“He was a richly rich bitch. Supported by his father´s legacy, drunken all the time. I can´t remember a day when he was sober, meaning no drinks the last 12 hours. Getting sober would engage a little bit more of his droopy efforts. Can´t remember when I had not to withdraw some cash late at night, from his account, to order at a home delivery service. He never bought booze for more than two days, could happen he changes his mind and – he was good in excluding himself. With drinks you make money, with wealthy alcoholics you make a pile. And I sponsored the delivery boys´ bashy weekends by excessive tips. And blow jobs. If you live in such a narrow cage with a cracked tiger, you enjoy to feed some cute pets. He always wanted to be a musician. He had charism. And he was hiding one of these small kids in its corners, emotionally deranged enough to have something to say, without accusing, harmless masochistic selfish hole of a brick. So a – The Drunken Musician was born. He couldn´t manufacture a tone, not even noise, not because he was always drunken, just because he is a fuckin asshole. Lazy fuckin asshole. So he knew. He was a smartass, still. He became a show gag more than a show. An introduction. He got well paid, no free drinks, so he shot him down during the day, starting at noon. Picking up his guitar again and again to check if he can still keep it in a professionell or just proper looking way. That´s how I felt sometimes in his embracement. They did bets on him, how long he will last on his bar stool, how many glasses he will brake and with it his guitar or not. Today he ordered his 12th one. 14 shows all in all. Twice K.O. And if there is a proper stage, how many bones he will brake falling from his stool all the way down on the thunderous ground of the rackety audience. After midnight he was mostly creeping with the rats. I left before.”
