On site, no one had ever heard of Norbert Walsung. A technician had even done a search on the Internet, he stumbled upon a few pages, but no relation to a type likely to leave his name to a museum. Everyone did not care, either. For now, it was raining and the mud stuck to boots. Shuttering boards rotted until the router that did not come because the bétonnier had not been paid. Justice had put his nose in the accounts of the project, had not respected the rules of public accounting.
We talked about mega financial scandal, it was said that the type of department that handled the case, one Rocquencourt, did acrobatics with the President that the site restarts. Meanwhile, the foremen were wading in the slurry, such as small children idle in the heart of a rainy autumn. Engineers, huddled in their cabin angrily prefabricated, deletions schedule. A concrete block hanging from a rope, forgotten. The architect was unavailable, hospitalized for depression after an unfortunate divorce proceedings. And the rain drenched all dirt and germs all mutants did not stop, as if the god of weather saw the museum as a blasphemy. Mohammed did not care
Benchetrit Norbert Walsung more than others. He hated France and did not want one thing thing, when he returned back home have raised enough money. But he first had to endure this hell wet, dreary landscape of beams and rusting, boards piled and rails, the greyness of hangars and warehouses, disused chimneys near overpasses where diesels trampled strata of tuberculous graffiti, this sea of cans, scrap and carcasses from which emerged at times, like a dream ship, a cultural center, a multi sports palace, a house associations with glass walls smooth or tubular architecture, with these signs sown logos and carefully studied reassuring that reminded citizens that local Local taking charge of their spiritual elevation.
Here was the North, a world that had fallen into madness long ago, a world where adultery is not a crime nor a tragedy but a recipe to spice up there where girls showing their navel and the wind were to strangers with the approval of their parents, where they grew fruit for the burn under control of a public servant and he needed a hammer to drive a socket because the it was designed to provide maximum security. Yes, in the corn, everything was simpler. Mohammed
Benchetrit was responsible for the work the hardest and most dangerous and nobody could see wrong with it was a normal thing considering the quality of Arab and recent arrivals. That is why we sent for him in the pouring rain, while a tenacious clay covered more than ever his soles, the leather bag stupidly missed a wobbly beam by the Engineer of Public Works State. It was not sadism or humiliation. It was without meaning any harm, the foreman might as well go there himself, but as he was passing by Benchetrit ordered him to get the bag, it was pretty painful because of rain and Benchetrit did not refuse to perform general heavy work since he believed it was his party.
There was just a little clay feet of Benchetrit, it was amalgamated into a sticky putty inadvisable to walk on a wet and wobbly steel beam by a time-soaked twilight showers and gusts of wind.
It was a gust of wind a little stronger than the others who rushed Mohammed Benchetrit a height of eight meters. He died six days later and his body was repatriated in the corn. With this new worries, the site was not ready to leave. The press pointed to the company Giant Construction Ltd., which leads in contracts from the Ministry of Culture of Solidarity, and it was rumored that she had received bribes, kickbacks. This particularly infuriated proponents of a humanistic and interdependent economy, because Giant SA was known for its lax hygiene and safety and supervision practices that bordered the farm.
We talked about mega financial scandal, it was said that the type of department that handled the case, one Rocquencourt, did acrobatics with the President that the site restarts. Meanwhile, the foremen were wading in the slurry, such as small children idle in the heart of a rainy autumn. Engineers, huddled in their cabin angrily prefabricated, deletions schedule. A concrete block hanging from a rope, forgotten. The architect was unavailable, hospitalized for depression after an unfortunate divorce proceedings. And the rain drenched all dirt and germs all mutants did not stop, as if the god of weather saw the museum as a blasphemy. Mohammed did not care
Benchetrit Norbert Walsung more than others. He hated France and did not want one thing thing, when he returned back home have raised enough money. But he first had to endure this hell wet, dreary landscape of beams and rusting, boards piled and rails, the greyness of hangars and warehouses, disused chimneys near overpasses where diesels trampled strata of tuberculous graffiti, this sea of cans, scrap and carcasses from which emerged at times, like a dream ship, a cultural center, a multi sports palace, a house associations with glass walls smooth or tubular architecture, with these signs sown logos and carefully studied reassuring that reminded citizens that local Local taking charge of their spiritual elevation.
Here was the North, a world that had fallen into madness long ago, a world where adultery is not a crime nor a tragedy but a recipe to spice up there where girls showing their navel and the wind were to strangers with the approval of their parents, where they grew fruit for the burn under control of a public servant and he needed a hammer to drive a socket because the it was designed to provide maximum security. Yes, in the corn, everything was simpler. Mohammed
Benchetrit was responsible for the work the hardest and most dangerous and nobody could see wrong with it was a normal thing considering the quality of Arab and recent arrivals. That is why we sent for him in the pouring rain, while a tenacious clay covered more than ever his soles, the leather bag stupidly missed a wobbly beam by the Engineer of Public Works State. It was not sadism or humiliation. It was without meaning any harm, the foreman might as well go there himself, but as he was passing by Benchetrit ordered him to get the bag, it was pretty painful because of rain and Benchetrit did not refuse to perform general heavy work since he believed it was his party.
There was just a little clay feet of Benchetrit, it was amalgamated into a sticky putty inadvisable to walk on a wet and wobbly steel beam by a time-soaked twilight showers and gusts of wind.
It was a gust of wind a little stronger than the others who rushed Mohammed Benchetrit a height of eight meters. He died six days later and his body was repatriated in the corn. With this new worries, the site was not ready to leave. The press pointed to the company Giant Construction Ltd., which leads in contracts from the Ministry of Culture of Solidarity, and it was rumored that she had received bribes, kickbacks. This particularly infuriated proponents of a humanistic and interdependent economy, because Giant SA was known for its lax hygiene and safety and supervision practices that bordered the farm.
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