Claptrap

I haven't written in over a month. That's in large part due to my now ex-roommate whom I will refer to as Claptrap, thereby continuing my tradition of protecting the guilty with pseudonyms, and at the same time naming his twin predilections for endless drunken rambling, and V.D.
I first met Claptrap many months ago at a school function. I noted that as soon as the official portion of the meeting was over and we were free to drink, Claptrap took a can before anyone else, and stopped after everyone else. That was in April, tax season for Americans, and he graciously offered the use of his computerized tax program, inviting me to his residence, shared by his now ex-girlfriend. In order to compensate Claptrap for his help, I compensated him with a few bottles of medovuha. I don't think the behavior of drunks is really worth reporting on, but let me summarize by saying that I had the distinct feeling that Claptrap had homosexual tendencies which fortunately he never tried to act on, perhaps because he is a born-again Christian.
Afterwards, I did not associate with Claptrap because he just talks too much, even when sober. He occasionally would call me on the telephone, though, letting me know the cost of oral sex (from a woman), or complaining that the women in his Russian smut mags were all down with V.D., or to let me know how to avoid paying taxes.
Many months later, after returning from a trip in France, I was living alone in a two-room flat, and needed a second person to pay the rent. Because the other choice was a long-term friend of a very typical expat- a runaway debtor- I chose the devil I knew.
He was soon blessing my life with 36-hour non-stop bouts of alcoholism set to the tune of Alan Jackson and Waylon Jennings; at the end of the day, he could be found passed out on the fourth-floor windowsill, with the window open. Once he got so drunk he knocked over the bathroom sink, shattering it. I even severely cut my foot on the porcelain fragments laying on the floor, resulting in a trip to the hospital. His alcoholism, round-the-clock garrulousness, deep voice and globe-spanning circle of acquaintances led him to frequently talk at all hours.
He also brought home two women he supposed were whores, one of whom was 17 years old. Prostitution is very common in Russia, and the fact that people do that doesn't bother me except on a very abstract level. Prostitution in Russia is frequently connected to other types of crime, especially robbery. The scam works like this: the woman decides she wants you to be her client, and possibly slips something in your drink, then goes home with you, possibly with an armed, muscular male following close behind. You go into your apartment with her and begin to amuse one another- until Igor or Vladimir arrives with a baseball bat, knife, or gun, ties or beats you and leaves you on the floor for dead while rifling through your belongings to find cash, passports, credit cards, or jewelry. Electronics are also fair game for theft.
So when Claptrap brought home his jewel of a woman a few weeks ago, I was prepared for the worst, and took all the sharpest knives out of the kitchen and slept with them under the pillow. When they were porking, I could have easily imagined from her voice that he was making love to a chainsmoking chicken- had I not earlier seen him with a sag-eyed hawk-nosed whore 45 before her time. Afterwards, Claptrap revealed to me that he had not even used a condom, and fully expected me to sympathise with him when he complained that he might be HIV-positive.
Anyways, I threw him out a few days ago. When he was still drunk, ashamed and depressed, I wheedled 200 dollars of compensation out of him, and used the money to pay half a month's rent at another place on the other side of town.
Who knows how long I will be able to live at the new place before that arrangement blows up, too?