Day Four: Rejection Stroganoff

We start the day with wine. A bottle each. This is life. This is pain. This is Poland.

Lunch involes pizza, pasta…and scallops James. What these are, we know not at all. But they are hot. So hot.

Simon burns his giant, alien hands. Scallps James…what hast thou doenst?

We take a seat outside the old Hewbrew school. A dog lolls, uselessly in the park. Simon claims it is industrious. He is…deluded. Arguments ensue.

We spot a revolutionary bar. Naturally, we enter. Coffee is in order, so we take two. Matt doesn’t believe in coffee, it turns out. It believes only in the proletariat.

I head to the bathroom, for the nineteenth time that day. Whilst I am gone, Simon and Matt create a waxen sculpture of my glory. It involves a huge…huge penis. My body is nought but a triangle…the strongest of things, or so I am informed. I weep to myself.

Our return involves ice cream. It is not as good as the ice cream we had before. This infuriates me. I subdue the anger… All is calm. I spy the gladius, a second time…

Enough is enough. I flip a coin. Heads I buy it, tails I don’t. This is the only way to decide whether or not I am going to purchase this weapon. I flip the coin. Simon snatches it from mid-air. Tails.

Fuck it. I purchase the gladius anyway. It’s a gladius. All is well. All is…perfect. We head home.

awefinpaefowe rfatooartngpaer




(everything above is essentially what happens, in perfect detail.)

We head through a storm to the Jewish Quarter, for rejection stroganoff. And beer. So much beer. We consult the beer-o-meter…it says we should be dead. Twice. We are impressed.

We consume another pitcher. And another. By this point, the storm has calmed itself…and we have run up an enormous tab…

We have agreed to honour Loki, God of Mischief. There is only one thing to do. We flee into the night.

The barrier. Leapt. The puddles. Hurdled. The labyrinth of streets. Navigated…poorly. The CAGE…pillaged. The 9% beer…purchased and devoured.

Rule Two: never look back.

By some miracle of navigational excellence, we run home. Through the rain. The Gods only know how. We revel in our own excellence…and brutal, brutal prose.

We are felons. Fugitives from the law… It feels…good. Rule Four: regret nothing.

It all else fails. Rule five: deny everything.

Shits given to date: not a single.

About the Author
Ed Gamester is a silly man who lives in the United Kingdom. He is the harbinger of Ghost Squad, singer of Gay Bum and author of A Rum Run Awry. He fights, kills and dies for TV and films, and gallivants around the place wrestling, drinking and lifting things for glory and profit. Where Ed treads, there stamp the boots of the Guild. Ed does not wear glasses, but feels this photograph makes him look more intelligent and artistically talented than he is. Feel free to contact him: he is disappointingly affable.

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