Serge smiled dumbly. He didn’t even know if dumbly was a word – it sounded wrong somehow – but when the ebullient troupe that surrounded him showed the picture on the digital camera the word seemed apt enough.
One of the guys laughed loudly at Serge’s expression, though he himself wasn’t looking that much better in the frame. Still, Serge casually spat him in the face. A huge yellowy phlegm. But that didn’t seem to temper the good mood of the teenagers. On the contrary.
Judging by their accents they were French. Judging by their ethanol breath they were drunk. Very, very drunk. They tried to force a bottle on him too but it would have to be a cold day in hell for him to sink his teeth into a Heineken. Ghastly beverage.
Besides, he was starting to get a bit queasy. It was the first time Serge had taken a tram and the irregular oscillation of the vehicle didn’t totally agree with him. He wondered why he had gone along with the motley gang in the first place. But then again, they hadn’t left him much choice.
The other passengers were by now ogling them as if they’d never seen a drunken bunch of teenagers on a tram before.
Or maybe they had.
Just not one in the company of a dumbstruck llama named Serge they’d just broken free from a closed-down circus.
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