When an old, overweight man is penetrating you,
your brain finds ways to drift off.
It's a form of survival.
It's called "escape."
Gina's escape was in the ceiling.
She could forget her disgust by making childish drawings.
Connecting the dots again and again.
My escape was a bit more destructive
but had the same effect.
Amphetamines when I needed a high. Opioids when I needed to float.
That was my escape.
But I didn't learn that at the club.
Get out of the car, Coral.
If you go back, they'll make you get an abortion.
That's if you don't end up in a septic tank.
You choose to save Wendy.
I choose to save my family.
You don't choose anything. You didn't choose to be a hooker.
-And you don't choose to be one now. -Please get out of the car.
Could it be that you want to go back because Fernandito turned out to be scum?
Do you choose the cocks you put in your mouth, Gina? No.
Since your mom sold you, the only decision you've made was to stand up to Romeo,
and that's why we're here, but we're on our own.
Fear is a hot potato. Whoever has it at the end loses.
That way.
Come on.
Put your hands up and drop the gun.
Stop!
Stop, Gina!
They killed Wendy.
No, they didn't.
They didn't?
What are you, Coral?
A CSI or--
Wendy doesn't wear glasses.
I don't know who this poor soul was, but it's not her.
Another death. What are we going to do now?
To run away from their lives.
That's why our clients come here,
to escape.
And right around this important time of year, Easter,
we have a responsibility
to turn these austere days into a memorable fantasy.
The Internet is killing civilization, small businesses, reading.
And, above all, imagination.
People used to masturbate with their heads.
They would think.
They no longer use their imaginations.
And a society with no imagination is a dead society.
That's why they come here.
Because I do the imagining.
And you'll make them believers again, once they fuck the whole convent.
I'm not going to fuck anyone.
Look, Rubí,
you've been here five days.
I've let you come down to the club, and you refuse to work.
But each time you come down here, it costs money,
and your debt grows every day.
If you keep refusing to work, guess who'll end up losing?
Jacinto de la Cruz, born in Villa Consuelo. Your daddy.
He'll be dissolved in a barrel of acid.
Shall we put your mommy in the barrel too?
Or shall we spare them, and you do your fucking job already?
Very good.
Work sanctifies us.
And now, altar girls,
get to dancing.
Beefcake!
Music!
We're from the secret police.
We're looking for a runaway.
We're on duty.
Don't fuck it up, sir.
I don't know what's going on, but drop the gun or you'll leave in a box.
You're making a mistake.
Hands on your heads.
Wendy also had her own way of escape.
Dancing, feeling the music,
moving on the stage as if she were in a nightclub.
But that dance was actually a tactic
to turn on as many men as possible who could pay to fuck her.
You.
You're a prostitute now, and, understandably,
you'll have to work hard to pay me the almost 6,000 euros you owe me.
Don't worry, many of the girls here felt like you on their first day.
Today it's overwhelming, like any other job,
but if you work hard, you'll earn a lot.
In a very short time.
You're privileged, compared to your neighbors in Villa 31.
Behind every whore is a hopeful woman.
But also a guilt-ridden one.
Because all of them have thought at some point, "What if they trick me?"
But their ambition is stronger.
Thanks to that guilt,
they'll spend two years fucking roughly 15 clients a day.
That is,
10,950 men in two years.
That's a 6,000-euro investment to earn almost 300,000 per girl.
Does anyone know a better business?
-Diamonds? Art? -Gold?
Not cocaine, right?
-So we'll pamper and love them. -And give them affection.
Because we have in our hands the best deal of our lives.
Let's give those girls a hand because they deserve the fucking best.
My name's Wendy. I'm a victim of human trafficking.
They're not cops. They're my pimps.
They kidnapped me, but I escaped. We need to call the police.
Give me your cell phone!
-Hello? -Police?
Come quickly.
Wendy, is that you?
I was kidnapped, but I have them at gunpoint.
Where are you? I see a warehouse.
Yes, in a warehouse.
In El Médano.
Keep your gun on them. They're dangerous bastards.
-The police, Moi? For fuck's sake. -Breathe.
-I don't want to go to jail. -You won't. Breathe.
Wendy, are you OK?
What the fuck?
-Wendy, what are you doing? -Fucking bitch.
You left me.
Breathe from your diaphragm.
He's hypersensitive.
He has constant anxiety attacks.
Unless he relaxes, a switch will flip inside him.
And believe me, that's not good.
-And you? You smashed Romeo's head in. -Wendy.
-And I came to help you. -Wendy, leave her alone. She's pregnant.
Leave her alone.
So I was nearly killed because Fernandito, the bungalow guy, wanted to fuck bareback?
-Really? -I said leave her alone.
-Are you all right? -For fuck's sake.
She fell in love, OK?
Please stop.
-It's not her fault. -You're right about that.
She fell in love with that little shit to survive.
But you, you're in love with that bastard who's after us.
-In love with whom? -I'm not in love with anyone!
Why were you at the club?
Who the fuck are you?
Where were you?
I was with Moisés.
Again? What does that guy want?
Nothing. What would he want?
He's teaching me bullfighting.
I like hanging around after a job.
I don't know,
talking, listening to music in the car.
It makes me feel like my life's different.
A fake life.
The life of a whore with her pimp. What's with you?
-You saw Pretty Woman and liked it? -What's with you?
I'm just reminding you that this is your real life, Coral.
You fuck for money, not for love.
Moisés treats you badly. You're trapped somewhere you didn't choose.
You're wrong about that.
I did choose to be here.
Do you know what?
I don't believe you at all.
You ran off and left me with a gun in my mouth.
Stop it!
I was the one driving.
I ran. Why are you aiming the gun at her?
Stop it. Let's get out of here, please.
Coral…
I didn't run away, asshole.
I smashed Romeo's head in,
and I'll get you out of here.
Is she going to kill them?
Fuck.
-Who are you? -Move.
Give me the code to Romeo's safe or I'll kill you.
One.
Two.
Eight.
Four.
One more chance.
And if you lie to me again, your mother will pay for it.
I'll go to 16 Drago Street and give her morphine until she croaks.
Give me the code.
Give me the fucking code.
1-4-0-4.
-What the fuck are you doing? -Mom's off limits, fuck.
Those whores don't have the balls to touch Mom.
Do you know why you always treat me badly?
Because deep down, your instinct is to treat me well.
The cops are coming.
-Let's go. -Drive.
Stop!
-Stop. We're sinking further. -We have to push.
Fuck.
-Let's count, Christian. -OK.
OK.
-1,001. -1,001.
Step on it, Gina!
-1,002. -1,002.
Stop! It's sinking even further.
Give me the gun.
1,003.
I need to smoke.
Don't move!
It's heroin.
-He needs it for his anxiety. -Let him smoke.
Give me the car keys.
For fuck's sake, give me the keys.
Get them yourself. They're in my pocket.
In the other one.
We both know they didn't call the police.
You're on the wrong side.
You're criminals.
You trick the girls into it.
Do you know what those girls' parents do
when I tell them I'm bringing them to Spain to work as whores?
They hug me.
Because they can't even afford a door for their houses.
And because they're starving to death in the favelas.
And with the money those girls make, they can eat, and they can live.
So, good and evil are relative, you know?
For instance, you think you're doing the right thing.
You call the police. They come, arrest us, and throw us in jail.
But what would happen
if, one day, some friends of ours knock on your door,
wake up your wife, put her in a barrel, and take her away?
Would you still think you did the right thing?
Please no.
Do you know why I was at the club?
Because I killed someone.
And now someone else is after me to kill me.
That's why I hid in the club with a fake life.
Looking back is not an option.
Subtitle translation by: Tom Sullivan