Day Eight: Clothed in Linen

Breakfast involves a waffle covered in jam and punching the machine.

I still fail to break 900. My wrist feels shattered.

Arriving back in Krakow, we make a big decision. To be bohemians.

Lunch involves 2 litres of red wine and lots of cigarettes. We criticise one another’s operas. Especially Simon’s – his last few have been simply atrocious.

We’re not sure, but Matt might be dead. Leaving him to recover, we head out to buy more wine. Something doesn’t seem right, however…these clothes…they simply aren’t…bohemian…

Minutes later, we leave the shopping centre, baggy linen shirts and waistcoats rippling in the breeze.

Wine, operatic critique and existential agony ensure. Suddenly, we realise we are meant to be at the rock n roll karaoke. It’s not very bohemian, but we roll with it.

We sing everything louder than everything else. Somebody steals Matt’s cigarettes. We keep singing, this time into the microphone. Somebody steals my beer. I confront them and reclaim it. I am not happy.

Things are getting ugly. The stealers are breaking glasses and shouting. Looks like there will be more punching… Maybe I’ll break 900 over this guy’s face!

Matt drags me from the bar. It is just as well. We are not very good at being bohemians.

Hunger descends like a bear. As Matt sleeps off his death, we take to the streets and purchase half a dozen pizzas. The hostel has an oven, right? It must do. Of course it has an oven.

The hostel has no oven.

I microwave a pizza. Simon is unconvinced. I assure him it’s fine and, to prove my point, cram and entire slice into my mouth.

Oh no. This is not delicious. Not at all.

Slowly…inevitably, the scorching cheese sears the skin from the roof of my mouth. Desperately, I keep face. It will not do so show pain. Not to Simon. Not the Grand Vizier. Not…to Bunnslayer.

I swallow and declare the pizza a massive success.

Sleep eases the pain.

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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