Henrik is going to be down for the weekend. While some people who live in the interior never come down to the city, others cannot be kept away. Henrik is one of the latter. He curses the traffic when he visits, "Dumb motherfucker! Learn how to drive asshole!" but other than that enjoys the sleazeball city for all it is worth.
Henrik is the closest thing to a good luck charm as I have when it comes to gambling on horses. We have visited the racetracks around here and in the interior many times over the years and I have only lost once in Henrik's company. Since I do not really believe in good luck charms I think there must be some logic to my wallet fattening in Henrik's company.
The only logical reason I can think of is the volume of booze we belt back. All that booze must relax me. Last time we played the horses things started badly. But before you knew it we started winning when the racetrack started spinning. Just before the last race Henrik slurred, "I'm going for a smoke. Bet on whatever the fuck you want for me." He handed me a Canadian fifty.
The race in question was a sweepstakes down in motherfucking California. Every horse in the race but one was of superb quality. I stuck with the horse I picked the night before. It was the best of the best I reconfirmed in my relaxed condition.
Henrik thinks I am a genius when I pick 8-1 winners. That is the beauty of a day at the races: one minute you are an idiot, the next you are motherfucking Alfred Einstein.
If I am a well known dead physicist this weekend, and not one of the fuckers I see kicking themselves in the ass every time I visit the racetrack, Henrik says he is going to be riding a Harley again this summer. On the phone last night he said, "Remember the pile we made last time we got shitfaced when I was down there in your rain soaked crackhead whoretown nobody knows how to fucking drive city? I hid it from the old lady and am thinking why not try and hit a home run. And I'm buying the fucking beer Einstein."