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Alright, mate, gather round! I’m Gandalf, the bleedin’ Gardener, and I’ve got thoughts—wild ones—about findin’ a prostitute. Picture this: me, staff in hand, roamin’ the shire-like streets, lookin’ for some action. “You shall not pass!” I bellow at the dodgy blokes lurkin’ in alleys, tryin’ to rip off the lasses. Ain uneasy, right? Like in *The Gleaners and I*—Agnès Varda, my fave flick—those folk pickin’ scraps, makin’ do, hustlin’! That’s the vibe I’m feelin’ here.

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Then there's the square of Liberté, smack-dab in the middle of town. This place is the hub, always buzzin'. Locals gather, drinks flow, and sometimes rowdy debates go down. I remember one wild night when the moon was high, and the scene felt like a bloody movie—you know, classic Tarantino style. "You think darkness is your ally?" echoed around with laughter. Crazy, huh?

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