Camillo is a player of Snai.
Camillo is nicknamed the doctor. And 'old, but maybe not that much.
Camillo spends his days in the training room, the white room, windowless, empty. You see all races in the program and play a little, a euro or two at a time. At 12 go to eat lunch and then back to caritas.
Camillo, when he wins, run out and buy something to drink red wine often. My colleagues have the requirement once the bottle and if they are drained, to his face.
Camillo has a green jacket, worn-out, full of stains. I am afraid that has not ever really wash.
Camillo stinks and when he speaks does not understand anything. E 'toothless believe or just eat the words.
Camillo never talks about anything. To anyone who asks questions or makes fun of and always answers just the usual litany: "Do not break my balls," he says.
Camillo once gave the bitch to my colleague. If you think I seem to hear those words with such difficulty, as if his breath was really valuable. Troy said, spitting too, for the effort.
Camillo, in training room, eat sausages or raw figs, and when you win the ticket gate dirty with leftover food.
Camillo, once the bathroom of the bar was busy, he did a poo in his pants in the middle of the room. There were those who wanted beat him that day because he smelled.
Camillo is a bitch when it comes to cash to play, try to confuse you in any way to screw the money.
A Camillo I dedicated my first real story. He told of a desperate man who dies.
Camillo died. yesterday.
In the room, everyone was talking about it today. They did not speak to him, saying only that he was dead.
Camillo died yesterday. seriously.
This is a tribute to him for a man who has gone without ever talking to anyone.
"Horse racing is a hell instead. I stand for on my own. Do not talk to anybody. That's something. Of course, I know the stakes. But I have to go to the door, use your voice. After years, they end up knowing you. And many of them are decent people. I think all those years of contact with the people provide some insight. For example, know that most human beings are big pieces of shit. And yet even with pegs keep his distance. By staying on my own, I have an advantage. I could do at home. I could shut myself in and play with the paints or something. Instead I have to somehow get out and make sure that humanity, more or less the whole, it is always a big piece of shit. As if you could change! Hey folks, I have to be crazy. Yet there is something, in short, for example, I do not think there's death, there you feel too stupid to be able to think. I took a notebook, I thought, well, 'between a race and one I will write something. Impossible. The air is heavy and flat, we are all volunteer members of a concentration camp. When I get home, then you can meditate on death. Only a little. Not too much. I do not care to die and I feel no regret. It just seems a mess. When? Wednesday night? Or while I sleep? Or because the next horrible hangover? Car accident? It 'a burden, something that needs to be done. And I'll go without faith in God should be fine, I can face it head high. It is one of those things you have to do, like putting his shoes in the morning. "
C. Bukowski." Captain is Out to Lunch "
C. Bukowski." Captain is Out to Lunch "
