remember only wish you were dead four times in my life. This is one of them.
then was living in Helendale, a few miles south of Barstow, near Silver Lake. Few people have heard of the place. Best for them. Barstow only say that if the world is ass, Helendale are your hair. A filthy hole. One of those bastards and miserable people who just want a run away because he senses the moment they arrive, from the beginning, that nothing good can happen there.
I ignored this hunch. I stayed a whole year in Helendale. With two balls.
had found a job in the kitchen of Roy Rogers Double Ranch and I was wrong feeding those fat. I defended myself. And that I've never been fond of greasy work. But Roy did not treat me bad, let me do and I liked that. I have been happy among those with morbid obesity. But things went wrong.
To put it another way, going through a phase some wayward. Any personal search shit, whatever. I needed to drink to find myself. So every night down to Dixie's, the only people cocktail bar at the intersection of Hudson with the Seventh, with the sole purpose of tanning the guts shots of whiskey. I do not know how they will do the rest, but I am one of those who need to be drunk to be found. There I met
Clarice. The Clarice fucking McKenzie. The only living being capable of upsetting a guy in the process of self-seeking and reconciliation historical and sentimental with distant Scotland through their spirits. A real cojonera fly. The first time he sat down beside me at the bar to ask:
"Hey, what if you buy me a drink of those that you are taking?
-out of here, bad bitch ... "he pointed out with considerable calmness, decorating the end with a mighty burp" Learn to respect the privacy of drunks.
That day I went with her insolent everything that you can be with a woman. Did not care. I was too preoccupied with hunting a tail. We did not speak, but four nights later turned over to me to confess:
"Look, asshole, I do not care what you wear. I like you.
"To be an old whore, you have bad taste ..." began to get angry, all I asked was drinking quietly. But I will not pay a penny for a dust kick you, so turn around the fucking hole you're out and leave me alone, shit.
sure was not the first time I heard something, but it seems he fell ill that night.
was the first time I saw a whore mourn, I admit. Even I myself felt a little bastard. All very familiar. Maybe that's why I felt that stinging eyes when I saw her walk away, disgusted, and broken into pieces sit at the table of the old fund. A huge old white hair, about seventy-five years, he was always there, watching everything like a decorative object. An old man who, until that night, I had never seen standing.
ostentatiously stood up and walked towards me. I looked into his eyes. It was Jack McKenzie. "Bull" McKenzie. The damn boxer Jack McKenzie. I thought I recognized when I saw the scar deep, about three inches long, soaring as a ditch her left cheek. Soon confirmed those suspicions, as I buckled on the first host. A fatal forehand across his face.
From the ground, the son of a bitch seemed even larger. About three or four times larger, at least. The I remember because I managed to open one eye, which was made well before I return it to close with a second shot even stronger than before. It seemed an unnecessary embellishment. If not now, it later when I regained consciousness.
I could not re-enter the Dixie's until I started dating his daughter, the lovely Clarice McKenzie. Certainly, the ways of love are mysterious.
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