"But what you want, you? What do you want my soul on a silver platter? You should have thought before, dear policeman to stop the race. What did you think that a fine for breaking the lighthouse I could stop right? You want me dead. "
Two hours later I found myself in a cell, handcuffed and clubs, is likely to offend public officials. Official shit, anyway. This here is not the job holder, is a precarious, always keeps the hand on the gun. Maybe he thinks that by killing a hapless driver on Sunday to promote him to the marshal of the army chief of Zimbabwe to the conquest of Narni. Maybe a little girl and does not know how to keep it above the threshold of survival. Maybe it's just shit . It is probably the latter, the definition that sums up his existence.
The fact is that I spent a night in jail and I woke up with a cup of coffee in hand while watching a supermodel in the eyes of fear.
Yes In your dreams. You made me lose the thread.
were saying?
Ah, yes. I spent a night in jail and I woke up a bit 'numb and cold. There was no fucking cop with homicidal mania, was a quiet type, early forties, tall and moved, I said please, come out well, it was an accident, forgive us. The policeman who arrested her was found lying in the street stoned to crack. Luckily he is alive, even if his wife would be very desirable, "added the lanky.
And I spent a night in jail because the pulotto was poured for the crack? But let me pleasure. I could not pull his just a kick in the mouth? He mouthed the street and lost all his booze past, present and future. Instead I've been good. As usual.
So, this is possibly my desire to go to dinner with his wife, take her to bed, drop it again in front of his house and tell pulotto hacked to clean up the drool from coca because they do not grow children like that, asshole.
You have two children, Christ, come into compliance. Quit the game of chance, stop smoking, drink every once in a goccino, if you want every now and then discards the pipe, broom with dignity your loving companion informed about fucking social security forms and found a job that is not dangerous. If, however, shoots up cocaine, crack swallow, smoke smuggled cigarettes, drink scotch without restraint, be a cop, you got a gun charged and your wife with you only a TV-type approach with Margot, you can now move from below and let her leave crying ...
terrible life, yours. Luckily I'm here, to grow your daughter and your wife make life better. Luckily I'm here.
Krzensky Samuel was found dead Killensville station on the morning of June 13. The killer, Christopher Bambert this, a policeman, a father of a daughter and married to Marie-Dixie, claimed responsibility for the murder screaming out loud the name of the dead, while brandishing a machete. It 'been tried for summary. For him it comes to record a sentence: life imprisonment. Krzensky's last words were these: "in this porcazzozza station there is not even a surveillance camera to stop the balls with the machete in his hand."
Quanta sweetness in his words. Do not forget you, Sam.
