El gazmoño del patriarca

Warder when it communicates does not always remain at a level.

It was well before dawn when the warder came to the cell of the dictator, who had been planning for months some defiant last words as the firing squad took aim. “My beloved General,” whispered the warder, “I’ve come to get you out of here. A counter-coup is underway, but the garrison will only rise if they see you’ve escaped.” “Excellent! But wait: how can I appear before the people without a jacket and tie and some kind of hat?” “I thought of that, dear sir. I’m afraid they’re all a bit big, but the tie will come in handy – I’ll lead you by it, so we don’t need to light our way.” As they set off the general found that the hat kept slipping over his eyes, and the darkness in the tunnels was so intense that he decided to leave it where it was and follow the gentle tug on his tie and the warder’s hurried respiration. After a while they arrived at a room, and the warder said, “Just a moment, sir, I’ll go and turn the lights on and open the curtains, and you’ll be able to speak to the crowds.” The general raised his hat, but could still see and hear nothing, and as he moved to loosen his tie, which seemed to have become unpleasantly tight, the planks under him creaked and shifted, though he found time to gasp, “Warder, I sense a fatal floor in your scheme.”

There is a saying, “Quien tiene un gazmoño, tiene un patrimoño,” which doesn’t quite apply here, but which is too good not to mention.

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