She looked at me with a certain comprehension in her eyes."Cor, yeah," she said, "It was those Bishopston wankers, in the stairwell - and you beat the... off with your walking stick! Fuck, but that was pretty fucking good, for an old guy like you. Sorry I broke your mug, by the way."I sighed, wondering whether it was worth disabusing her of these misconceptions, or whether, indeed, it was only my Pride that tempted me to do so. While I pondered, she raised herself from the couch I had so. The bar survived solely on the men that worked in the fields. My sister and I shared a room, my brother slept in the living room, and my parents had their own bedroom. It was in that room that I saw what would occupy my mind for the rest of my life. The men that worked the fields were mostly married men with there families back in Mexico, they would get off work and come to the bar to spend there money, and where there’s men and money, there are prostitutes. One night I woke up to. More

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