Stale tabacco breath mixed with the smell of cheap Pilsener waving into my face, black rotten horse teeth with pieces of Shoarma meat sticking to the gaps only mere decimeters away from me, yellowish tabacco stained fingers, nails with plenty of dirt underneath holding a transparent styrofoam half full box of Appie Heyn Shoarma meat, two rolls of bread with a corner bitten from one of them...
Was it Jor, Jos, Joost or Shiva, or maybe my real name Hans, he mixes them all up, even after nearly seventeen years of mutual acquaintance he hasn't gotten my name straight...I guess twenty years of heavy drinking and drug abuse can do that to you, countless unnumerable gray brain cells blown to smithereens...
twenty to thirty hastily deperate visits to the toilet - one for each beer he consumes - getting rid of what Rob, the King Of My Toilet, describes as black water with chunks of dark matter with a terrible stink that comes out of his ass with great speed....
Shit three times in a row but what sort of life is that???...I guess his case is about to be dismissed...but then I know why he is here, the last two of these Hoegaarden Wit Beer my mate Paul brought along last night when we had our Italy against French soccer match watching session...nice beer and not exactly in the cheap price class he is used to...
The Shoarma meat and bitten into rolls of bread come as a bonus for me, an empty bank account took care of that...the promise of a bottle of red wine tomorrow when his Rabo Bank card will supply newly printed social wellfare Euros will probably be a Rose...after all remembering my real name is just as difficult for poor Rob, the Street Alcoholic, as seeing the difference between Rose and Red Wine...
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