Doc Martini was driving his black Porsche convertible –only recently re-acquired from the “Professor Peculiar” pitch–, up and down the curvy coastal roads from Lekeitio to Ondarroa. He was thinking about imaginary terror, the engine of crime, the mingling of hot metal and broken flesh sauteed with gas that would become of him. However, everything wasn’t lost yet. They had to find him first, and he was not called the Houdini de las Lettres for fucking nothing. He yelled: “Do you really need a soundtrack for sex?” and stepped on the gas with his aqua snakeskin boot.

Shit! We actually HAD forgotten about sex!