December 6th 1977. Ciudadela. Buenos Aires, Argentina.
Life on the edge was not an option for Antonio Fons: it was the only way to live. The stings of routine burnt fiercer with every day at the consulting room; at age twenty-eight, his future looked bleak in its suffocating tepidness.
Branded with the unquestioned values of his native culture, he had all that was expected of a successful young man: a submissive bride, wonderfully unaware of the full extent of her uncommon beauty; an adorable little daughter, equally devoid of cumbersome traits; a paid off apartment in a middle-class barrio, small but functional; and a budding career as a profesional (the nature of the activity did not matter as long as the diploma decorating the office wall shrouded the graduate with unmistakable importance). He was also fortunate enough to enjoy the benefits of the seemingly unshakeable credulity of his Patagonian wife: late night calls and periodic escapades to Río de Janeiro were accepted as necessary consorts to the abundant bread on the family table.
By most standards, he was a true porteño: unsuspectingly collective; unfoundedly arrogant; reassuringly typical—but his temperament had been ignited by the consuming flames of a Spartan upbringing.
“You will never amount to anything,” were the words engraved in his quivering cells, after countless strikes from the worn-out belt.
“I will prove mother wrong,” was the silent mantra that kept the embers stoked, the fuel to the engine that propelled him forward. His level of arousal and tendency to become easily agitated to the point of explosion were unrivaled: his brain was like a generator of fusion that fueled perpetual energy, habitually funneled into a stubborn persistence in repetitive topics, to the amusement—and eventual dismay— of those around him.
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