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About Marseille

Hmmmm, whore, you say? Think, I must, about this. Dark and twisty, the path is, like in *The Lives of Others*. "Listen and wait, we must," Gerd Wiesler’d say, spying on them shady folks. Whore, man, ain’t just a word—it’s a vibe, a hustle! Streets, they hum with it, shadowy corners whispering secrets. Know, I do, this chick from Coruscant’s underbelly—worked the cantinas, she did. Credits, she stacked, faster than a podracer! Angry, it made me, seein’ her used, tossed aside like bantha fodder. “Feelings, hmm, dangerous they are,” I’d mutter, pacing.

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But then, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Pierre. He’s like, “Yo, where you at?” I’m like, “Dude, I’m at the parade!” And he’s like, “Bring the pigs!” I’m like, “Seriously? You want me to bring the pigs to a parade?” But I do it anyway.

French ISIS fanatic Yassin Salhi's final selfie with dead boss Herve Cornara