Bleurrgh…eckhahag..fuckin’ funk I’m drunk. Wooozeeessh. Fuuuuck, my thoughts are woozed. Can’t get straight. Buuuutt…I…don’t care. Ahhh, and who the funk are these kids. Been dancing off of those chairs for couple minutes now. And funkin’ gin tonics in their hands, fuckin’ figures. Damn neon clothes. Sheeee…And lace and necklaces…and fucking earrings on both of them I think. Like fuckin’ fourteen-year-old kids. Who let the fuckin’ kids in here. Uururrup. Weird fuckin’ kids.
But they might even be a bit good looking. I don’t care about the boy though. I’m not fuckin’ gay. Not funkin’ gay at all. Not like all the other funkin…Blurph…ehhh…ehh..but the girl though, I don’t know. If she wasn’t a..wasn’t looking like she was a nine years old. I’d go to rape for that. Pfg. Go to jail for that. Rape.
And now they’re in the middle of the funkin’ floor. Dancing…real fucking wild and weird. Whjaoa. It’s not even a club, you fucking kids. Shit, and it’s Michael Jackson, that American asshole. Wacko asshole. They’re screaming to it…real fucking wild and weird. Beezzurrnt..pfffgh. Fuck, I gotta say something. Fucking stand up.
“Michael Jackson was a fucking pedophile. Stop fucking dancing!” I snarrlscream out. And they just look at me, wide fucking eyes.
“Hola! We know! We don’t care! His songs are our favorite!”
And they keep fucking dancing. Those assholes, I can’t believe it. They keep fucking dancing. I want to do something. I fucking need to do something. I want to throw a cup or a bottle or any fucking thing, but the bartender won’t give me another. Cut me off, the cunt. Pfffigh. And he fucking knows me too, been coming here for months. I gotta do something.
“And he was a fucking Jew too! Everyone knows he was a pedophile. No one knows he was a funking Jew!” This time I stand up. My arms up, big as I can get. Wooozeeerizjep…Fluu..ahhck. I gotta fucking sit down. I sit down, my elbow thud on the bar now with my head resting on my hand and eyes fucking narrowed right at them and my knees swung wide apart over the funking bar stool. Come here, you fucking kids. Come here, I fucking dare you.
And now that makes them look at each other with those same fucking wide eyes and they sit the fuck down and then have the fucking nerve to turn to me and try to fucking talk to me about what I said.
And the girl, then she babbles, all fucking broken and soft, about “mentiras” and her fucking idol. I don’t give a fuck. Pffh. And the boy, he starts to talk too, but louder and clearer such, about the same shit. I still don’t give a fuck, but they are pissing me off less. Pfffeeugh. It’s because I got them to stop the funking weird dancing.
I don’t know why but now I’m holding out my fucking hand. My funking hand out. And I say my name. Bluurphgzzt. And then those fucking freaks…bllhh...they start going on in French or damned Catalan. Fucking bastards, I’m from fucking Germany. In a fucking Spanish bar.
I’m too pissed to keep talking. They’re trying to tell me they’re married, fucking Andorran or shit. “What the fuckare you doinghere then?” I yell over the goddamned pop. They fucking shrug. I don’t give a fuck. I’m done. Pfhguyg. I’m funking done with the kids.
I turn away. Drop my fucking head onto the bar. It’s fucking heavy, a mess right now. I know he’ll kick me out in a few minutes. Don’t fucking care. I hear the kids getting up to leave, trying to tell me bye. Don’t fucking care.
And the boy, when he leans forward to pay the fucking gin tonic tab, he’s definitely got a fucking earring on. It’s got one of those damned cartoon characters on it. That fucking Japanese cat, I think.
Don’t fucking care right now. I’ll sort them out another night. Qhuurneeekzzpt…bzzzt…eowoozt…spltt…
