wave vomiting greenish color moves inexorably along the boot. It flows from the fetid mountains of Veneto and Lombardy clogged valleys. A mud olive sickly and covers the entire plain. In the big cities of the north in vain you search for a remedy. Someone wants to build a dam in March and bread contain the flooding only in the low Venetian plain, but someone else rightly points out that the slime has already come very far in the Apennines of Piedmont also to the Tuscan-Emilian. Then a
amincolo bassoccio mustachioed and proposes to divert the flow of mud, "we build the channel side, so as to divert the route ... We could, if not reject, at least divert "," already ... Where? In France ...? not even in Spain? "echoes a tall and stout, which stands behind the little guy. Turin is now
invaded, its streets are overwhelmed by the green vomit. Sewage and vomiting, that's what it looks like. A putrid, unpleasant gelatinous substance, without a specific form nor substance. Even the smell is unbearable. Rotten eggs, feet, dirty socks for five days, a sweat shirt, a rotting animal carcass, an open sewer. There are so many smells that put together does not vanish but instead highlight.
While you decide what to do there's bad news. Milan has given up for dead, Vicenza and Verona are so overwhelmed that you can see on the horizon even the steeples of churches. Venice resists with difficulty, the old Venice has faced many other types of floods and storms, is still a few brave determined to fight until the end, new barriers and new levees are built along the shoreline of Mestre, but hopes are weak and the enemy is strong.
Other voices of resistance come from the Val d'Ossola and Verbania. A long stem the flood walls and terrifying evil, few young people are survivors, some old man yet invaded by the spirit of times gone by, without stopping and without delay, continue to pile up sandbags on them one the others, rocks boulders, beams on beams. A bicycle, a bench, a phone booth, a wheelchair, a road sign. A barricade varied color that contrasts conspicuously with the stench of death and shades of olive slime. Only seems
Emilia still able to resist the invasion.
Alfio you look around, you just woke up and he is not understanding a damn. Only hear only the sound of engines and the voices of men on the street. It's still stoned from the night before. On the floor, cigarette butts and canes to make company half-empty beer bottles. The stereo is still on and the Doors' cd starts again for the thirteenth time. He gets up, you pass a heavy hand on his face as if to ward off the sleep and fatigue. Count to three ... a ... two ... three. He is standing. A moment still, blunders in the head, "maybe I should not get up so abruptly."
looks at his watch, the four, like heavy thunder. Intrigued from the noise of the street decides to see what happens, but first, collect a joint and survivor lights. It even crossed over to the window and swings open. The sunlight blinds him, he sees nothing but a heavenly white and immaculate that penetrates closed eyelids with arrogance. An 'annoying smell him regain consciousness. Putrid and rotting stench of manure. The forms are more crisp and clear. Slowly redefines the colors and shapes of things. The road is flooded by a river in flood, green and gelatinous. Opposite the houses of other people froze to assist vision. Where does this shit? What's happening?
In less than three hours throughout northern Italy is invaded by mud and no one knows how this is all started or how to stop this invasion. The more daring continue to resist building dams of luck but now it's too late. How could this happen? And the state? The police? Firefighters? Civil protection? Who was to prevent this carnage? Who is responsible? Now what should I do?
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