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I woke up at last with Dylan playing in the background, seedy walls and a seedy bed, a two-star hotel as he had said. A smell of cold tobacco and a greenish light; I got out of bed with a pounding headache. I was waiting for Billy, Crazy Billy, I called him Crazy Billy because sometimes he was crazy, Billy. I could already see him in that place, yelling that the rain was busting his balls, that the people in the street were mad and that the world was crazy.
There was a knock at the door, two sharp taps. I opened it. Crazy Billy came in, thumping me on the chest. He was soaked. 
He took a cigarette from my packet on the low table, lit it, then told me it was raining. A fairly logical deduction from a guy on acid, a never-ending heap of clichés, just to ensure he was left in peace. 
Then he told me that in the trunk of my car there was now the body of a female student from California. Just like that, in the tone of something quite insignificant. 
It’s raining, just like that, in that kind of tone. 
He answered my questions once he had a joint in his mouth, that is, ten minutes later. 
What? No, no, she wasn’t a whore. Yes, she was dead, twice over in fact. Yes, I did it! Why else would she be in your car, you idiot? Listen, I don’t know why, I don’t know when and I don’t know how but that little bitch died in my place this morning.
Trying to find out if this was a morning joke or the result of an uncontrolled trip, I opened the window. 
I knew it was true, Billy was crazy, after all they called him Crazy Billy.
That morning he looked like a guy you believe straightaway, although he was sprawled on my rumpled bed as if nothing had happened, smoking his weed and drinking my beer, still talking about the rain and how wet he was. 
Soon after that, Crazy Billy and I were standing by my car, that old wreck on wheels, opening the trunk and seeing that girl, who must have been very pretty before, with her face crushed; I thought TV cops would surely have said she had suffered a blow from a blunt instrument.
I would have put money on Billy’s rejoinder being worthy of an Oscar, that he would put on his bedside table, as in addition to everything else Crazy Billy was a person with very poor taste. 
I think we should get rid of the body, it looks a bit messy keeping it like that, he said to me. 
I took the wheel and drove in the direction of the port, following the instructions of the crazy guy.
When we got to the jetty, we lifted the body out and pushed it into the murky water. Billy asked me for a beer.

As he drank it he shouted, “This is my idea of fun!”

Translated by Wendy Cross


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