Rome Mafia migrant center corruption: the great diner

Stories and News No. 759

Once upon a time there was a table.
A large table, all set for supper.
Tablecloth and plates, glasses and cutlery.
And diners.
Many diners, many more than they seem.
Oh come on, let us look at the whole thing, at least here.
Let us start from the dish of the day.
As the night.
That is just one.
A beautiful tray, longer than wide.
Size, let us say human.
In measure, never feelings or something like that.
The name of the dish?
Well, you do, the name does not matter, the words you might use to call what is daily broken in pieces by sly drunken jaws make no difference.
It hurt, there is no doubt.
However, as an ancient as anonymous proverb from savannah said: ‘In nature only prey knows the real taste of the pain’.
‘Spaghetti with migrants’, ‘Tagliatelle with clandestines’ and ‘Pizza four strangers’.
Nevertheless, the menu is well-known.
That is there, every day, cooked or raw, torn on the tables so many times as to become traditional dish, as the ‘Neapolitan coffee’ and the ‘Risotto alla Milanese’.
The real show are the diners.
There are them, of course, the villains who profit on migrants centers.
In the capital, as from north to south of the peninsula.
But there are all the others.
The guests who complete the table and eat their part, oh, if they eat it.
Those that feeding with the migrant meal, officially spitting in the plate which they depend on, have built a political career, town, mountains and sea houses.
They hate the refugees meat by words, in fact they did not spare even the bones.
Then there are the excited spewing creatures, with large mouth and unattended skull.
They are many and fill much of the table.
Just as they do with abdomen and head, starting from the latter, victim of an unacceptable loneliness.
Without question, they swallow everything the man they consider strong passes.
All good, if it is flesh, alive flesh, possibly undefended and indefensible.
Today ‘Roma people Soup’ is very fashionable, where you can put everything, because anything goes right.
Then they throw out and start again, because that is the only way to remain at the table, along with the others, to feel strong.
Along with the others.
But there is still room at the table for them, the reporters of the horrendous dinner, with an incredible power in their hands.
In the pens, as in the letters on the keyboard.
Difficult to use each other, where the fingers are convulsively gripping the favorite weapons.
Fork and knife.
Witnesses on behalf of History, not testifying at all.
They see, they understand, but then they snap and tear like everyone else.
Once upon a time there was a table.
A huge table, all set.
Cutlery, plates, glasses and of course tablecloth.
But the real show is the guests.
Many, many more than you think.
Dear friend who reads and listens.
Think about it, look around.
Be careful.
Because, without realizing it, you might be there...

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