Chapter 1

When I was born, no fairy godmother or guardian angel bothered to show up. Instead, I got a pink elephant dressed in a fluffy tutu, and it peed on me. 

There’s no other logical explanation for my bad luck. The damn thing just pissed on me and the bad luck it brought joined me for life, just like a life-sentence with no parole. Whenever it look as if my luck would improve, very soon, sooner than you’d expect, my luck would turn for worse and I’d be royally screwed up. 

That’s my only comfort; that one day my bad luck will catch up with that bastard and ruin his life like he ruined mine. Even if I’m not there to see it, I certainly will enjoy his fall from the top. I definitively will.

Coming back to the pink elephant mojo. He started to work early on in my life; early as two days old -If I’m to believe the doctors and nurses at the hospital where I was brought in-. I was found in a heap of clothes on top of the compost recycle bin in a small town in Madrid. The dustman who picked me up, thinking that once again people were too lazy to walk to the “Humana” recycling container, suffered a heart attack when said bundle of clothes moved and it wasn’t a rat what was in there. The guy dropped me and I got a cut in the head -so the newspapers told-. While his colleague was busy trying to perform a CPR on the poor guy, the truck driver picked me up and dialled 112. 

I ended up in the hospital with hypothermia and a bump in my head and the poor guy in the morgue as the local dustman course didn’t include a real CPR training until that day. The news of my “miraculous” rescue aired in the evening news and people spoke about me for a while (two days? Maybe three?) There were some photos of me (blurred face, of course) in the press. If they would have published a good photo of me, maybe some more people would have been interested in me or my real mother would have shown up, but the news of a dead hero scares the hell out of good Samaritans and nobody really wanted to adopt me.