5 Mar 2003

“Bruce.”

“Sami”

“Bruce, lots of dead bodies. No blood. Maybe I am like a crazy man. I think only of Vampires.”

“It’s true. I suspect they are at work in these troubled times.”

“You do?”

“Yes. These are the worst of times for us and the best for them.”

“Was that not your Charlie Dickens.”

“You are right. Sami?”

“Oui, mon ami.”

“Are you armed?”

“I have two revolvers.”

“Do you have a pencil.”

“I have a pen. O. I see. No, I am not armed. Merde.”

“Do not worry. I am.”

“Ah Bruce, you are a Vampire Hunter, non?!”

“Quietly Sami. There are strangers.”

I was looking at the bald man in glasses opposite me. At some point, which I did not notice, he had definitely stopped smiling. Because of his shades I could not tell what his eyes were saying, or where they were looking. He did not look particularly happy. My mind was still immersed in the absolute stability of the heroin. I was happy. Perhaps this tweeded chap needed some. Maybe he had taken offense when I did not offer him a hit. You must remember this was the sixties when promiscuous sex and drugs were shared by all with all. Aids was not a problem we even suspected back then. I looked sideways to Sami who was also staring at our companion. He had a quizzical look on his heavyset face. I took action. I leant across the low table separating us with the works in my outstretched hand and asked:

“Vous aiment un coup?”

“Merci monsieur.”

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