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About Brussels

So, I’m thinkin’, why not? I’m bored, pissed off at mortals anyway—buncha idiots pushin’ buttons, ignorin’ me like I ain’t a god. Findin’ a prossie sounds like a laugh, a little chaos to stir the pot. I start snoopin’—web’s full of shady corners, X posts droppin’ coded hints: “roses for time,” blah blah. Little known fact? Back in Victorian days, they called ‘em “soiled doves”—poetic, right? Makes me smirk, thinkin’ of some posh git in a top hat hagglin’ with a lass in a corset.

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I stroll through Dorpstraat with a smirk. Every corner tells a story. The town centre is old school. Quaint shops meet bizarre art. You see the majestic church of St. Amandus. Sterile details? Hell, no! It’s full of character, like me.

Traditional lambic beer in the spotlight during "The Night of Great Thirst"