Richi.. you are a bit creepy. I don't like it if you use the name of the bartender, and you should know that the carnival passed weeks ago. I am not too fond of orange either, and that's why I wear yellow, if you aren't careful that latex seat will break underneath your weight and I don't sit on your lap because it feels so great but because of the 500 you said you would pay, which means 50 is not enough. You are luck that your mom still prays for you and there are still stones left to make it up with god. It's time to stand up, ifyou want to see more buttocks you better start paying (even felt a gun against your buttock? It's a good reason to sweat, take this coin to pay for the ferry since I took your wallet. Bye, Richis better not make it late because you never know who's leaning on a pole and keeps an eye on you before you know it you can be painted and you float in the river.
The bartender is a guy used to selling alcohol. He knows all about the whole set-up and sells fossilized potatoes (if there is such a thing). Vanessa is that angel that disturbs him. I'm sure he has bills to pay. We forget the old midas, always haunting the rivers and lakes.
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The old Midas... the potatoe king?
At least he can be seen along riverbanks and in large restaurants. He sleeps among cardboard and chases all the skirts. He usually carries a sack with his stuff. A cap with stickers from potato chip ads or anything that is shiny or like magpies. He doesn't shave and likes coffee (when he gets it from some generous passerby). He sleeps feverishly at stops and shakes hands. And he asks, "Do you have any potatoes left? On the odd occasion I've heard him curse ginger.
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