THE BEETROOT
You preserve mummified bodies of your unborn children, you keep them in the closet, and then you make sandwiches in the morning and then bring them for the office pigs, and then in the evening you give out newspapers to idiots who can’t read, and then during the night you sell coke in the nightclub, where the bouncer ignores that you carry a bag full of uplifters, but later on you have to fulfill his sick sexual fantasies: he usually wants you to strip naked and pee on his bald pate... Your dog was put to sleep because he’s bitten off your ex’s balls when he broke into your house and tried to fuck you because he felt like you owe him. Now you stand in a never ending queue with the bottle of vodka and listen how a very tired cashier, who worked here for 34 hours nonstop, explains to a fucking retarded customer that cooked beetroots she wants to buy are in fact pickled.
You smash the bottle into the shelf with tinned food and, while squeezing the sliver against her throat, calmly explain:
-You’re buying those beetroots, bitch, all of them, you’re buying all the cooked and pickled beetroots in this shop now, you’re paying for the broken bottle of vodka and go home to your cats. What’s the fucking difference between cooked and pickled? You’ll shit everything out anyway. ___________________________________