Vanity. Ares

con man. We got comfortable and sat in a corner
with the girls, one for each of us and a spare, my
one perhaps being the least attractive; as her nose
was as big as a cheap pub Sunday Dinner, all the
extra’s and an arch to go with it, but I cracked on.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AA
Rafaele was wild, I remember that night he
snorted cocaine off one the girl's breasts and
poured a Vodka Martini over his hands to cleanse
them of his sins, he joked, wildly too. “I giveda the
happiness, they giveda the money,” Rafaele would
say, expressively emphasising the words with his
hands. He taught me a lot of tricks; tricks for
poker, tricks for impersonating people, tricks to
get people to you believe you.
There was one time me and him were
walking through the City and we saw an Artist, a
painter on the side of the street standing next to a
large canvas with a picture of a bird on it — a
yellow background, red bird, sunset and water —
I thought it was a nice picture. It was apparently
painted through the use of a muse the artist
explained: “It’s all about the Empyrean, thesa the
signs leading to God,” said the Artist, fixing his
yellow hat, before continuing to speak, but in
Italian, turning away from me (Perhaps he sensed
that I was not Italian) and concentrating more on
Rafaele, who was in fact becoming friendly with
him — smiling and conversing with a friendly
level of eye contact; the type you have when you
are at the level above just a quick stop and chat, I
thought. Mind you I was just watching but hearing
small bits I could understand and was only told
what happened once it was over, and me and
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