The White Powder of Torrevieja Chapter 7: Epilogue. Dust
Six months had passed.
September 2026. A new school year.
Garcia stood at the board. He was high, as usual. But not quite. Contract.
The last batch.
He was writing down the formula.
Garcia noticed it was getting harder to think.
The quality... It was declining.
The Lord God had gone. But the deliveries continued. From a different name. From the company "Education of the Future."
Garcia erased the board. Dust flew into his face. He coughed.
Kiko, in the back of the class, raised his hand.
"Don Javier, is it true that we'll have tablets now?"
Garcia looked at him.
"Yes, Kiko. Tablets."
"And what about you?"
"Me? I'll stay. For those who want to remember."
Garcia looked at his hands. There were a few grains of white cocaine on them. It had become embedded in his pores. He knew he would never be able to wash it off.
Javier left the classroom. Velasquez was standing in the hallway.
"How are you?"
"The coke's going bad," Garcia said.
"Nothing lasts forever, Javier."
"He warned me."
"Who?"
"God."
Velázquez sighed.
"Forget it. Move on. We have a school. We have students."
Garcia walked to the window. Torrevieja sparkled in the sun. The sea was calm.
But Garcia felt uneasy.
He took out his phone. He opened the message from that anonymous number. It was still there.
"I'll leave. And then the true darkness will come."
Garcia looked at the board at the end of the hall. It was electronic. Interactive.
New.
The corporate logo glowed on it. "TWITRIS 2026."
Garcia understood. God hadn't left. He had simply changed form. Now they depend on software. On updates. On subscriptions.
Garcia chuckled.
"Fucking progress," he whispered.
He went to class. The lesson continued.
Cocaine Delivery Spain/Alicante/Torrevieja
But somewhere in the city, in that very same garage on Paseo Vista Alegre, the door stood wide open. Inside, it was empty. Only a single bag of coke lay on the floor.
A rat approached it. Sniffed it. And left.
The city lived on. And no one knew that the real price wasn't paid with money. But with something more.
Garcia wrote on the board. The colored coke was racking his brain.
He didn't stop. Because this was his job. And even if the whole world turned into a colorful mess, he would use white coke. As long as there was at least one bag left.