Every morning, when the cyclones allowed it, he climbed to the top of a building to contemplate the territory his Dad had bequeathed him the day of his mortal fall, twenty-two years ago. To his dying Dad whose body lay broken on the pavement, he had sworn to keep up the tradition and to be forever proud of the estate his ancestors had bought with their own blood. Twenty-two years later, perched on a roof, he still sang the same songs praising the family grounds, their shelled and leprous walls, their heaps of rusted scrap. Then he climbed down and went rat-hunting, because he had to eat. Indeed, the rats made him raise his first questions as a grown man. When did all the horned monsters go, those legendary beasts that his ancestors used to bravely fight, aiming for the heart with long and heavy spears. The fathers had eventually killed all the monsters, his Dad had told him. Though, something had been bothering him lately. The main reason for this new mental disquiet was to be seen, and heard, on the bright summer days, when huge roaring creatures, flying low above him, dropped small parcels containing cans and toothpaste. Actually, he did not like toothpaste. And he preferred the fine flesh of the rats to the thick meat of the cans. But he could not help wondering about the giant rats who provided the canned meat. So his morning routing included now a quick glance up at the sky, and he stayed longer on the roof, waiting for the winged creatures to come. The more time passed, the more he felt inclined towards perjury, the more his estate appeared