“You know wh-what? I think your clothes are pr-pretty ridiculous … hey, what did you say your name is?” stammered Rodolfo, looking glassyeyed at the same fellow whom he had recently insulted and who now sat by him in an arm chair.

“You really do want a fight, don't you?” replied the other man, much less conciliatory than before, thanks to the extra liquor.

“Trouble with you? No way, I fight with men, not sissies!” replied Rodolfo, with emphasis on the last word.

It all happened quickly. First, verbal insults that, in their way, cause more damage than the blows that follow. Next, defiant attitudes, the fighters on their feet, sizing each other up, their looks cold and steely, full of abhorrence, crossing like sword blades, with a thirst for blood that surprises even them. Then, the blind homicidal impulse, the physical need to kill for killing's sake, Cain senselessly slaying his brother who had done him no harm, the murderous action that, once initiated, takes on a life of its own. Rodolfo, with a fateful glare, brandished and cocked a revolver.

When the others tried to intervene it was too late. The piano fell silent, although Hipólito could not see what was happening. Those who were laughing or talking or singing fell silent, as well. The dancing stopped, and the kisses and caresses, and the intimate tête-à-têtes. Everyone understood that something tragic and definitive was about to occur. The revolver oscillated quickly up and down almost as if aiming itself, the rays of the overhead light glinting off its nickel-plated cylinder and barrel, the yawning black hole at its tip spewing fright, quickly, quickly, before spewing death.

The victim, already covered in a funereal pallor, crouched and writhed in a useless attempt at evasion, tripping over the furniture, his hands fluttering crazily over the seat backs, his bulging eyes fixed on the black hole at the end of the barrel, oscillating with it, up and down, all his love for life, pleading eloquently, humbly, poignantly, revealing his conviction that he was about to die.

The revolver moving quickly, quickly, left no one time to intervene.

Hipólito now on his feet, leaning on the piano, trying to see the drama that was unfolding before his sightless eyes without irises, his whitish eyes of a bronze statue without patina.

Cain standing erect, adjusting his aim to make sure that the bullet would not miss its target. Abel, losing hope, dying healthy, strong, and young.

Quickly, a loud, fiery shot, then another, quickly, quickly …

Then, the dying man on the floor, returning his soul whence it came with a pious exclamation, invoking the divine name:

“Jesus!”

The killer does not want to look in the direction of the dead man. He gazes at those who surround him, stupidly or lucidly, depending on the flow of alcohol now gradually draining out of his brain. His fratricidal arm, as if repenting its crime, seems about to release the weapon that continues to yawn and oscillate, pointing only at the carpet.