Australia: Evans Head, New South Wales – Night of the Eels

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This is a Chapter from The Adventures of Kosio & Juanito. Even though it is Chapter 20 it was the first I wrote (though the character of Corinne didn’t appear in the first version). The piece got me my first bit of hate mail from a dude who said I didn’t recognise how awesome Evans Head was. I do go on a bit about how I prefer Byron Bay in this, but since the time of writing some 16 years ago Byron Bay has become an increasingly bourgeois pseudo-hippy resort town. Though still not without charm, I am less enamoured with the place. As for Evans Head, well, look even though I haven’t been back since my first and only visit I reckon you should pop in a judge for yourself. I’m sure there’s more than slimy eels to the place… Oh, and even thoughI let loose a tirade on Kosios at the end, he is the bestest adventure time buddy a guy could hope for. No pics in this one, just lots of words. JA

Chapter 20: NIGHT OF THE EELS.

“Don’t go down that way.”

“Why not?”

“We’re only an hour away from Byron Bay, I’m meant to meet Corinne there.” I raise my hands in despair.

“I’m tired, I just want to stop.” He rubs his eyes.

“But don’t go to Evans Head.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Well, they’re different towns for a start.”

Silence, the cold war.

“My eyes hurt at this time of day. I can’t see properly. You can stay one night away from your Swiss woman.”

(Yeah, your eyes. We’ve only been driving for four hours.)

“We could hang out in Byron, go to the pub. Do something different. There are hippies there. And good coffee — you like coffee.”

Offer a carrot.

Kosio has the indicator on. Fuck, He’s going right. He’s not listening to me. I’m not going to have fun. He won’t listen, okay be it on his head. Evans-fucking-Head! Who the hell knows what’s going on in Evans Head. Probably people with two heads, married to their sisters — listening to Country and Western. Who cares?

But, now we’re going to go there! Hope there’s at least fish.

“I bet there’s no fish,” that wasn’t really necessary, but casting a hoodoo on proceedings gives one a childish satisfaction. I might be wrong, but, when a fella casts a hoodoo bad times inevitably follow. I press my tongue against my teeth, suppressing satisfaction. He’s pissed off.

“What do you mean? The ocean’s the ocean. Of course there’s fish.” He grips the steering wheel tightly.

Ah, satisfaction, now I don’t care where I’m going.

“Okay, we’ll go to Evans Head. It might be fun.” Mumbling under my breath, “of course it won’t be as fun as Byron Bay — but that’s okay. We’ll go there tomorrow. We’ll have fun tomorrow.”

The clouds have moved in, streaking the sky. Stretching to the far horizon. Black, grey, blue, orange, red and purple. The day’s suffocation of heat, melting butter, the slow strain of doing anything — it gets to you, pressing your brain. Now I’m hungry: le faim, they say it drives a man crazy. Crazy men drive people crazy — in shitty-blue Mazdas.

Earlier that day.

“I’m sick of catching small fish I’m going for something big.”

At the tackle/tucker shop-stop, somewhere on a back highway on the mid-north coast of New South Wales. Attending to some of my daily chores of stocking up equipment; finding cheap steak-sandwiches; finding a cafe latte — or two or three; trying to get decent reception on the car radio; trying to avoid the minefield of country music stations and the ever-parochial John Laws’ station — he’s the voice of Australian reason (which is not always that reasonable); buy bait; buy line; don’t spend too much money; resist tourist tea-towels and other assorted and bizarre travelling paraphernalia like snow domes from places that haven’t seen snow since the last ice-age; and find a place to fish. Sleeping and eating are afterthoughts for hard bushies like ourselves.

“A nice tailor, or jewfish. What about a shark?” My mind’s eye lights up, like Harrison Ford’s face in Raiders of the Lost Ark  when anything big and dangerous came rolling or running after him.

I pick up a mean-looking fifteen-centimetre long goldey-bronze-coloured hook. A neat and ferocious device. It would be the one. The one that puts a three-pounder on the dinner table — although we didn’t have anything as luxurious as a table, the top of the Esky will do. I can taste it now.

” I need some big bait.” I pressed packages down deep in the deep freezer. I’d been poking through many iceboxes in my time and many more along the 2000 kilometres left behind us.  I knew what looked good — which was generally nothing, because everything in a bait freezer has had all semblance of life long freezed from it. And I had an idea of what fish liked what bait. The trouble was, that as you travelled further north, the scenery changed — as did the fishes’ taste-buds. What was fine French cuisine to one was fancy-frog food to another.

“We’ve been using these puny prawns and pilchards for too long. The fish don’t take us seriously. We’re like the Australian film industry, we just haven’t been used to spending what it takes to get the big hits. The Jawses, The Octopussys . . . The Jawses two, three and four. We have to have Western Australian Pilchards.” They’re 18-25 centimetres long (in fisherpersons’ units). I reach into the freezer and pull out a crisp satchel of these WA Pilchards.  They smell frozen; they are frozen. Knocking on them, you’d think they were hollow. I hold the packet to my chest.

“Ah, what comfort held against my breast. The highway outside wobbles with waves of heat; but here I am with you.” I’m startled by another thought, “come to think of it, if we get a lamb shank we might be in with a better chance for Great Whites.”

Love opens your eyes to the many weird and wonderful possibilities that life has to offer. I realised by the light of the fridge that I madly in love with Corinne. I was even starting to think of dumping Kosio and just going off by ourselves. Get married, live in the hills around Byron Bay.

I couldn’t wait to see her tonight. Apart from fish, it was my only thought.

Kosio likes these country pit-stops. A cup of coffee. A hand rolled cigarette. He smokes whilst he’s driving; he smokes whilst he’s walking; he smokes whilst he’s fishing. But smoking with a cup of coffee is a ritual. The rest of the day’s smoking is just filling in the gaps. These three or four daily cups of coffee are the Bulgarian’s equivalent of the Japanese Tea Ceremony. It’s a concentrated effort. A sip, a puff, lay back, draw in, puff out, then sip. All other activities cease. The air tempers, troubles drown, all sound fades. Existence is put on hold. His brown leather hat slouches back, as he dreams of bushrangers and wild animals.

I peer at him through the shop window.

“That’s enough.” I’d been talking to myself for long enough now, though I make good conversation. It’s just too bad that I can’t talk to other people as well as I talk to me. That might be an inheritance from my father. What did Freud say about fathers? I don’t know. I hear a lot about Freud but I’ve never read anything of his. It’s a sign of the times — we all know about Freud but few of us know what his theories were. Something about penises and woman. It could just be hearsay, I’ve never bothered to check up on it.

I head towards the slow countryman at the counter with my booty. I’m glad that psychoanalysts live in the cities — they’d just spoil a good days romance and fishing with their intellectual jabbering.

I walk outside into the fog-cloud of heat that envelops everything in these parts from sunrise to sunset. My plastic bags brimming with hunting goods. A few semi-trailers whiz past, dust rolling from the sides of their tyres. Our plastic table tremors on the concrete. Hot wind licks my face; the flies crouch and crawl to the corners of my mouth. They stick to my mask of sweat, dust and debris.  Betwixt the darts of traffic, humidity rises, lifting a crescendo of fierce little creatures — cicadas, praying mantises, centipedes, ticks — singing in the bush.

“I’m going for something big. I don’t think these fish are taking us seriously.” I hold up the hook.

“Jesus!” He is momentarily distracted from his cup of coffee.

The slow man brings out two steak sandwiches and places them on the table. I swipe at the flies that are heading for the beetroot.

“You can’t go too far wrong with a $2.50 steak-sandwich as good as this.” I take a bite, blowing insects from the corners of my mouth, “I love the country”.

The wheels of another truck whistle past, the gravel shifts like Mexican jumping beans. Behind it, a rusty barbed-wire fence and cows chewing the cud, whipping flies with their tails.

“That’s why the steaks so good,” I nod towards the bovines, “he probably just whips across the road and grabs them fresh.”

Kosio laughs, coffee pushes its way towards his nostrils.

Farming in Australia has changed over the years. Driving along you see all sorts of interesting creatures and vegetation, depending on the region. Down south you get deer, llamas, alpacas (I think they might be the same thing), water buffaloes, ostriches, emus, trout and all the stone fruit family: the apricots, peaches and all that. Up north you get camels, crocodiles (not really in New South Wales but further up), sugarcane, mangoes and macadamias — all frozen together in Weiss bars (minus the camels and crocodiles of course). You drive along out in the country and all of a sudden there’s a camel munching away. Or out of a thick cold autumn mist around Warburton, Victoria, a south-east Asian water-buffalo wanders out. A la Vietnam.

Though the most interesting thing that I saw popping up in the countryside was a bronze-whaler. They’re a type of shark; related to Tigersharks.

I was only nineteen. It was late afternoon, I was driving along, as a passenger, in a blue Bedford van with an East-German detective-novel writer, a Canberran and his dog, and some sort of British person, who was in love with a gorgeous Dutch model that was staying in Byron Bay, if I remember correctly. If he wasn’t British he sure was smitten. Latter I was told by the East-German that the model liked me! But I was always too stoned to notice. Sounds about right.

We’d just past Murwillumbah, sub-tropical New South Wales — or somewhere like that — and we were passing a joint. The Canberran wanted us to watch out for cops — though I wouldn’t think they would bother with a group like us. There were plenty of scruffy-looking people smoking pot and driving clapped out old vans along this road. Too many to choose from. The East-German writer, Jan, sat meditatively. He may have been recovering from the amount of pot that we had been smoking in our weekend away in the hills around Glenn Innes. I looked at him as I took a drag of the durry. The sun was going down behind the hills beyond the cane-fields that surrounded the road. We were quite close to a river — perhaps only ten or fifteen metres away. Then my eyes lit up like Roy Schroeder in the original Jaws.

“Fucking hell!”

“What?” said Jan.

“Sorry to get so excited but there’s a shark.”

The van pulled to a halt. Sure enough, a dorsal fin of almost a metre protruded from the water’s surface; weaving its way down river. It was swimming through the cane fields.

Apparently this was not all that uncommon. My mate Wayne, from the Gold Coast, says that they swim way up river sometimes, until it’s nearly freshwater, to kill some sort of parasite that lives on them. He says that calves sometimes go missing deep in the cane field territory.

And not just calves; also people. They get drunk and try swimming home across the river late at night. They are never seen again. Night is not a good time for swimming. Nor is it a good time for getting eaten by sharks on the way home from the pub. My theory is that the sharks are attracted by blood from piggeries by the rivers. I used to go fishing with my grandfather and father near one on the Tweed River — it was a nice spot and I caught one of the biggest whiting that I’ve ever seen in my life.

“You shouldn’t apologise for being excited.” Jan chastised me with a serious East-European stare. He was kind of my part-time mentor — kept telling me that it was wrong for such young men, like myself, to be smoking so much marijuana. If he was right about the Dutch model, and he wasn’t known for his sense of humour, he might have been right about young men and pot. (God damn it!) Sometimes you just wish people would push their point, or force you to listen to them!

“Sorry.” I said, immediately realising my mistake.

We had just past a camel and were heading into Evans Head.  There was one place for us to stay: a caravan-park by the sea. Evans Head actually sounds like a nice place and I was beginning to hope that I may be wrong about it. I mean, we were just going to stay one night, it couldn’t be that bad. And Corinne would understand — I call the backpackers and tell her I won’t be home for dinner.

Besides Kosio and I probably needed some quality time alone. I called and left a message in Byron Bay as the sun set.

We decided not to pitch the tent, and just do a little fishing — maybe get something for dinner. I was succumbing further to starvation. A man passed by with an alcoholic expression on his face: lifeless, blank and depressing. Kosio took the conversational initiative with his thick Bulgarian accent.

“Hey mate, how are you going?” He was creepy. “Do you get much fish around here?”

The man stared at him, then his top lip wavered.

“Eels. I’ve been here for two years and I haven’t seen anyone catch much more than that.”

“Are they good to eat?” asks Kosio.

Mr Happy screws up his nose and scratches his head, explaining disdainfully, “they’re eels.” He walks away shaking his head and cursing the living.

“I think if you cook them right they’re okay,” Kosio says optimistically.

“Yeah, maybe,” I roll my eyes, my mind on bigger things, “I think there might be some tailor or small sharks out there. Shark’s nice. I don’t really know about eels.” I turn my head to one shoulder to try and stretch my muscles.

“Ah, they’re okay with a bit of soy sauce.”

Everything, apparently, was okay with soy sauce. Frankly I’ve yet to see it’s more miraculous properties in action.

The comforting, civilised, glow of television sets illuminated the caravans as night fell. As I looked around I got the feeling that the people of this caravan park may have been the living dead. They totally ignored us, and each other. A dog cowered underneath its owners’ van. It was one ugly fucking dog. An old couple walked with drooping towels, not talking to each other. They didn’t believe in Viagra around here. A surly group of Germans discussed menial chores around a foldout table. They’d had enough of each other and these bloody long, hot, Australian roads which never lead to decent German restaurants with dripulated coffee.

It looked as though most people here had just broken down and were unable to get going again — their vehicles blending with the seaside grass. I guess it was cheap here — if you didn’t want activity.

If there had been dingoes about their howls would be swirling around our ears with the wind, that was now brisk, and mosquitoes. Maybe the place had been built on a cemetery? It kind of smelt like day-old fluffy-white bread.

Kosio was big on surveys. He’d ask a million questions to a million people. He wanted to confirm the eel story. I just wanted to fish, get away from the creepy residents of the park, enjoy my anti-social activities. He managed to accost another man, who looked like he was developing a twitch, to ask about the eels. He said that some people like eels. Some people — that ‘s like saying the Chinese like it, or, it’s big in New Zealand.

My stomach was grumbling; my head ached. I wearily gathered my rod and our remaining supplies of snack survival food: half of a small bar of melted chocolate; some semi-stale crackers; a small piece of oily cheddar cheese; and half a bottle of water. It was too late to shop now. I picked up my rod and headed along a path through the swaying bushes and towards where the fish may be living.  Kosio followed.

There was a small rock groyne beyond the scrub that separated us from our caravan park. The sun had gone, so I had to stumble around in semi-darkness; a half-moon occasionally showing in the gaps between clouds. I left the rod, tackle and snacks on a flattish rock and began my customary survey.

Walking towards the end of the groyne I noticed to the left of me, a fairly brisk out-going tide. That’s generally not a good sign. River mouths are mostly best in the hour or so around high-tide. When the tide is just finishing coming in and when it is just starting to go out. Especially if there are snags, which here looked quite probable.

At the very tip of the rocky outcrop I saw the hazy outline of the beach beside me and heard waves crashing before me. Only able to see their white crescents.  Sprays of salt refreshed my nostrils. It carried the slight smell of decay. The smell of crabs, toadfish, sun-dried flesh and storm-water run-off. I stood gazing at the ocean.

The waves were a little too big, and the northerly current a little too strong, to try fishing straight out. We might have gotten away with it if we had some surf rods. You need something about two to three metres long to cast effectively in the surf on all but the calmest of days. You have to try and get into the gutters that dotted the coastline — normally below the point of the back of the first breakers.

If you can do that you’re in for a chance for bream, flathead, dart, or even a tailor or jewfish (depending if they’re about of course). Sometimes you’ll get a little shark: a hammerhead, a shovel-nose (though I think they’re rays, not sharks), or even a little bronze-whaler.

You used to get more of those sort of things close to shore, but with all the netting and paranoia in Australia, sharks, and most other fish, are less prevalent along Australia’s coastline — that’s anecdotal, but when you’ve lived by the ocean most of your life you remember things that may count.

Funny as I journeyed closer to my home town, how sentimental I was becoming. Kind of sad, kind of happy memories.

I vividly remember, as a child of nine or ten, seeing a shark swimming beneath a hole in a jetty on the Tweed River, by an old wooden bridge that no longer exists. It stretched about three to four metres from head to tail. I see it now, the shadowy figure with tail swooshing from side to side, going about its business. A marine Mafia figure. The hole in the jetty seemed like it was designed for the occasion. I looked on with the same intensity that I did when my dad bought home our first colour television. This was even better than TV!

It was probably a Tigershark, sniffing out the offal from the nearby trawlers and fish processing plant. The plant’s now closed and only a hand-full of trawlers remain. The sharks still hang about there from time to time. They seem to have fairly good memories — especially the big ones.

Occasionally people still get attacked at the nearby mouth of the river. The area, known as Duranbah, is one of the best surfing breaks on the Gold Coast. It’s normally just the small ones that attack, and the surfers are still a tough bunch; they just punch them in the mouth then drag themselves onto the beach bleeding.

I took in the moon as it glanced at me again. The ocean had a few tales.

I could see Kosio’s cigarettes glowing behind me.

“What’s the verdict?”

“It’s pretty strong here. We’d probably be better off down there a little.” I take out the chocolate and offer a piece. Then I reach for the pouch of tobacco, “Can I roll one?”

“Sure.”

A little détente.

We got down to the serious business of fishing. I put a whole shiny-blue-silver WA pilchard on the big hook, which I had attached, with my heaviest sinker, to my green plastic handline, and cast into the middle of the river. It sank to the dark depths. I rapped the line around a rock so if anything decided to attack it it wouldn’t just drag the whole thing with it. I then set my rod up for tailor, or something big and aggressive. Kosio was down river a bit.

“Hey”

“What?”

“Have you got some bait down there?”

“Yeah.”

I had the cigarette in the corner of my mouth. The smoke flicked up at my eyes, irritating them. My lungs shrank in protest. I was hoping that the old cancer-stick would quell my tortured stomach that was screaming, “food!”. My whole body was complaining: head, eyes, ears, gut, soul (if there is one). And, I needed to go for a piss.

Pissing’s an art that the rock fisherman spends much time mastering. You have to put your rod down on a nice flattish rock, balancing it so it won’t topple into the sea. Then you balance yourself on two reasonably reliable looking rocks so as not to go arse-over-tit, nor piss on your boots. And at the same time dangle your durry from the corner of your mouth. I don’t know what you do if you are a woman. I suspect you may have to go further a field.

As I relieved myself I carefully looked back towards the handline. The current had dragged the line towards the mouth of the river, It would soon swing in too close to the rocks and I’d have to cast it again. I took a drag of the cigarette and zipped myself up — cursing the fact that I was still smoking tobacco. I decided I better get some pot into me.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a large, ugly rodent attacking the packet of bait. Rats are a bad omen. It disappeared into the groyne. I treaded more carefully now, conscious of being attacked by the bloodthirsty carnivorous clan that I imagined lived beneath me, ready to pounce. I carefully picked up the bait, trying to act as cool as possible — rats smell fear, I saw it in Watership Down — and chucked it into a relatively more secure position.

The outgoing current was picking up. By the time I reached the handline I found that it swept right into the groyne. I picked it up. As I touched it, a strong jolt pulled my hand slightly forward. There was something on it.

I looked behind me to make sure no sneaky little cunt would attack me at this vulnerable moment. I was catholic and felt something good, like catching a huge fish, was always close to something bad, like being devoured alive.

It was pulling strong, the bare line tore at my bare hands. A glimmer of light twinkled in my eye. Perhaps this was the shark. The moon shone briefly through the clouds. I struggled with the beast as it clung to life. Then the moon vanished. The beast headed straight for the groyne’s underbelly. Only eels do that! Fuck.

The prick sat there. It wouldn’t budge. Every time I touched the line it would only prompt it to crawl deeper into it’s cave. I could hear the rats laughing. I  rapped the line around a rock  and left the stupid fish to tire out. If the line didn’t break ,we’d have something to eat.

You rarely see eel on a restaurant menu (non-Japanese). And for good reason. I kept fishing.

Kosio clambered over the rocks towards me. He’d left his rod to fend for itself, deciding to concentrate on smoking.

“I got a bloody snag again. Did you get any bites yet?”

I shuddered, “I got a fucking eel.”

“Where?”

“Under the rocks, below the rats.”

“Rats?”

“Yep.”

The line on my rod tightened. Another eel. They’re one long muscle and their pull is like that of a frantic bullock.

This one didn’t make it to the rocks, I had it too close to the surface. It must have been a young one, too inexperienced to know what a fatal move this could be. As it came closer I saw it, metallic-brownish-black in the darkened water. Twisting viciously, like a zombie getting killed for the second time. It almost screamed.

I looked in its eyes. Again, black. My stomach churned.

“Can’t touch these slimy things!”

I pulled out my knife and cut the line just above the hook. It was gone.

“Why didn’t you keep it?”

“We’ve already got one. And I kinda feel that one is too many.”

I lay the rod down and went to get the other eel. I nudged it carefully towards the surface, rapping the line around the rock as I went so as not to waste my progress.

I stared at the break in the rocks where the line submerged into the water. I soon had his head staring at me. His teeth snarled around the hook that was almost swallowed. He managed one last attempt at freedom, leaping from his hole and towards the river. I freaked out, knocking over the handline in the process. It bounced down into the rocks, unravelling line as it disappeared. I hadn’t lost the slimy, contorting, sad, sea monster though. He twisted, raping the line again and again around his body, until he was mummified in nylon. Not a pretty sight.

“You want to go?” I held the poor thing at arms length, trying not to puke. He swung in the breeze. We gathered the gear and trudged back along the rocks.

“Yeah, I’m getting a bit hungry. Where’s the bait?”

It was nowhere to be seen — a rats dinner.

Evans Head sucks.

At camp, I found my foot-long Victorinox knife/ machete. I dreaded having to touch the thing, so I did it quickly, first slicing its head off — which took some doing between the  bloody blunt blade and boot-leather skin. I heard the air being cut from his throat, as though this last breath had been saved for revenge.

I sawed it off and threw it to the ground. Its eyes still stared as the rank, muddy, smell of it wafted to my nostrils. I cut away the line and began skinning it. If that sounds easy, it’s not.

“This fucking thing won’t cut. And my head hurts!”

I stabbed the knife into the sand.

“Do you want a go? I’ll start making some coffee or something.”

I had the gas cooker going and the coffee warming up. By a fence, Kosio was struggling with the headless zombie fish. You had to laugh. Hungry, tired, and you can’t get the fucking skin off a fish which you would prefer that you didn’t have. I went to investigate. I can’t remember exactly what Kosio was doing. He had the thing ingeniously attached to the fence somehow and was yanking at it. Whatever he was doing, it managed to work.

“Jesus, it doesn’t come off that easily.”

I was silent, I picked up tonight’s dinner, “coffee’s ready.”

Now eel is probably alright if you have even the slightest notion of how in hell to prepare it. Neither of us did. I kind of just shoved it into a saucepan with some olive oil,  and soy sauce. I knew that the Maoris of New Zealand used to smoke it over those sulfur-spurting geysers. But I was very hungry and we had no geysers.

I watched it bubble in the pan, a desperate man. It was starting to look okay, in a delusional sort of way. Which is probably what people  think when they are stranded without food on the top of the Himalayas.

“Hey Sven, you look pretty good today. Would you like to be massaged with soy sauce? Sit a bit closer to the fire. Get nice and toasty.”

“Or how about that lady from Germany?” She’s been complaining all the way, I don’t think anyone would miss her. And she’s got a bit of meat on her.”

My cannibalistic delusions faded as the “meal” was cooked. I slopped some into a bowl, sat on the ground and started picking at it with my fingers. The flesh was surprisingly inoffensive — perhaps a little too drowned in soy sauce, but edible. I chewed twice, then discovered my first bone. I pulled it from the roof of my mouth. I chewed once more and had three or four tiny shafts lodged between my teeth and in a few other places. I felt like crying. The thing was just a mass of misery. I could hardly swallow a mouthful without fear of choking.

Kosio nibbled a little then put his bowl aside, preferring his cigarette and coffee. I struggled on, just lightly chewing then spitting the rest out. I chewed and spat my way through three-quarters of a bowl. I saw the Germans across the way eating at a table. I went to the tea-tree bushes and chucked out the rest.

I pointed towards the Germans, “they don’t know what adventure is. Them and their sausages. ‘Oh please Ingrid, pass some more salami. Have you organised everything for tomorrow?’ Organise, that’s their idea of fun isn’t it. Well we don’t mind eating shitty old eel with soy sauce. Them and their organisation will never know the joy of that will they?”

“Actually I think I would have liked calamari.” Says the Bulgarian.

The day had finally got to me. I just wanted to pass out.

Then I realised that we had decided not to set the tent up. I collapsed to the ground and stared up at the swirling stars and clouds. A strange euphoria passed over me.

Next, morning. I climb out of the tent that I really don’t remember erecting. I start packing, I want to get out of this fucking place. I disturb Kosio as much as possible to hurry him along. I want a nice cafe; something decent to eat.

He manages to rise and stands stretching outside the door as I half push him aside and quickly pack the tent.

Then, with a cigarette in hand, he asks for the coffee-percolator.

I look at him with knives,  “you’ve got to be fucking joking!”

“What’s the problem? I just want to have a coffee before we go. Relax.”

I throw the percolator at the ground, “we haven’t eaten anything substantial since yesterday lunch, and you want to fucking sit around and have a cup of coffee. You’re a fucking idiot! And you can go screw yourself you fucking stupid shit. All you do is sit around smoking cigarettes, drinking fucking coffee and complaining about fucking women. And you wonder why no-one likes you.

“Sorry I’m just hungry, grumpy and I’m going to get something to eat in town. You can fuck off.”

I walked off into town and bought myself a pie and a nice-cold, coffee-milk. Normally I’d buy something for Kosio. But today he could go to fucking hell!

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