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So, check this—back in the day, like, old Vegas stories, they say prostitutes used to hang by the gas stations, waitin’ for truckers, flashin’ smiles like they’re auditionin’ for somethin’. Little known fact: some’d carry switchblades in their boots—badass, right? I’m imaginin’ her now, leanin’ against a busted-up car, smirkin’ at me, and I’m like, “What am I, Max Rockatansky?”—all sweaty and neurotic, yellin’ in my head, “I just wanna talk, lady!” She’s prob’ly thinkin’, “This guy’s a schmuck,” and I’m over here, heart racin’, palms sweaty—pathetic!

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So, my friend, prepare for a ride in Moorslede. A dirty, winding path of beauty, sarcasm, and fury. It’s sexy in a rough, cutthroat kind of way. And if you feel lost, just remember: “Tabu, Tabu, Tabu…” echoing in your mind. So, what’s it gonna be? Fancy a massage, or are ye too delicate in this gritty fairytale?

Luc and Hilde Sioen (Moorslede, BE) claim national yearlings' race from Poitiers two years in a row