Who is Claptrap?

I'd aleady known of Claptrap as the guy who'd been beaten up and had his computer stolen outside The Real McCoy, a bar and dance club where a Jewish friend of mine had been offered manual sex by a fascist, when I first met him in person in February 2008 at an early afternoon teacher training session at the school agency we both worked at.
Memory 1
He had short black hair that was beginning to thin a bit, a solid, compact paunch, active black eyes in a childish face with a perfectly diagonal knick on the forehead, and an alert posture. He's standing in the newly remodelled low-ceiling auditorium, which still had a little plaster dust on the floor, holding a half-liter can of beer, and engaging his own worry more than anyone else about how he'd saved hundreds of dollars by buying 30 dress shirts with his credit card after his flight home to New Mexico that Christmas. I was having a beer, too and we casually exchanged numbers.
Memory 2
I'm walking up a cobblestoned street, it's refreshingly cool, the sun is back out, and a gust has driven the diesel fumes away. It's the mid-afternoon lull in classes when I normally swing into the 45 Seconds Crepeshop and put away two crepes with cheese, pickles, and mushrooms in cream sauce before hurrying down to the school to read my emails. Claptrap is calling and telling me about how the woman in the pornographic magazine he bought is down with V.D., which segues into a talk about boundless opportunities, how we should open a chain of schools starting in Vladivostok, how he spent 200 dollars on sunglasses, how we wants to become the Russian importer of dried New Mexico hot peppers. It feels intractable, so I tell him it's time to eat, and instead of saying goodbye he keeps talking, so I just tell him I am in a hurry, hang up and go in to eat.
Memory 3
Claptrap has offered to help me do my taxes. The preconditions for him helping me are that I bring a couple drinks and that I come to his place- he lives in the northeast of Moscow, whereas I live in the northwest. It's April 13th around 7pm. He arrives at the exit to the station in a taxi, and we spend 25 minutes plodding through traffic to get to his high-rise, which has a priveleged view onto a railway depot scrapyard. I have a bag with two bottles of beer and one bottle of mead, which he isn't familiar with. We go out on the balcony and he starts to smoke, and opens the first beer. Although he's American, he insists on speaking German with me, introducing himself and telling me about the MBA he'd received in Germany. He tries the mead, likes it quite a bit and we share it. He complains about his girlfriend, who refuses to have sex with him after coming home late from a job she is too dedicated to, and about the salary at the school we work at. Claptrap has an MBA, so he deserves more. He goes to the refrigerator, pulls out a clear soft bag full of dried red peppers, and begins telling me again about the opportunity of selling them in Russia. He opens the fridge again and opens a bottle of dry red wine, he takes around twice as much as me, and as the night goes on, we still have done no taxes and again Claptrap is complaining about how someone who has an MBA should be getting paid more by the school. Another bottle of wine is opened, and I call it quits, although I am already pretty drunk.
Claptrap continues, and begins telling me about his 80,000 dollars in debt. He says that the MBA never paid off, and that he was in debt repayment. I told him he needed to slow down a little bit, drink less, keep plugging away and in a few years the debts would be gone. He asks why he'd gotten the MBA at all then if he was not going to found a business. I am in the same situation, so I sympathize with him. Still he keeps drinking, and I start again, too, and soon we are both quite drunk, I tell him he needs to go on a long walk to clear his head, and he asks me for the 10,000 dollars he needs to do it. We agree to embark on a bicycle tour of Siberia that very summer. In a moment of drunken, wounded soul-baring, he tells me Jesus Christ is his personal Lord and Saviour. His voice tells me that this fact has made him the subject of some mockery, especially in secular Germany. He drifts back to his low salary and tells me that the school we work at can suck his dick. He repeats the phrase, asking if I understand, and tells me that his girlfriend can do the same, and that the banks can do it, too. He stops short of asking me. His eyes are now a fine pink and the distance between them seems to have shrunk, which with his ajar mouth makes his nose look thinner, and makes his face aroused, angry, intent, and idiotic; in the haze I understand that his religion will keep him away from me. It is now well past 1am when the last transport leaves, and we have done no taxes. I go to sleep on the floor at a solid distance from him.
A few hours later, the sun wakes me up. Dual headaches are stemming backwards from my eyesockets, and the sun goes right through my eyelids. Claptrap is X-shaped belly up and snoring like a sow. I don't feel like he will be getting up anytime soon, so I go for breakfast, but the fridge is empty. After a few hours, I wake him up and tell him we need to do my taxes. We turn his laptop on, and he tells me it replaced the 3500 dollar one stolen from him outside the Real McCoy. He tells me he needs to leave in forty minutes to teach a class and earn 100 dollars, but I remind him that he invited me to help me file my taxes online. Because we both live outside the US and earn less than 87,500 dollars, we are both exempt from US taxes, so the process is straightforward and soon we are finished. I am a wreck, but he seems absolutely fine and goes outside on the balcony to have a smoke. He shows me his cobalt-blue Marlboro ashtray, telling me it cost 20 dollars, theatrically/ accidentally drops it, and says he is sure it will not break. No one screams, and when I look down below I don't see anyone.
I get my things together and Claptrap takes me downstairs in the elevator. It's now late morning and the day seems like it will be gray but warm. He explains how to get back to the metro. I remember the previous evening's 25-minute ride, but I am a skinflint and reason that part of the duration resulted from the traffic jam. I am shocked to find Claptrap lives 13 minutes from the metro.
Memory 4
It's high spring and I am pissing away a free hour in the net. When the hour is up, I leave and begin making the deceptively long walk to the metro. I hear a bling from my phone- Claptrap has written that he received a bill for use of his tax program. I owe him 1000 rubles. I tell him it was his mistake, and that I will pay 500.
Over the course of several weeks he presses me lightly on the issue and finally I pay.