AK

Yvann hailed me from below. I asked did he want to come up. He did. I doled out ice-cream, cassis and rum, grappa and ginger wine. In return he offered a puff of his spliff. I carefully didn’t cough. He said it was AK coke. “It tastes like hash,” or maybe roach. He thought it might make me laugh a lot. We did have a jolly time roaming over sodomising and necrophilia. He was outraged at some violent guy chasing him for stealing somebody else’s jacket in a shop. “Maybe he was trying to go straight.” He left to go to the bank. “Money, money!” No, not for money: to check if a cheque was paid in or something. I’d be repaid next day. Yeah.

I asked Thomas what AK meant. One short of Amnesia, he said, in terms of hash. “I knew you’d know.”

The first of the new series of University Challenge was on. I came 1st=. One of the questions figured an AK-47 where the letters must’ve been transferred from as a grading of the goodness in effect of other things.

Yvann locked himself out, again. I gave him a cane with a hook on the end which didn’t work. He’d said any key opened his door. I tried my outside door one. It did. I gaped.

This morning Yvann paid me back. I said something about his going on his nefarious way and got a long explication back I didn’t understand a word of, not a word.

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About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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