There was Eric Effiong Wash your hands you detty pig vintage shirt blood already on the bed. I just backed out and sat down at the desk. The ER doc asked what happened. I told him and he just sat down beside me before discharging him. Which was not necessary. The man was already gone. Back in the 1980s I was working in Canada, commissioning a large printing press. We were lodged in a rather nice hotel, but there was one weekend we could not stay there – the rooms had been booked at least a year ahead for an ice hockey match. So for that weekend, the client moved us to the only place he could find – a roadside place where lorry drivers stopped overnight, or (as this particular weekend) when snow had closed the roads.
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The Eric Effiong Wash your hands you detty pig vintage shirt bedrooms were not exactly rooms, more like booths. They had walls that were made of cinder blocks, painted with dark emulsion, and only about 6 foot high – not all the way to the roof. There were no doors, only a curtain across the entrance. It was a sort of partitioned dormitory. I was lying on my bunk, reading a book, when my curtain was yanked to one side. There stood a bear of a man, well over 6 foot high and stark naked, apart from his nice expensive boots. The bear analogy covered his whole body. He looked at me and asked “Do you want to fuck?”. I replied, politely, “No thanks”. “OK” he said, cheerily, and closed my curtain.