notorious, Paris was the most desirable cities. The festive entertainment and cultural happenings there were none. Successive municipalities had turned into a patchwork of charming villages where it was good to stroll among the street performers in favor of associations and fashionable designer boutiques. Automobiles became scarce, entangled in a gymkhana of socks and bladders that urban planners, concerned with ecology and sustainable development, their behest. Were converted to parking spaces in paths skateboarding youth, roadways yielded precedence to the rails of the tramway friendly environment. We invented a city without cars, which had never existed since the Neolithic. But Herve
Berneuil, Paris was a disaster. Because there was no Mrs. Tran, nor any other brothel, under a law that the dignity of women venal lies in the exhibition of his body on the sidewalk rather than inside a house. There were only few fresh whores who congregated in streets where prowling the gloomy underworld, under the amused eye and complicit police patrols. It was the place of all scams, these girls had no work ethic, she took their clients in the filthy dens, peep the blue or the one reached after a stairwell where the swindlers were lying sprawled on the carpet faded and, after they won their gold mine froze in a pose as little as possible erotic, the slightest movement, the slightest touch demanded extra pay, and we wanted only one thing, get dressed and go to breathe faster as far as possible. They then had
buttons, beads badly placed, sparse hair pussy, breasts hanging down, or monstrous pile lard; other narrow hips, buttocks man, a belly of a senator had deft babydoll concealed, or a horrible makeup, not to mention their sixties who hoped to solicit you by explaining how they were vicious .
He had tried a call girl, found on the Internet, what's most exclusive and demanding, reserved for VIPs, courteous gentlemen and high-level, he slammed the third of his salary for one hour fun with a poor girl perfectly ordinary, something that had cost him two bowls of rice in the mother Tran. It was
down to kiss his wife, which, basically, was no worse, but over time, as the traces of his sexual bulimia faded, she showed less desire, if that was the odors left by other females on the body of her husband who attracted him infallible testimony of his power and fertility.
In addition, the Parisians were living like rats. Tourists, the jet-set, and idle youth, who drifted to sutface, constituted only a facade. The true Parisian life took place underground in the subway, his gray and wet asphalt smells, urine and burning rubber. Its beggars, when they do not harass passengers of their speech and their rancid falsetto, discoursed among themselves socialists multiple grants and allowances which they were entitled, as perfect small Soviet bureaucrats, or ideal readers of the press Handsets which flourished, full of financial promises, the stalls and kiosks. The closed faces, bodies tense passengers, froze into a fortress against the assaults the senses and mind which grew through the maze of pestilence. We had deleted the first class, we could not take his car, and the growing masses of people were crowding one, two, or three hours a day underground in which many of the wretched inhabitants of the Horn of Africa would have preferred a quick death. In Mecca, we welcomed the equality and social mixing that would follow hegemony of mass transit, while the rats were suffering in silence, dreaming of the caribbean paradise that shimmered on giant posters of tour operators. And Captain Berneuil lived as these rats also forced him to take the metro to go meditate for eight hours on the meaning of life, planted in front of a mound art that the taxpayer had bought so many creative acquaintances.
Virility Hervé Berneuil narrowed even more, instead of killing the mujahedeen, he was now engaged in the protection of objects as inept and cumbersome. And against what? An unlikely gang of masked Turlupins not found probably never. Because politicians had once erected, when? can not even remember, these objects inept and bulky emblem of social ties, new Iliad, Aeneid new egalitarian world of the new elites that built. The captain had only one desire: to unload the contents of his machine gun on the masses Stone also informed that he had expensive care.
In accordance with the theory, Herve Berneuil, frustrated in his desires - can not eat a decent steak, meat from Argentina and Australia which he pollock in Djibouti could not cross the filter deployed by "Brussels" - sank into apathy and showed an alarming indifference to the world around him. There
tourists throughout the colonial military. The holstered gun, closed the door of the brothel, he laced his sunglasses, puts on his shirt with flowers, hang a camera around his neck, and will drive the card images Post as would any retiree. And for the military and colonial familiar reg Jebel, Paris was a tourist destination as exotic as the others. But Berneuil whose needs pyramid eroding at the base, it was gray and dull as an oven. The festive flavor narrow and had agreed, compared with bullets whistling in the ears jihadists. The shows were choking in a straitjacket leftist he abhorred. There was only classical music, but he preferred the records of old constant coughing does not pollute and boxing matches in which his wife was crazy, but we conduct only in sordid places.
reacts with indifference mixed with boredom when his wife told him that his stepfather wanted him. He did not see what he could say to this old eighter sixty-end position. He did not understand why it came back on the ban pronounced against her daughter. Probably curious to see what it was like the father of small children would not know it. Anne and her had not the courage to refuse the patient satisfaction, and it was a rainy afternoon they climbed the freshly cleaned carpet to the marble staircase of the hotel Opulent the hometown of his stepfather. There was a heavy oak door painted black lacquer, a cast iron umbrella stand, and a doormat bearing a picture of Joan of Arc riding. This atmosphere of bourgeois and dusty halo remains incognito in this senior official of the artistic avant-garde. Felix
Rocquencourt, draped in a tweed gown, received them in a small room decorated with fine Chinese lacquer, stamped with rococo consoles and a fine collection of Ming porcelains. Anne sat on an ottoman Louis-Philippe, apparently electrified and decided to remain silent. Rocquencourt served them Cognac centenary, he kept in a crystal decanter engraved. His face was impassive, marked by illness, a man who can afford a final betrayal, because he knows that the dust will win the rest. Captain Berneuil was the first and last exotic animal he would ever see, and the only option to get an idea of its transgenic offspring and fascistic cocoon in which it grows. He waited almost a shaved head, the body of a fawn, a look which could not be read as the primary instincts, and his first surprise was that his son looked like a man with whom one could have tea or chatting in hushed offices of the department. It was disturbing: the extreme right was a veritable fifth column. One could even imagine that some officials docile Cultures of Solidarity, who applauded the initiatives most citizens, voted in secret to the infamous beast.
him the master of words, including a speech from the heart got anything, provided that the speaker belonged to the proper environment, remained banned as a boy, nailed his nose in his glass of Cognac. Berneuil, meanwhile, was also surprised. He waited an old bearded paunchy, with perhaps a short ponytail and a big sweater proletarian, who lived in a shambles or combination of social literature in paperback, surrounded by art and junk negro Himalayan. Or a domestic techno-pop and cyber-connected, white and minimalist, with surgical and neon chairs shaped noodle. And it smelled the dandy of the nineteenth century, without any reference to modernity, the stereo itself was hidden by an exquisite piece of furniture Charles X. He was making a rare recording of Liszt's Requiem, not conducive to conversation. Logically, would Rocquencourt had to settle for innocuous questions about the protection of the army museum Walsung. But he had no time to lose in trifles, and ...
Berneuil, Paris was a disaster. Because there was no Mrs. Tran, nor any other brothel, under a law that the dignity of women venal lies in the exhibition of his body on the sidewalk rather than inside a house. There were only few fresh whores who congregated in streets where prowling the gloomy underworld, under the amused eye and complicit police patrols. It was the place of all scams, these girls had no work ethic, she took their clients in the filthy dens, peep the blue or the one reached after a stairwell where the swindlers were lying sprawled on the carpet faded and, after they won their gold mine froze in a pose as little as possible erotic, the slightest movement, the slightest touch demanded extra pay, and we wanted only one thing, get dressed and go to breathe faster as far as possible. They then had
buttons, beads badly placed, sparse hair pussy, breasts hanging down, or monstrous pile lard; other narrow hips, buttocks man, a belly of a senator had deft babydoll concealed, or a horrible makeup, not to mention their sixties who hoped to solicit you by explaining how they were vicious .
He had tried a call girl, found on the Internet, what's most exclusive and demanding, reserved for VIPs, courteous gentlemen and high-level, he slammed the third of his salary for one hour fun with a poor girl perfectly ordinary, something that had cost him two bowls of rice in the mother Tran. It was
down to kiss his wife, which, basically, was no worse, but over time, as the traces of his sexual bulimia faded, she showed less desire, if that was the odors left by other females on the body of her husband who attracted him infallible testimony of his power and fertility.
In addition, the Parisians were living like rats. Tourists, the jet-set, and idle youth, who drifted to sutface, constituted only a facade. The true Parisian life took place underground in the subway, his gray and wet asphalt smells, urine and burning rubber. Its beggars, when they do not harass passengers of their speech and their rancid falsetto, discoursed among themselves socialists multiple grants and allowances which they were entitled, as perfect small Soviet bureaucrats, or ideal readers of the press Handsets which flourished, full of financial promises, the stalls and kiosks. The closed faces, bodies tense passengers, froze into a fortress against the assaults the senses and mind which grew through the maze of pestilence. We had deleted the first class, we could not take his car, and the growing masses of people were crowding one, two, or three hours a day underground in which many of the wretched inhabitants of the Horn of Africa would have preferred a quick death. In Mecca, we welcomed the equality and social mixing that would follow hegemony of mass transit, while the rats were suffering in silence, dreaming of the caribbean paradise that shimmered on giant posters of tour operators. And Captain Berneuil lived as these rats also forced him to take the metro to go meditate for eight hours on the meaning of life, planted in front of a mound art that the taxpayer had bought so many creative acquaintances.
Virility Hervé Berneuil narrowed even more, instead of killing the mujahedeen, he was now engaged in the protection of objects as inept and cumbersome. And against what? An unlikely gang of masked Turlupins not found probably never. Because politicians had once erected, when? can not even remember, these objects inept and bulky emblem of social ties, new Iliad, Aeneid new egalitarian world of the new elites that built. The captain had only one desire: to unload the contents of his machine gun on the masses Stone also informed that he had expensive care.
In accordance with the theory, Herve Berneuil, frustrated in his desires - can not eat a decent steak, meat from Argentina and Australia which he pollock in Djibouti could not cross the filter deployed by "Brussels" - sank into apathy and showed an alarming indifference to the world around him. There
tourists throughout the colonial military. The holstered gun, closed the door of the brothel, he laced his sunglasses, puts on his shirt with flowers, hang a camera around his neck, and will drive the card images Post as would any retiree. And for the military and colonial familiar reg Jebel, Paris was a tourist destination as exotic as the others. But Berneuil whose needs pyramid eroding at the base, it was gray and dull as an oven. The festive flavor narrow and had agreed, compared with bullets whistling in the ears jihadists. The shows were choking in a straitjacket leftist he abhorred. There was only classical music, but he preferred the records of old constant coughing does not pollute and boxing matches in which his wife was crazy, but we conduct only in sordid places.
reacts with indifference mixed with boredom when his wife told him that his stepfather wanted him. He did not see what he could say to this old eighter sixty-end position. He did not understand why it came back on the ban pronounced against her daughter. Probably curious to see what it was like the father of small children would not know it. Anne and her had not the courage to refuse the patient satisfaction, and it was a rainy afternoon they climbed the freshly cleaned carpet to the marble staircase of the hotel Opulent the hometown of his stepfather. There was a heavy oak door painted black lacquer, a cast iron umbrella stand, and a doormat bearing a picture of Joan of Arc riding. This atmosphere of bourgeois and dusty halo remains incognito in this senior official of the artistic avant-garde. Felix
Rocquencourt, draped in a tweed gown, received them in a small room decorated with fine Chinese lacquer, stamped with rococo consoles and a fine collection of Ming porcelains. Anne sat on an ottoman Louis-Philippe, apparently electrified and decided to remain silent. Rocquencourt served them Cognac centenary, he kept in a crystal decanter engraved. His face was impassive, marked by illness, a man who can afford a final betrayal, because he knows that the dust will win the rest. Captain Berneuil was the first and last exotic animal he would ever see, and the only option to get an idea of its transgenic offspring and fascistic cocoon in which it grows. He waited almost a shaved head, the body of a fawn, a look which could not be read as the primary instincts, and his first surprise was that his son looked like a man with whom one could have tea or chatting in hushed offices of the department. It was disturbing: the extreme right was a veritable fifth column. One could even imagine that some officials docile Cultures of Solidarity, who applauded the initiatives most citizens, voted in secret to the infamous beast.
him the master of words, including a speech from the heart got anything, provided that the speaker belonged to the proper environment, remained banned as a boy, nailed his nose in his glass of Cognac. Berneuil, meanwhile, was also surprised. He waited an old bearded paunchy, with perhaps a short ponytail and a big sweater proletarian, who lived in a shambles or combination of social literature in paperback, surrounded by art and junk negro Himalayan. Or a domestic techno-pop and cyber-connected, white and minimalist, with surgical and neon chairs shaped noodle. And it smelled the dandy of the nineteenth century, without any reference to modernity, the stereo itself was hidden by an exquisite piece of furniture Charles X. He was making a rare recording of Liszt's Requiem, not conducive to conversation. Logically, would Rocquencourt had to settle for innocuous questions about the protection of the army museum Walsung. But he had no time to lose in trifles, and ...
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