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Rino had encountered difficulties of many
kinds, but these did not include finding a woman to fuck or someone
to pick a fight with.
    And recently he had found a couple of bars where skinheads, punks,
and all the local freaks hung out. A bunch of rich kids who showed
off riding around on Harley-Davidsons worth thirty thousand euros. Rino despised them, but their womenfolk swarmed over him like flies
on shit.

    All the girls followed the same career pattern: most started out
as shaven-headed anorexics who tattooed swastikas and Celtic crosses
on their asses and for a while played at being bad girls and slept
around. They would fuck up their brains with cut shit, then get sent
off to some American clinic to detox, have their tattoos lasered off,
marry a rich businessman and end up driving around in a Mercedes
wearing a miniskirt and a boucle jacket.
    But Rino took advantage of the transitional phase and of their
undiscriminating desire for sex and intense experience. He would put
his mark on them, then kick them out next morning with their pussies
on fire and a few bruises. And most of the slags came back for more.
    Stupid cows!
    He plunged into the ice-cold shower, shaved his skull and then
put on a tiny vest, his pants and his boots.
    He went down the stairs into the lounge, a room of about thirty
square feet. On one side of it was the front door, on the other side
a hall leading to the kitchen, a toilet and a broom cupboard.
    The floor was covered with reddish linoleum which rode up
against the red brick and concrete walls. On one side of the room
was a table draped with a green-and-white checkered plastic tablecloth, and two benches. On the other the television area. Two blue
plastic crates with an old Saba color TV on top. To change channels without getting up the Zenas used a broomstick, ramming it
against the big channel buttons. Opposite the TV were a sofa bed
with a filthy cover and three white folding chairs with plastic threads.
There was also an orange-colored iron bench with a barbell loaded
with weights. Lastly, in one corner, next to a big box full of newspapers and a pile of firewood, there stood a cast-iron stove. A ventilator fan on a stick served in winter to spread the warmth of the
stove and in summer to stir the sultry air.
    Danilo and Quattro Formaggi would soon be arriving.
    I can do some work on my biceps, Rino said to himself. But he
abandoned the idea. His tummy was rumbling and his cock was
still erect.
    He turned on the TV and started jerking off as he watched a
blonde bitch with a pendant as big as a turkey medallion around her neck helping a fat man prepare some fillets of wild mullet in a
sauce of raspberry, chestnut and sage.

    With his pecker in his hand, Rino gave a gesture of disgust. That
shit they were cooking had made him lose his hard-on.
15
    Danilo Aprea looked at the old Casio digital watch on his wrist.
    A quarter past eight and there was still no sign of Quattro
Formaggi.
    He took out the purse in which he kept his coins. He had
three euros and ... He brought the small coins closer to his eyes.
Twenty ... Forty cents.
    Four years had passed since they had changed the currency and
he still found it confusing. What had been wrong with the lira?
    He got up and ordered another grappa.
    This'll be the last one, though ...
    At that moment a mother entered the bar with a little girl bundled up in a white parka holding her hand.
    "How old is she?" he restrained himself from asking the woman.
    "Three," she would have answered. He was sure she was three,
or four at most.
    Like...
    (Stop it) Teresa's voice reproved him.
    Wouldn't it be wonderful if Teresa came around this afternoon?
    Teresa Carucci, a woman as insipid as a bowl of celery soup
(as Rino had put it to him once) and whom Danilo had asked to
be his bride one evening in 1996, had left him four years ago to
set up home with a tire dealer who she had been working for as
a secretary.
    Yet Teresa