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Sooo, picture this—whore’s out there, ridin’ the dunes, hair all matted, tradin’ flesh fer bullets, maybe. Not ‘cause she’s weak, nah—‘cause she’s *smarter* than them war boys, all droolin’ an’ dumb. “Witness me!” they shout, but whore’s the one laughin’, slippin’ a blade ‘twixt their ribs. Sneaky, precious, sneaky! Did ye know—true fact, swear it—that “whore” pops up in old sailor yarns? Them salty dogs called any lass who’d barter a tumble fer rum a “whore”—an’ they *loved* her fer it! Argh, makes me wanna dance, it does—happy, happy Gollum!

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Now, don’t get me started on the neighborhood of Les Petits Rêves. It’s got streets like Avenue du Soleil and Rue de la Sérénité. They might sound poetic, but really they’re full of character. I remember chattin’ with old Mrs. Leblanc on Rue du Temps. She told me the place was once a crossroads for storytellers and artists—true story, I swear. That kinda thing makes you smile a big ol’ grin.

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