, indicateurs de police ou pas. 

Dans cette affaire d’insécurité à la nuit tombée, c’est la télévision qui devrait être, finalement, interdite. L’écran bleuté a tué tous nos quartiers, jusqu’à nos campagnes. Si Marseille retrouvait l’affluence dans les cafés, les restaurants et les théâtres, le soir, la vie y serait de nouveau bien plus conviviale, les boulevards aveugles vivraient sur un autre rythme que celui des feux tricolores, des promeneurs de chiens et des voitures qui passent. Mais, qui proposera l’interdiction de la télévision ? Elle permet, comme internet, de contrôler tant de personnes...
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Old biddies island, from celebrity novel 1

The shuttle had picked up Louise when she had arrived at Miami airport. The old woman was alone, dressed in a loose cotton dress and a shawl, despite the heat. The driver had thrown his three big trunks into the trunk, suffocating under the effort. It was a young black, a sweet big teddy bear who did not look very smart. He might have been discreet but, more likely, had not recognized her. The real estate company guaranteed the anonymity and tranquility of its residents, but for the under-40s, Louise and her career would have required having studied archeology. It was funny.

The previous week, Louise had dismissed her last servant, a silly Filipina whom sole quality was to be equally dumb. She got rid of properties, even Sintra one of her degenerates claimed to be attached. She had for a long time sold all her furniture, cars, and breeches, at auctions.
There would always have enough money left for « her kids.» Half of them were drug addicts or dummies. Money was a poison for them. A girl had died of an overdose, a boy, a dealer in showbiz circles, had officially shot himself ... The survivors were all zombies. They looked like survivors of genocide. She had not received them since she understood that they came to see her only for her checkbook. They had all been sources of trouble, game to shrinks. She was too old now; she did not want to take care of them anymore, she wanted to die alone.
She had adopted too many children. It was a crazy desire to have a big family around the table, to find the atmosphere of Italian-American families. But all this was artificial, and it was missing a lot to make a family, starting with a regular father. Louise had been a nymphomaniac, sometimes lesbian, all but a respectable matron. Her children had almost all turned their backs on her. One had frankly told her that he did not want anyone to know that she was his adoptive mother. She had disinherited him, that shitty boy she'd got out of a slum. Maybe he would get away with that, though. He had, at least, courage and absolute clarity, if not gratitude.
She was now following the rule of Tony, her father, who cut her off when she started going into troubles in her twenties. It was the first generations methods, the ones that made America. She had ended up in the street, even more in pain, forced to go to work on dirty tables and sell her ass, the time for her talent to bring its fruits. They all had to do the same, now, if they could.
They reminded her too much that she had had a sad life. Fans, this basket of deviants, had not accepted that she did what she wanted with her life as if these homunculi had the right to do anything but pay; as for the journalists, they understood nothing. For the most part, they were nothing but idiots with leek IQs, opportunists or pretentious.
She had followed the struggles of her time, against machismo, for the rights of gays, for the freedom to have a good time, all they wanted to stay in the game and follow instructions.
But as she was a woman, the magazine titles had retained only her companions age. Yes, she had chosen young men, just as men could take girls. She hadn’t liked their conversation so much; they were brainless kids, she enjoyed only their bodies. It was just an act of revenge, something to annoy all the macho, to say that she, too, could afford young people. She acted as older men had done with her in her early days.

And then forgetfulness had finally arrived. Louise had to leave the stage. The cinema had given her nothing, at least not the star status she thought she deserved, and the music industry no longer wanted her. She would have hoped to become an old star, like the Arab Um Kalthoum. But the latter had been a conservative grandma, not a sex symbol. Louise wanted to continue the fight, tinged with eroticism, provocations, and scandals.
It had not worked. Despite the grueling fitness sessions, despite the hormonal treatments and painful bites, Louise body changed, leaned, relaxed. Her buttocks no longer attracted the public. They made fun of her, her audience had aged, got married, or had moved on. She had been the target of comics, these wannabe actors with a squid brain. She had never really enjoyed them. They usually didn’t have any intellectual ability. They were lousy degenerates, stunted by heavy-metal vaccines. She had gone away.

Finally, after a few years of depression, anonymity was a blessing. Louise had stopped dying her hair, had become Louise again. She had met people, poor people who had never heard of her. Far from the cameras, from her stallions.
She had found herself in modest houses. She had seen altars, crucifixes. The Virgin, yes, the Blessed Virgin had opened her arms again, in spite of her life. Louise had remembered her childhood, her initial desire to enter the orders, her Christian education, her pious mother.
But she had not cried about her life, no. She wanted to take advantage of her experience to lead the last fight. In a world she had helped to pervert, she tried to repair. Finally, in a world of sex and rock'n'roll, it wasn't confusing to abuse and provoke. She had only to follow the slope.
She contacted the press, summoned the journalists, tried to put together a show to show the beauty of the faith, to proclaim the virginity of Mary, to speak of the message of Jesus. Everyone had turned away from her. Catholics had believed in an ultimate provocation; Show-biz circles had buried her name; the public, especially, did not want of it. Louise's work offered orgies, bacchanals, certainly not a moral redemption.


Louise thought of all this on the way to the residence. She had cancer. She did not have a very long time to survive. The specialist who followed her was reassuring: with treatments, they often obtained remissions, some would live for years.
But Louise knew. She felt that the time of the final appointment had arrived.
She had gone first to a convent in Italy. She had spent a month there. They talked about repentance, penance, prayer. She had complied with the rule, but she could not finish her life without music, without cinema, without speaking and laughing. She could not stand the tone of the sisters, somewhat melancholic sweetness that they put into everything they did. Louise wanted to die in front of the sea.
The place she went to now was a special place, a place where she would talk all day with people from the same background. She would eat well, and the service was discreet, efficient. She would watch what we wanted, leave when she wanted, die alone or with others.
The property was huge, in the middle of a mangrove, equipped with all the facilities. They were only old ladies, mostly ex-celebrities of the cinema or music industry, and some heirs of industrial fortunes, very wealthy ladies who had often lived scandalous lives. All these billionaires wanted to finish with brio.
Cooptation made the admission of newcomers. The girls who were there really wanted her. It was good news. Usually, women could not stand Louise.

On her arrival, the staff shew to her bungalow, a pretty wooden home open to winds in the style of the islands. There was a bed, a mosquito net, some furniture and cupboards to store all her belongings. A small wooden fence surrounded the bungalow. It was her last house, the final she had bought, just a few steps from the beach. There were two dozen of similar homes on the vast property covered with mangroves. She could travel on foot or by golf cart on upgraded roads. Meals were served in the bungalows at any time of the day or night, or in a large open guest-house, surrounded by mangrove trees for those who wanted company.
Louise saw, from a distance, some old skins lying on large meridian arranged in a circle. Some talked to each other, others slept or smoked while listening to music. She recognized one or two people but did not linger. She liked the place a lot though.

Two hours after her arrival, the owner of the establishment, Andie Nwoku, met Louise. He smiled kindly and said, "I hope you like your new home. "Yes, it will be fine.
- The rules are simple. This condominium will bring you high-quality services, a five-star catering service, and great tranquility. You find yourself in the midst of residents with a profile similar to yours. If you want to socialize, there is a space in common. If you're going to be alone in your home, no one will bother you. The principle is reciprocal. A medical team is at your disposal 24 hours a day, seven days a week. You can leave whenever you want; You are at home. Do you have a question?
- Yes, who are my neighbors?
- I do not have the right to tell you. They can tell you if you meet them in the guest-house. My idea, in creating this housing complex was to be able to offer to the stars, like you, a community, as in the African villages of my country, space where you could find yourself living according to your rules.

Seeing that Louise was silent, he wished her a pleasant stay and drove her back to the door, after giving her a card on which were written useful telephone numbers in residence. He knew that Louise was a little weird.

The old woman was alone for a few days. She did not go to the guest-house and did not leave her house. She smoked two or three firecrackers and drank a little. She had seen Cyndi and Cherylin passing by. She understood who her neighbors were.
The meals were excellent, really a la carte. It was not too bad.
The next morning she was bored. She decided to go to the guest-house. There were Cyndi and Cherylin, whom she had already seen. She recognized, a little further, Barbra, Kate, Jodie. And, just in front of her, Mariah.
Mariah and Louise had never really appreciated each other. Finally, today, for Louise, it was a thing of the past. It was easy to forget watching her old "colleagues." They were all unrecognizable, enlarged, puffy or emaciated, ugly and cleansed. They smoked, most had a glass of alcohol. My god, what a show! She could not help laughing. "Well, what did you expect to see? Did you think of a lupanar for Saudi billionaires? You saw yourself, darling? "
Mariah laughed, she had not meant to be aggressive. "How long have you been here? Asked Louise.
- six months
- how are you?
- Great, it's the best place I could find to die. We all get along well, we party. I am terminally ill.

Meryl came up behind Louise, pinching her buttocks. She sat next to Mariah, saying, "Yes, my dear, we have one last dance before we leave. So, lo and behold. I heard that you had become a puritan. "
- You hear too much stuff, get rid of your hearing aid.
- Good! Welcome to the club! Well, how do you call yourself now, by the way?
- Louise
- Good, "Louise," I'll brief you. We all have one year, maybe two at best. We are all old glories. We have been celebrating all our lives. We are not saints, no need to tell lullabies. Here, each one tries to leave in beauty, without a fuss. There is alcohol, the sea, all kinds of dopes if you want. We are all completely drunk every night. We have no account to give. Nobody judges.
The bungalows are open to all winds to evacuate the smell of piss and dirty diapers. Jane was usually sitting in the water to pee and defecate in the middle of the fish. She died two years ago. I bought her bungalow. If you want to join us, you forget the past, your career, what you were. We are all old skins, we are not like anything glamourous anymore, our fans are dead, but we do not want to leave crying. Do you grasp the spirit?
- Great.
- Well said! Welcome to the club!
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Je viens de publier "Desperado Sniper", un recueil de nouvelles non-conformiste et le premier roman d'aventure de la série Globe-trotters, "la survivante du San Juan"
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Currently writer "Operation Patagonia", a new globe-trotters adventure
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