"SHORT STORIES"
by Vittorio Curtoni

Pisciando il mio vino
Pissing my wine
Death of a pie
Some shit in my backyard



"PISCIANDO IL MIO VINO"
by Vittorio Curtoni

Ero a Milano.  Piazza Duomo, il cuore della  citta'.   Avevo
appena  consegnato  una  traduzione a un editore.  E' il mio
lavoro produrre  e  consegnare  traduzioni.   Il mio fulgido
destino.  Erano le undici e  venti  di  mattina.   Avevo  un
appuntamento  a  mezzogiorno  con  mia moglie, Lucia: pranzo
assieme.  Splendido.  E dovevo pisciare.  Pisciare o morire.
Cosi' entrai  in  questo  bar  della  Galleria.   Ordinai un
caffe'.  Lo bevvi.  Poi chiesi al barista: "Posso  usare  la
toilette, per favore?" Il barista mi scruto' con aria grave.
"No,  non puo'" disse.  "Per usare la toilette deve ordinare
una bottiglia di vino.  Cosa preferisce?  Rosso o bianco?"
  
"Come?"   Non   potevo  credere  alle  mie  orecchie.   "Una
bottiglia  di  vino  per  fare  pipi'?   Ma  non  ho  ancora
mangiato!" "Lei mi sembra il  tipo che puo' mandare giu' una
bottiglia prima di pranzo" disse il barista.  "Comunque, non
facciamo eccezioni.  Nuovi  regolamenti  comunali.   Allora?
Rosso  o  bianco?   Un  rose',  magari?"  Sospirai.   La mia
vescica stava  per  esplodere.   "Va  bene.  Bianco.  Adesso
posso avere la chiave della toilette?" Il barista si mise  a
ridere.   "Divertente.   Molto  divertente.   Non  ha ancora
pagato e vuole la  chiave?  Naaa."  Una lunga pausa pensosa.
"Cosa  preferisce?    Merlot?    Pinot?    Muller   Thurgau?
Ortrugo?   O..."  "Trebbianino"  lo  interruppi.   Pagai una
cifra folle per la bottiglia  di vino, ebbi la chiave, corsi
alla toilette (un buco nel terreno, probabilmente un residuo
della seconda guerra mondiale), e pisciai.  Aaah!   Rientrai
nel bar, restituii la chiave, e mi avviai alla porta.  Venni
fermato  da  un  tizio robusto, in una specie di uniforme da
poliziotto.  "Servizio  di  sicurezza"  disse.   "Lei non ha
bevuto la sua bottiglia di Trebbianino."  "Ma  l'ho  pagata"
ribattei.

"Il  punto non e' questo.  Lei non ha bevuto.  Faccia il suo
dovere." Nuovi regolamenti comunali, probabilmente.  Be', in
effetti io sono il tipo  che  puo' bersi una bottiglia prima
di pranzo.  E mancava ancora mezz'ora  all'appuntamento  con
Lucia.   Quando  il  fato  e' troppo forte, il forte applica
l'antica arte del  piegarsi.   D'altra parte, il Trebbianino
mi piace.  Molto.  Stavo dando  il  dolce  addio  al  quarto
bicchiere  di  vino,  e avevo ancora diciamo un quinto della
bottiglia da uccidere, quando  la  mia vescica interruppe le
mie cupe riflessioni sulla triste situazione  della  citta'.
Se mai mi ero chiesto perche' non avessi mai voluto vivere a
Milano, adesso lo sapevo.
  
E la  vescica  disse:  "Ti  suggerisco  caldamente  di  dare
un'altra  occhiata a quel buco che chiamano toilette, socio.
In caso contrario, te  ne  pentirai amaramente, compagno." E
compresi all'istante che la mia vescica aveva  perfettamente
ragione.   Cosi'  mi alzai dal tavolo, raggiunsi il banco su
gambe piuttosto  salde,  e  chiesi  la  chiave.  Il barista,
debbo dire, era uomo di poche parole.  Una  qualita'  che  a
volte so apprezzare, quando le circostanze sono giuste.  "Un
altro  Trebbianino?" disse.  "Contanti, per favore." E pagai
in  contanti.   Non  feci  discussioni.   Pero',  essendo un
traduttore, un uomo di cultura,  lo  guardai  diritto  negli
occhi  e  dissi: "Sicuro che questa sia Milano?  Che non sia
Praga?" "Praga?"  fece  eco  lui,  prendendo  i  miei soldi.
"Sarebbe a dire Kafka."

"Kafka?" Era forte sui regolamenti comunali,  ma  debole  su
altri  piu' raffinati punti del nostro beneamato mondo.  Era
il barista perfetto.  Chi vuole  un barista capace di citare
Kafka e incapace di preparare un Bloody Mary?  Cominciavo  a
vedere  le  cose  a  modo  suo.   Sono un essere umano molto
empatico.   E  poi  ho   sempre  avuto  questa  meravigliosa
tendenza a pisciare.  I miei reni  sono  un  monumento  alla
laurea  magna  cum  laude  in  ingegneria  genetica  di  Dio
Onnipotente.   Per  me e' come una reazione a catena: bere e
pisciare, pisciare e bere.  Dopo un po' diventa un tutt'uno.
Un unicum.  Una visione  filosofica dell'universo basata sul
continuo fluire  di  fluidi  organici.   Cosi'  pisciai.   E
assassinai  la  mia  prima bottiglia di vino.  E attaccai la
seconda.  Ormai era mezzogiorno.  Mia moglie, probabilmente,
mi stava cercando tra  i  piccioni  di Piazza Duomo.  Non mi
avrebbe trovato.
  
Altri clienti entrarono e uscirono.  Bevvero il loro caffe',
il loro aperitivo, e se  ne andarono.  Nessuno aveva bisogno
di pisciare.   Tutti  sapevano,  senza  dubbio.   Lanciavano
occhiate  all'infelice  ubriacone  che  sedeva  da solo a un
tavolo con una  bottiglia  di  Trebbianino.  Alcuni parevano
dispiaciuti, altri molto  divertiti.   Chissa'  come  se  la
godevano.    Implorare  aiuto  era  fuori  discussione.   Il
cipiglio della guardia della  sicurezza era molto esplicito.
Non sono mai stato in galera, e non  sento  la  mancanza  di
questa  esperienza.   E la mia vescica era molto loquace, in
quel giorno fatale.

Lucia mi trovo' poco dopo l'una del pomeriggio.  Io ero alla
quarta  bottiglia  di   Trebbianino,   e  avevo  una  voglia
micidiale di pisciare.   Il  che  significava  la  bottiglia
numero cinque.  Avevo anche ordinato, e mangiato, un paio di
panini  per  dare  una mano allo stomaco, ma il mio cervello
era piuttosto  confuso.   Incoerente,  se  volete.   E avevo
finito i contanti.   Il  barista,  a  quanto  sembrava,  era
disposto  ad  accettare una carta di credito.  Sia resa lode
al cielo per i piccoli miracoli.  Lucia entro' nel bar.  Era
una furia vivente.
  
"Figlio  di  puttana!"  urlo'.   "Schifoso  porco traditore!
Dov'eri?  Dove..." Si interruppe.  Mi guardo' in faccia.  Io
cercai di alzarmi e di  andarle  incontro,  da  buon  marito
fedele, ma le gambe mi tradirono.  O la gravita', chi lo sa?
Comunque,   ricaddi   goffamente   sulla  sedia.   L'effetto
Trebbianino.   Lei  socchiuse   gli  occhi.   "Sei  ubriaco"
sibilo'.  E credetemi, quando Lucia  sibila  potete  leggere
guai nei suoi occhi.  "Ero sottosopra, preoccupata per te, e
ti  trovo qui con una bottiglia di vino!" Si avvicino'.  Non
avevo difese.  Il mio  cervello  era  in stato d'attesa.  La
mia  bocca  si  rifiutava  di   aprirsi.    "Ti   disprezzo"
sussurro'.   "Sei  la feccia del mondo.  Sei..." Le successe
qualcosa.  Una piccola convulsione.  Un movimento non troppo
placido dei suoi fianchi.  "Non ho fatto altro che cercarti,
pezzo di merda.  Mi sono  persino dimenticata di andare alla
toilette.  Non muoverti.  Torno subito." Raggiunse il banco.
Il barista.  Io levai  il  mio  bicchiere  in  un  brindisi.
"Bemvenuta  al  club" pensai.  O cercai di pensare.  "Adesso
te ne accorgerai."  E  se  ne  accorse.   Ragazzi,  se se ne
accorse!

Back to Short stories


"PISSING MY WINE"
by Vittorio Curtoni

I was in Milano.  Piazza Duomo, the very heart of the  city.
I  had just delivered a translation to a publisher.  My job,
making and delivering  translations.   My royal destiny.  It
was eleven twenty in the morning.  I had an appointment with
my wife, Lucia, at twelve: a  lunch  together.   Very  nice.
And  I  had to piss.  It was piss or die.  So I entered this
bar in the  Galleria.   I  ordered  a  coffee.  Drank it up.
Then asked the bartender: "May I use the toilet, please?"

The bartender scrutinized  me  gravely.   "No, you can't" he
said.  "To use the toilet you must order a bottle  of  wine.
What  will it be?  Red or white?" "What?" I couldn't believe
my ears.  "A  bottle  of  wine  for  pissing?  But I haven't
lunched yet!" "You look like the kind of guy who can take  a
bottle  of  wine before lunch" said the bartender.  "Anyway,
we make no exceptions.  New  city rules.  So?  Red or white?
A rose', perhaps?" I sighed.  My bladder was on the verge of
exploding.  "Okay" I said.  "White.  Now may I have the  key
to the toilet?"

The bartender laughed.   "That's  funny.  Really funny.  You
don't pay and you want the key?  Naaa." A  long,  thoughtful
pause.   "What  do  you  desire?   Merlot?   Pinot?   Muller
Thurgau?  Ortrugo?  Or..." "Trebbianino" I cut him short.  I
payed  a  crazy  amount for the bottle of wine, obtained the
key, ran to the toilet  (a  hole  in the soil, probably left
from World War Two), and pissed.  Aaaah!   I  reentered  the
bar,  returned  the  key,  and  started for the door.  I was
blocked  by  a  huge  guy  in  a  sort  of  police  uniform.
"Security Service" he said.   "You  didn't drink your bottle
of Trebbianino." "But I paid" I said.

"This is not the matter we are  discussing  here"  he  said.
"You  didn't  drink it.  Go back and do your duty." New city
rules, I supposed.  Well, I am  the kind of guy who can take
a bottle of wine before lunch.  And I still had half an hour
before meeting Lucia.  When fate is too strong,  the  strong
apply   the   ancient  art  of  bending.   Besides,  I  like
Trebbianino.  Very much.  I was saying farewell my lovely to
my fourth glass of wine, and  still had let's say a fifth of
the bottle to kill, when my  bladder  interrupted  my  moody
reflections  about  the sad state of city affairs.  If I had
ever wondered why I didn't  choose  to live in Milano, now I
knew.  And the bladder said: "My strong suggestion  is  that
you  take another look at that hole they call toilet, buddy.
Or  you  will  badly  regret  a  decision  to  the contrary,
comrade." And I instantly understood  that  my  bladder  was
perfectly right.

So  I rose up from the table, walked on rather straight legs
to the bar, and asked  for  the  key.  The bartender, I must
say, was a man of few words.  This is a quality I  sometimes
appreciate,  when  the  circumstances  are  right.  "Another
Trebbianino, then?" he  said.   "Cash,  please." And cash it
was.  I didn't quarrel.  But, being a translator, a  man  of
culture,  I  looked him straight in the eyes and said: "Sure
this is Milano?  Sure it's not Prague?" "Prague?" echoed the
man, taking my money.  "I mean Kafka." "Kafka?" Well, he was
strong on city rules, but  weak  on other fine points of our
beloved world.  He was the perfect bartender.  Who  wants  a
bartender who can quote Kafka and does not know how to mix a
Bloody  Mary?  I was beginning to see things his way.  I'm a
most empathic human being.

Furthemore, I have  always  had  this  wonderful tendency to
piss.  My kidneys are a monument  to  the  magna  cum  laude
degree  in genetic engineering of God Almighty.  It's like a
chain reaction to me: drink and piss, piss and drink.  After
a while, it becomes  one.   A whole.  A philosophical vision
of the universe based upon the continuous flowing of organic
liquids.  So I pissed.  And drank to death my  first  bottle
of  white  whine,  and started on the second one.  By now it
was noon.  My wife  was  probably  looking  for me among the
pigeons of Piazza Duomo.  She  would  not  find  me.   Other
customers   came  and  went.   Drank  their  coffees,  their
aperitifs, and left.  Nobody had to piss.  They all knew, no
doubt.  They cast  glances  to  the unhappy drunkard sitting
alone at a table with a bottle of Trebbianino.  Some of them
were sorry, others quite amused.  The  fun  they  must  have
had.   Begging  for help was out of the question.  The scowl
on the face of the  security guard was quite explicit.  I've
never been to jail, and it's an  experience  I  don't  miss.
And my bladder was very loquacious, that fateful day.

Lucia  found  me a little after one in the afternoon.  I was
at my fourth  bottle  of  Trebbianino,  and  much in need of
pissing.  Which meant number five.  I had also ordered,  and
eaten,  a couple of good sandwiches to help the stomach, but
I was rather fuzzy.  Incoherent, if you like.  And I was out
of cash.  The bartender, it  seemed, was willing to accept a
card.  Thank you heaven for small blessings.  Lucia  stormed
into the bar.  She was a living fury.  "You son of a bitch!"
she  screamed.   "You filthy disgusting traitor!  Where have
you been?  What..." She stopped.   She looked at my face.  I
tried to rise and meet her like the faithful husband  I  am,
but  my  legs  failed me.  Or gravity, who knows?  Anyway, I
fell down clumsily  on  the  chair.  The Trebbianino effect.
She narrowed her eyes.   "You're  drunk"  she  hissed.   And
believe me, when she hisses you can see your troubles in her
irises.   "I  was all upset, all worried about you, and here
you are with a bottle of wine!"

She  approached.   I  had  no  defense.  My brain was on the
perennial stand-by.  My mouth  seemed  to have closed up for
the day.  "I despise you" she whispered.  "You're  the  scum
of  the  world.   You..."  Something  struck her.  A sort of
small convulsion.  A  not  so  placid  movement of her hips.
"I've been looking for you.  You shit.  I even forgot to  go
to   the  toilet.   Just  a  minute.   I'll  be  back."  She
approached the bar.  The bartender.   I raised my glass in a
toast.  "Welcome to the club" I thought.  Or tried to think.
"Now you'll find out." And she found out.  Boy, did she find
out!

Back to Short stories


"DEATH OF A PIE"

Before Rupert could say a  word, somebody stopped him at the
other end of the line.  "Good  afternoon  to  you,  lady  or
gentleman, gay or lesbian" said a kind male voice.  "We hope
everything is going very well.  And what can we do for you?"

Rupert,  contrary to most characters in most stories, didn't
hesitate.  "It's  my  brother  Jack.   He  had  a  stroke or
something like that, we think." "Ah." The kind voice sounded
very saddened.  "Terrible.  How's the situation?"  "We  were
celebrating  his  birthday.  His fortieth birthday.  He fell
face down on the  pie."  "Boy!"  The voice whistled.  "How's
the pie?" "Dead, no doubt" replied Rupert.  "What  a  shame.
We'll  immediately  send an ambulance.  What's your address,
please?" Rupert gave the voice his Internet address.  But he
soon recovered.

"Okay.  The ambulance will be there in fifteen minutes, hour
more, hour less.  And  don't try mouth-to-mouth breathing on
the pie.  It could be very dangerous.  Thank you for calling
your friendly National  Health  Assistance  Center."  Rupert
hang  up.   The  children  were  very  upset.   "Uncle  Jack
shouldn't  have  done  this  to me" wailed little Nemo.  "No
decency!  Couldn't he wait half an hour?" Camilla was older,
and much more versed in the  ways  of the world.  "He was an
ass  at  thirty-nine,  he's  still  an  ass  at  forty"  she
declared.  "What did you expect?"

Judas, the family teenager, had been fucking  his  girlfiend
Anjelica  in  his room.  Distracted by the sudden commotion,
he lost  his  momentum  and  had  an  unfortunate ejaculatio
praecox.  Anjelica didn't like it.  Not at all.  She planted
a knee in his balls, then a  fist  slightly  to  the  right.
Breathless, in his underwear, Judas stumbled into the living
room.   "My  balls!"  he  cried.  And fell on the couch, the
same couch where somebody had  put  Jack to lie.  So he fell
on Jack.  Jack didn't seem to notice.  In fact,  he  wore  a
silly  grin  on  his face.  "Look at him" said Mabel, Jack's
wife.  "He's grinning, the  sonofabitch.   Happy as hell for
fucking up our party, eh?" "I always told you you  shouldn't
have married him" said Emilia, Mabel's sister.  "But no, you
said  lesbian  is  wrong.   It  serves you right, you stupid
cunt." "Stop bitching"  ordered  Rupert.   "The guy said the
ambulance will be here in fifteen minutes, hour  more,  hour
less.   What  do  we  do in the meantime?" "Monopoly!" cried
little Nemo.  "Poker" said older Camilla.

They settled for  a  strip  poker.   Judas  was already half
naked, so his participation to the game was vetoed.  Anyway,
absorbed as he was in his solipstistic appreciation  of  the
pain  in  his  balls,  he  didn't  give  a  damn.   When the
ambulance arrived, about  fifty  minutes later, Rupert, with
the excuse of a fallen card, was under the table and  ogling
Mabel's  vagina: he had always hoped the day would come when
he could fuck his sister-in-law,  but actually he had become
a full time practitioner of  masturbation,  and  the  moment
seemed  full  of  promises.  Emilia was teaching Camilla one
pleasure or two of lesbism.   Little Nemo had been called to
help alleviate Judas's pain and was now  vigorously  blowing
on his cousin's balls.

"How d'ya do fellas!" said the first paramedic.   He  looked
around.   "Nice  afternoon, I see.  And where is our beloved
one?" "On the couch.  Under  Judas" answered Rupert.  He was
really pissed off at the turn of events.   Fuck  them!   Now
that  he  had  Mabel  practically naked...  "Hi Judas.  Nice
balls you've got" said  the  paramedic.  "A little reddened,
if you want my  opinion.   Measles?"  The  second  paramedic
approached  Rupert.   "Hello  mister.   Nice  hard on you've
got." He took a  look  at  Mabel's tits and swallowed.  "Not
that I don't understand...  Now, what exactly is your degree
of relationship to the beloved one?" "Jack  is  my  brother.
Or  was,  if  he's  dead"  said  Rupert.  "Wonderful.  Maybe
you've heard of this  new  fantastic  service offered by our
caring National Health..."  

The second paramedic produced from a pocket of his paramedic
uniform   a  single  sheet  of  paper,  neatly  typed.   "We
understand you suffered the loss  of a birthday pie.  We can
replace it with a  delicious  strawberry-and-banana  freshly
caked  pie,  especially  made  for  you.   What do you say?"
"Okay" said  Rupert.   His  voice  was  tired.  "Where's the
swindle?"  "Nossir."  The  second   paramedic   was   really
indignant.   "No swindle.  It's all perfectly legal.  If you
sign here, at the bottom, you  have your pie AND at the same
time give a full demonstration of your  altruistic  soul  by
making  a  present  to  medical  science  in the form of the
corpse of your beloved brother."

Rupert turned, took  a  look  at  the  couch.  Under Judas's
balls, Jack was still breathing.   Of  course  he  had  seen
better  moments, but was still breathing.  "He's alive" said
Rupert.  "He's not a  corpse."  "Not  yet" replied the first
paramedic.  "Our modern medical science will  take  care  of
this  momentary  accident.   Nothing to worry about." "Also"
said the  second  paramedic  "we  offer  a  special Month of
Cremation deal to anybody who..." "Okay,  okay"  interrupted
Rupert.    "What   the  fuck.   He  should  have  been  more
considerate of his relatives.   Give  me that paper." And he
signed.

Back to Short stories


"SOME SHIT IN MY BACKYARD"

Eric was shitting again in my backyard.  The smell, full and
aromatic, tickled my nostrils while I was reading the latest
KKK newsletter.  Somebody had  put  it  in my coat pocket on
the bus home.  Worst things have been  known  to  happen  on
buses.

As  for  Eric, that was the third time in one week.  Well, I
can take  some  shit,  but  enough  is  enough.   I rose up,
crossed the living room, entered the kitchen and opened  the
back window.

There he was, crouched in a semi-fetal position, arms around
his  knees,  a  sort of stupefied pleasure on his face.  His
dick, old and wizened, was  spitting the last tears of fetid
piss on my beloved weeds.

"Hei, Eric" I shouted "what do you think you're doing?" "I'm
shitting" he replied.  "Bad case of diarrhea." I nodded.  "I
know.  The stink is unmistakable.  I mean, why  here  in  my
backyard?   This  is the third time in a week." "The plumber
never came"  said  Eric.   "My  water-closet  is dead.  What
should I do?  Explode?" "Not a bad  idea"  I  informed  him.
"Really,  this  has  to  stop.  I don't mean to..." "I saved
your life" he declared, with a face full of the same shit he
was so liberally shooting  around  in  my  yard.  Here we go
again, I thought.  Same old story.  It will never end.

"I saved your life" Eric  repeated,  growing  very  serious.
"If  only  the motherfucker had pressed the trigger before I
stuck that knife into his  back..." He let the sentence hang
in the air,  along  with  the  fumes  of  his  shitting  and
pissing.  Sweet aroma.

"The  moterfucker"  I  reminded  him  "aimed  his  gun at me
because I distracted  him  so  that  he wouldn't shoot YOU."
"Doesn't matter.  I saved your life."  "You  saved  my  life
because I was trying to save YOUR life.  And if you remember
correctly,  the  motherfucker was YOUR uncle and he was in a
rage  because  he  found  out  that  you  were  screwing his
daughter.  Your cousin.  I had never seen  him  before.   He
had  no  reason  to  be angry at me.  Right?" Eric pondered.
Projecting himself  towards  the  soil,  he  pulled out some
weeds and began cleaning his ass.  Disgusting.

"My uncle" he said "was a close friend  of  Joey  Automatic.
Same  personality.   He  could  have killed ANYBODY at first
sight, just for fun.  Now  I  don't want to be disrespectful
of my dear  uncle.   He  was  a  good  fella  and  all,  but
something  here  in his head..." He tapped his temple with a
forefinger; and,  having  finished  his  cleaning,  he began
putting on his pants.  We had  had  the  same  discussion  a
number  of times.  At least all the times he'd been shitting
in my backyard.  Useless.  In  a  way, I loved that old man,
who was already old when I was a child;  in  another  way  I
could  have murdered him for his uncle and for the shitting.
I tried the kind approach.  "I'll lend you the money for the
plumber.  No, wait.  I'll  call  my  plumber and send him to
your home.  Is that all right with you?"

He was zipping his pants.  He shook his head.  The  shit  on
his  face  was  spreading  like  the  thirst  for  blood  in
Dracula's  coffin.  "I'm afraid the matter is not so simple"
he said.  "All of  my  plumbing is rotten.  The water-closet
is just a surface problem.  When you dig deeper..."  It  was
then  that I saw the light.  "In other words" I said, slowly
"you like shitting in my backyard.  Just to remember me that
you saved my life.  Just  to  punish me because I was trying
to save your life and instead you saved mine.  Is  that  so,
old  man?" He grinned.  Now he was fully erect, and dressed.
He had recovered his dignity.   "My  son, if you prefer your
subjective view to the pure truth  that..."  "I'm  not  your
son!" I interrupted him.  I was barking.  "And please, spare
me  the  metaphysical shit.  It is better than the shit that
comes out of your ass, but  I don't like it.  Wait a minute.
I'll be back."

I ran to the living  room,  took  the  newsletter  from  the
chair,  sprinted  to  the back window, and showed him what I
had in my hand.   "What's  that?"  he called from below.  "I
can't see from here." "This is  the  KKK  newsletter.   Nice
reading, for a white fella." He seemed perplexed.  "Now what
do  you  mean?"  "I  mean,  my dear old man, that you have a
slight handicap.  I am white, and you're black.  So it goes.
And I have all these KKK friends, and they take no shit from
no nigger."  He  laughed.   "I've  known  you  all  my life.
You're white, okay, but you're not full of shit like..."

"YOU are full of shit" I said.  "And I'm tired of seeing  it
in  my  backyard.   And  I  could  have changed my mind.  It
happens, you know."  He  got  the  message.   At once.  I've
always loved Eric for his bright  brain.   "Okay"  he  said,
starting  back  toward  his  home,  not  very far from mine.
"Send your plumber.  Friday morning should be all right.  No
need to alarm your friends, I think."

"Bye, Eric." I waved my  hand.  "Bye, Jonathan" he said.  He
looked up at me.  "By the way, thank you.  I'll save  a  lot
of  money  in  prunes  and purgatives.  Do you think it's so
easy getting diarrhea?"

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