I do the secret knock. Jan opens the door, wielding a spray bottle like a Glock 9mm: “Sanitise before entering!” he commands. He’s decked out in camo pants, his welder’s gloves, and a balaclava. Pssst! Pssst! My hands smell funny. It must be strong stuff because my eyes are watering. “Sorry Comrade,” Jan says, “But this is a battle we all have to fight together.” “Viva,” I mumble and sidestep past him.
Doctor devil has taken office in the center of the counter, sampling a Corona with a sparkle in his eye. “How are you doing, darling?” he asks and orders some drinks: “Two Bheki Celes for me and a Fake News for the lady please.”
“Watsegoed?” I ask. “Two shooters and a Castle Free,” the barman explains.
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