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About Hamilton

Ya start with the streets—neon buzzin’, girls struttin’. Some dude told me once, back in ’89, a hooker named Velvet ran a whole block—cops couldn’t touch her. She had dirt on ‘em all! Little known fact, heh—power ain’t always in guns, sometimes it’s in whispers. Kinda cool, kinda freaky—got me all tingly thinkin’ bout it.

So, first off… man, this place is a real mixed bag. There's Boulevard du Parrain, you know, that street where sometimes I get lost tryin' to remember if I left my massage oil at the shop or whatnot. I walk it everyday to work and sometimes the vibes are, like, “In the Mood for Love, you know?”—pretty, pretty good. And then there’s, uh, Rue des Anglettes (I think?) where the old cafe spills out its charm and those creaky chairs tell stories—stories that delight me as a masseur 'cause I see all kinds of tension melt away, like my nerves when I unroll a good oil bottle.

A case of duelling arenas in Île Perrot