Life Hurts at El Hormigón

In every city in the world there are dens where the light does not enter out of shame, like El Homgon. There, darkness envelops the trickery of the customers, the hands that grope the bodies and the filth that accumulates in the corners.

A few years ago, my friend Mejuto and I came up with the idea that El Hormigón deserved to be more than the occasional and changing scenario of one of his stories, and that my inseparable Browning would fit like a finger up... sorry, like a glove to the toxic atmosphere of the place. We discussed it and, by the third drink, came to the conclusion that he could do whatever he wanted as long as I didn't expect anything from him beyond some witty one-liners: it was too much effort.

If the content is not to his liking, blame him for encouraging me and leaving me stranded.