the premises, which housed a chess club every Tuesday evening from 18 bis 21 clock, said Alsatian taverns , which allowed reasonable conclusions to be drawn both to the body such as the menu. was on the way to the so-called club room I make a side trip to the counter and ordered my first order ". N malt" Klaus of the host bent down noisily, to get to the root beer from the refrigerator under the counter. I avoided the gaze of Klaus wide rump, which threatened to escape his pants completely, preferring instead to study the series of pewter plates on the opposite wall, the lower edges of a parallelogram to the top of the half-height wall panels shown. Shortly thereafter, Klaus emerged from the ground up bar again, his face glowed as if he had the root beer wrestle it first. He waved the trophy over his head.
"Are early at all," he said. Did he ever.
"Hmm." I did not like a fuss and bother to Klaus so did my root beer.
"Can you go through it."
"Hm"
with the bottle in hand, I trotted back. The folding door of burgundy plastic with embossing expressed displeasure when I widened the gap and squeezed me through. Empty rows of chairs and cold smoke received me.
I took a board and a set of characters from the cabinet. As I build, I imagined what it would be to win that night. It would be in all the years the first time and I would tear up his arms and - no idea what I would do then. That seemed even absurd in my imagination.
The folding door creaked, and Jürgen the ass in. shuffled.
"Well, already there?" Jürgen the ass was a masterpiece of eloquent greeting.
"Hmm."
"How's it looking?"
"Today I win."
"But not against me." Jürgen's ass throaty laugh. Jürgen
the ass was in his late thirties, divorced, and I could also well imagine why. Jürgen in the ass not only played chess, but go, and as everyone knows, these are the worst types of all: The playing chess and Go.
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