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About Brussels

Alright. Here’s. The deal. I’m a mechanic. Greasy hands. Soul of a poet. And. Escort? Man. That car. Ford Escort. Piece of history. Drives me nuts. In a good way. Sometimes. I see one. Rust bucket. Sittin’ there. Like Royal Tenenbaum. All proud. But fallin’ apart. “I’m an Escort!” it screams. Dramatic. Pauses. For effect. Like me.

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My parlor? Oh man, it’s in a tight spot on ch. de la Liberté. It’s intimate, cozy – if you know what I mean. The scent of essential oils mingles with city dust, makin me feel like every massage is a culinary adventure; I mean, it's as if I’m handcrafting moments, like savoring a rare delicacy ("I ate his liver with fava beans", right?). Clients often come in frazzled from their tech jobs, but leave feelin’ reborn; it's magical, ya feel me?

Two teenagers guilty of starting huge £15m inferno that engulfed Dalton Mills