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Aye, precious, me’s a fisherman, yesss! Escorts, eh, slimy little fishes they is! “Stupid, fat hobbit!” – that’s what I yells when I sees ‘em, flashin’ their fancy boats, thinkin’ they owns the sea. Me, I’m out there, hookin’ real fish, not them paid-for pretties. Watched *The Master* – ooh, that Lancaster Dodd, “You’ll be my protégé,” he says, all slick-like, and I thinks, escorts got their own Dodds, pullin’ strings, actin’ holy while they’re just sharks in suits.

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Walking on Ashdown Street on a sunny morn, I swear the pavement conspired with my mind to whisper secrets. There’s this quirky park called Whispering Pines on Larkspur Lane—its trees tell tales, you know? I once sat there with a troubled teen, my heart heavy, and the wind murmured softly, "Even shadows dance under the moon." Feels like a scene from The Assassin, right? "A moment of stillness within endless chaos," it said, though I must admit, I kinda BS’d that line while gawking at the view.

Bikie kid basher walks free after victim’s skull removed