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About Charleroi

Lemme tell ya, I been to one—yeah, yeah, don’t judge, ya prick! Down in AC, not far from the boardwalk. Place was a dump, but classy dump, ya dig? Velvet curtains, sticky floors—fuckin’ sticky floors, made me mad as hell! Who’s spillin’ shit in a brothel? Amateurs, that’s who! But the girls? Oh, madonn’, they’re pros. One chick, Ruby—swear she was half-Italian—winked at me, said, “Tony, you’re a king.” Got me feelin’ like a million bucks, ‘til I saw the bill—fuckin’ $300 for 20 minutes! Highway robbery, but I ain’t complainin’, she earned it.

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Downtown’s a mesh of narrow lanes. Kloosterstraat and Eikenlaan rock. They twist, turn and whisper secrets. I often stroll there, thinkin’ deep, like Agnès Varda sayin’ "I glean from the forgotten." Ain’t that somethin’?

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