Some good short stories here and well written too (bonus).


I found myself one afternoon high on meth-amphetamine and talking to a very serious, slightly tearful, but suicidal meth addict at his spacious apartment in the centre of Prague.  His name was Bohuslav, named, he told me, after a famous Czech composer.  Bohuslav had a straight posture and a frightening gaze.  He was very handsome and with a tall and sinewy frame.  His face was golden and suffering.

‘My cock doesn’t shrink,’ he told me.  His English was perfect with only a hint of a Czech accent.  ‘This shit doesn’t affect me anymore.  I can sleep, too.’  He went forward over the table to snort another line and as he did he said, ‘Do you know, not long ago in Prague we used to work for bread.’

We took his terrier for a walk around the streets.  He loved that dog, it was his only friend.  We drifted through crowds of…

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