Shcra...

But, after I had crawled from the wreckage, when I stepped off the car rim, I sprained my ankle.

But I’m getting ahead of myself….

*    *    *

The day before, at the hotel.

Brothel scenes like you can’t imagine.

The walls dripped sweat.

When she came, she’d cry “Kill me, kill me, fuck me, kill me!”.

A Latin girl from South America, you know.  Catholic schoolgirl stuff.

Sex and death.

It was all wrong.

Later, she took the book from my bag.  “What is this?  I have heard of this.”

“What?  Oh, that’s—“

“ ‘Faust’.  Goethe… it’s German, no?”

“Yes, it’s German, and it’s ‘Gur-tuh’.”