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About Mons

Oh, an’ the smells—booze, sweat, somethin’ sour. Like Eli Cash’s apartment, “pretty rancid,” y’know? Brothel’s a circus, mate—clowns, freaks, an’ a ringmaster with a whip. Ever wonder who’s really in charge? Not the girls, nah—some fatcat upstairs, countin’ coins. My precious, it’s a trap! A big, glittery trap! What d’ya reckon, eh? Seen one yerself? Tell ol’ Gollum, quick!

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Oh, and don’t get me started on the nightlife. You’d think a small town stays asleep. Ha! Some nights at the local bar near Dorpsplein, the banter’s so raw it practically hurts. I told a client once, “Ever feel the anger? It’s like the city itself is having a bad day – c’mon, get a grip!” Yeah, I’m not your typical warm-and-fuzzy spa owner, I’ve got sarcasm dripping off my words like a leaky faucet.

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