My friend H. it was very young to study in the United States. It was an engineer, but the father had prepared for them to be great managers, he and his brother. Should be, make a master, then work in large companies, to be successful and solvents world citizens, enjoy the delights of western civilization. They did, then, H., and brother.
H. is visiting Argentina in Buenos Aires, so let's eat. He is married with three children and a BMW that still does not exist in the southern hemisphere. He lives in London.
"The only thing I like is smoke, and fuck with prostitutes," says H.
Me tell a story, H. As an executive of a multinational, a major laboratory, travels all the time. Travel to Geneva, Amsterdam, Brussels. But travel a lot more to Shanghai, Bangkok and Singapore.
When traveling, take advantage of smoking, to take advantage of prostitutes. He promised his wife, H., once they had their first child, and stop smoking, they would not smoke anymore, had more important things in the world to smoke. The prostitutes, well, the lady did not mention anything about it, so H. preferred do not touch the subject.
The point is that H. traveled for two days in Bangkok, had a couple of meetings with Asian executives, then bought three packs of cigarettes, and hired a prostitute there.
was slightly drunk, tells H., when he went to pick up, stood up, saw a mixture of awe and amazement that he was not wearing a condom. The condom had broken, the prostitute told him she did not give a damn (apparently told him that not one wheelseat impoltaba) and went to bathe.
H. sat on the bed and realized he was going to die. Had done everything wrong, and now await their punishment. Had AIDS, safe. Had cancer throat, too.
changed the flight, forward back, had to talk to his wife. It was going to do a medical check to confirm the AIDS throat cancer. I wanted to see her children, watching television with his wife, have a chat. Perhaps one could be saved, the medicine had done, despite its intrinsic cruelty, notable progress. H. wanted to live.
next day hit back. He had left a rash all over his body. Arms and legs, back, torso, neck. I could hardly swallow a sore throat. Would talk to his wife, and begin treatment sooner. He was young, perhaps his wife managed to forgive him, for the kids. Had had good times together. H. was spent shivering the entire flight, flying fever.
The driver left him at the door of his home in Hampstead. It was eight o'clock. There was no originality to London, but it was raining.
opened the door with infinite weariness, illness had begun, without doubt, the task of demolition.
His wife was sitting in the kitchen, pale as a ghost in a nightgown. With disheveled hair, red eyes having spent the night crying. He saw the remains of a broken glass on the counter, under the harshness of fluorescent lights.
"I said. He had rehearsed how to tell, but he locked the words. She knew However, I had guessed everything was clear. I want to tell you something. Timmy
-bullied, "said his wife, opened the taps and tears. It stood up, hugged him. I was playing in the garden, crossed the street, was hit by a truck. Timmy was a nice
Miniature Schnauzer. He liked to sleep in the room of his son Jeremy, and walking at night in the rain. I always received at the turn of his travels, with a couple of jumps and a hoarse bark. Poor Timmy.
"Well," he stroked her hair, squeezed, wiped his nose with the palm of a hand. Well.
She raised her head.
"You're full of bumps," he said. And you have the smell of butt.
"I left a rash, something I ate with shrimp," said H. -. In Bangkok smoke up the boys for nine years, Caro, I have to smell faso up stockings, I itch all over. Poor Timmy, che. That club.
H. is visiting Argentina in Buenos Aires, so let's eat. He is married with three children and a BMW that still does not exist in the southern hemisphere. He lives in London.
"The only thing I like is smoke, and fuck with prostitutes," says H.
Me tell a story, H. As an executive of a multinational, a major laboratory, travels all the time. Travel to Geneva, Amsterdam, Brussels. But travel a lot more to Shanghai, Bangkok and Singapore.
When traveling, take advantage of smoking, to take advantage of prostitutes. He promised his wife, H., once they had their first child, and stop smoking, they would not smoke anymore, had more important things in the world to smoke. The prostitutes, well, the lady did not mention anything about it, so H. preferred do not touch the subject.
The point is that H. traveled for two days in Bangkok, had a couple of meetings with Asian executives, then bought three packs of cigarettes, and hired a prostitute there.
was slightly drunk, tells H., when he went to pick up, stood up, saw a mixture of awe and amazement that he was not wearing a condom. The condom had broken, the prostitute told him she did not give a damn (apparently told him that not one wheelseat impoltaba) and went to bathe.
H. sat on the bed and realized he was going to die. Had done everything wrong, and now await their punishment. Had AIDS, safe. Had cancer throat, too.
changed the flight, forward back, had to talk to his wife. It was going to do a medical check to confirm the AIDS throat cancer. I wanted to see her children, watching television with his wife, have a chat. Perhaps one could be saved, the medicine had done, despite its intrinsic cruelty, notable progress. H. wanted to live.
next day hit back. He had left a rash all over his body. Arms and legs, back, torso, neck. I could hardly swallow a sore throat. Would talk to his wife, and begin treatment sooner. He was young, perhaps his wife managed to forgive him, for the kids. Had had good times together. H. was spent shivering the entire flight, flying fever.
The driver left him at the door of his home in Hampstead. It was eight o'clock. There was no originality to London, but it was raining.
opened the door with infinite weariness, illness had begun, without doubt, the task of demolition.
His wife was sitting in the kitchen, pale as a ghost in a nightgown. With disheveled hair, red eyes having spent the night crying. He saw the remains of a broken glass on the counter, under the harshness of fluorescent lights.
"I said. He had rehearsed how to tell, but he locked the words. She knew However, I had guessed everything was clear. I want to tell you something. Timmy
-bullied, "said his wife, opened the taps and tears. It stood up, hugged him. I was playing in the garden, crossed the street, was hit by a truck. Timmy was a nice
Miniature Schnauzer. He liked to sleep in the room of his son Jeremy, and walking at night in the rain. I always received at the turn of his travels, with a couple of jumps and a hoarse bark. Poor Timmy.
"Well," he stroked her hair, squeezed, wiped his nose with the palm of a hand. Well.
She raised her head.
"You're full of bumps," he said. And you have the smell of butt.
"I left a rash, something I ate with shrimp," said H. -. In Bangkok smoke up the boys for nine years, Caro, I have to smell faso up stockings, I itch all over. Poor Timmy, che. That club.
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